Captive In The Alpha King's Bed

The stench of rot and fear clung to me in the brutal prison pen. I pushed away my uncle’s smile; revenge burned cold. Survive.

The gate screeched, a guard's roar herding us out. A scarred man stopped, gripped my chin, sniffed, then barked, "This one. Pull her out." My time was up.

Dragged to Alpha Baron Stone—who trembled at the Alpha King’s name—my "unusual" scent marked me. Stripped, lashed by silver, scrubbed raw, every trace of me vanished. From my cell, I watched in horror as others were thrown into an arena, torn apart by starved wolves.

My stomach heaved. Why me? Why was I spared *that* gruesome end, only to be prepared for a terrifying king?

An old Omega woman opened my door with bread—a chilling sign I wasn't meant for the arena. A cold resolve solidified: I would survive this hell, remember my uncle’s face, and learn what twisted fate the Alpha King had chosen.

Chapter 1

Elara Fawn POV:

The stench hit me first. Rot. Unwashed bodies. The metallic tang of old blood baked into the mud by a sun that offered no warmth. It was the scent of a cage, and we were the animals inside.

I didn’t look up. Kept my eyes on the filth, on the way the muck sucked at the bare feet of the woman shivering beside me. My uncle’s face swam in my memory—the way he smiled as he took the silver. A traitor’s smile. I pushed it down, deep into the cold place where I kept the things that would break me. Revenge was a fire you had to tend carefully. It couldn't burn you out before you reached your target.

The heavy gate screeched, kicked open by a boot that had kicked it a thousand times before. The sound ripped through the low moans and quiet sobs of the pen.

“Out! All of you! On your feet!”

The guard’s voice was a gravelly roar. I pressed myself back, trying to melt into the rough-hewn wood of the pen’s rear wall. The shadows were thin, the other women too frail to offer much cover, but I tried anyway. To be chosen was to be lost. To be invisible was to survive another hour.

A frail-looking woman near the front, her tunic little more than a collection of holes, stumbled as she tried to rise. Her knees gave out, and she went down in the mud with a soft cry.

The guard didn't hesitate. He moved with the casual cruelty of a man who’d long ago stopped seeing us as people. He swung the rifle in his hands, not the barrel, but the stock. The butt, laced with silver wire, connected with the woman’s back.

There was a sickening thud, followed by a scream that was pure agony. The thin fabric of her tunic smoldered, blackening instantly. A wisp of smoke curled into the air, carrying the smell of burnt flesh and the sharp, clean scent of ozone that only silver