Alpha King's Slave Mate

Chapter 4 – The Scar Beneath Her Collarbone

Riven wasn't used to stillness.

Silence was a weight pressing against her chest. It made her skin crawl in the way only quiet could—like a heavy pause before something terrible would break loose. But for the third night in a row, no screams shattered the darkness. No harsh boots scraping the cold dungeon floors. No guttural growls drifting from cages. No chains dragging, no rattling iron, no desperate pleas. Only the wind, whispering softly against the high, barred window of the Alpha King's chamber, and the faint crackle of logs burning slowly down to ash.

She sat cross-legged on the thick rug before the fire, still wrapped in the black wool tunic Thorne had given her. The fabric was far too fine, far too delicate for someone like her. It felt foreign on her skin—like a mask she wore, a lie told to herself. She tugged at the hem absently, watching the flickering flames dance.

The firelight wavered across the cold stone walls, casting shadows that moved like ghosts. The warmth settled into her limbs, a sensation she barely remembered. Warmth was a stranger to her—her life had been ruled by cold: cold stone beneath her, cold hands gripping her, cold hunger clawing through her belly. But here, now—she was warm. And it terrified her in ways she couldn't name.

Across the room, Thorne sat near the hearth, a thick parchment clutched loosely in his hands. The inked words blurred beneath the flickering flames—reports from scouts, messages from distant commanders, maybe—but his eyes weren't on the paper. She could feel the weight of his gaze slipping from the text to her, again and again, subtle and quiet like a shadow.

She noticed.

"Do I make you nervous?" she asked suddenly, her voice breaking the silence, brittle yet curious.

His eyes lifted in an instant—silver and sharp like a blade.

"No."

"You keep looking at me."

"Because I keep forgetting how to look away."

Her breath caught. She froze.

He wasn't joking. There was no teasing lilt, no mockery—just plain, unguarded truth. Like everything else he'd said since she came here.

She glanced down at the fire, watching the glowing embers. "You're not like them."

"Them?"

"The ones who bought me."

Thorne didn't speak. But his knuckles clenched until the parchment crinkled beneath his grip.

Her fingers twisted the edge of her sleeve, nervous. "They liked it when I begged. When I cried. Some laughed when I tried to bite."

He slowly folded the parchment and laid it beside him, eyes never leaving her.

"I'll kill them," he said softly, voice a low promise wrapped in cold steel.

"No," she said quickly, voice hardening. "No more blood for me."

He studied her—searching for something she couldn't name—then nodded.

"As you wish."

Just like that, he surrendered the vengeance she could have claimed. Because she asked him to.

She looked up at him, something unreadable in her eyes. "Why are you so gentle with me?"

His jaw tightened like a trap snapping shut. "Because no one else was."

Silence wrapped around them like thick smoke, time stretching and thinning, marked only by the soft crackle of the fire.

Finally, she reached behind her neck, tugging at the tie of her tunic. Not enough to undress—just enough to bare the top of her collarbone.

A jagged scar stretched from her shoulder toward her chest, faded in places but still sharp and cruel. The kind of scar that never truly healed—neither on skin nor in memory.

Thorne didn't move. His eyes burned into hers, unreadable.

"I was fourteen," she said softly. "One of the guards wanted to brand me. Said I wasn't obedient enough. That I needed to be reminded who I belonged to."

His fists clenched so tightly at his sides his knuckles whitened.

"He used silver," she added flatly.

"I can smell it," Thorne said quietly. "Even now."

She blinked, startled. "You can smell it?"

"I can smell everything about you," he said, voice low and rough. "The faint scent of lavender soap from the bath. The quick spike of fear in your blood when someone steps too close. The memory of pain that still clings to your skin like smoke."

He exhaled, jaw tight and clenched.

"But I also smell your strength. Your fire. The rage that never let you break—never once. That part sings louder than any scar."

Her eyes darted away, breath trembling in her throat.

"You speak like you know me."

"I do," he said simply. "Or at least… I want to."

A warmth bloomed behind her ribs—strange and unfamiliar—something that steadied her sinking heart.

"Will it always feel like this?" she whispered, voice barely a breath. "Like I'm waiting to wake up in the dark again?"

Thorne rose and crossed to her slowly, deliberate—like a wolf approaching a wounded packmate. He knelt before her, one knee to the ground, eyes level with hers.

"It might," he admitted softly. "But if it does… I'll be there."

He held out his hand—palm open, hovering—hesitant.

She stared at it.

And then, after a long, trembling pause, she placed her small hand in his.

It was fragile against his palm, shaking slightly.

He didn't squeeze. Didn't pull.

He just held it.

Her voice broke. "I'm not soft, you know. Not fragile."

His eyes darkened, fierce and certain. "I know. You've survived things most warriors wouldn't. That's not fragility, Riven. That's fire."

Her lip quivered as the wave of feeling crashed over her.

He leaned closer—just enough to catch her breath—voice dropping to a near whisper.

"But even fire deserves rest."

Their foreheads hovered inches apart.

Then—

Her stomach growled.

She blinked, a startled laugh escaping her lips—a soft, genuine sound she hadn't made in years.

Thorne smiled—a real, unguarded smile that struck her like lightning.

He was beautiful.

"You didn't eat again," he murmured.

She glanced down. "I'm not used to food that doesn't make me sick."

"I'll make you something myself," he promised.

She raised an eyebrow. "You cook?"

"I hunt," he said simply. "I skin. I prepare. You won't starve under my roof."

"Or my sky," he added, voice low.

She tilted her head, surprised. "That's poetic for a warlord."

"I'm many things," he said. "You'll see."

She studied him a moment longer. Then whispered, "I want to believe you."

He leaned back slightly, still holding her hand.

"Then take your time."

---

Later that night, Riven lay curled on the far edge of her bed, eyes wide, unable to sleep.

The fire had burned out hours ago.

She slipped out of the covers and moved quietly across the room, pushing open the heavy wooden door.

There he was.

A massive black wolf, his fur like midnight fog, eyes glowing faintly gold in the dim moonlight.

He lifted his head slowly, watching her with stillness that held no threat—only quiet awareness and calm.

"Goldie," she whispered.

His ears twitched.

"That's what I'm calling you," she said softly. "You watch like a guard dog, not a king."

He huffed—a low sound, as if mildly offended.

She knelt beside him, her fingers hovering just above his head.

"Can I…?"

The wolf leaned forward, gently pressing his massive head into her palm.

The touch sparked something warm and steady inside her—a fragile ember she hadn't felt since childhood. Something that whispered: you are not alone.

He didn't move or growl.

He simply breathed with her.

For the first time in years, Riven didn't feel like prey.

She felt like she was home.