Alpha King's Slave Mate

Chapter 5 – She Let Him Touch Her

Riven didn't remember falling asleep.

But she remembered waking.

The scent of pine. Warm fur. Breath close to her chest — not from a stranger, not from a nightmare — but from the black-furred wolf who had laid himself across the threshold of her door and never once left.

He was still there when she stirred. His massive frame half-curled around the entrance, head resting on his front paws. Golden eyes blinked slowly, ears perked but relaxed.

"Did you stay all night?" she whispered, voice thick with sleep, eyes still fogged with the strange safety of rest.

Goldie huffed, as if to say obviously.

She blinked down at him, the fire in the hearth barely embers now, the room dim and cold — but she felt warm. Strangely, impossibly warm. As if some invisible part of him had wrapped itself around her during the night. Like a blanket she never knew she needed.

Like protection.

Like comfort.

Like... home.

She sat up, blanket sliding off her shoulder. Her bare feet touched the cold floor, but she didn't shiver. Instead, she stood and walked to him in silence, the pad of her steps light as breath. Slowly, carefully, she knelt before the enormous wolf.

He didn't move.

Tentatively, she pressed her forehead to his. Her breath mingled with his in the morning stillness.

"Thank you," she whispered.

A beat of silence.

Then — a sound. A crack. A heat wave.

Riven gasped and stumbled back as the massive wolf before her shimmered, shifted. Bone reshaped. Fur retracted. Muscle morphed.

And then — him.

Thorne knelt before her in his human form, completely bare, chest rising with soft, steady breaths. His silver hair was tousled, damp with dew. His eyes were the same golden fire, watching her not with pride or demand, but reverence.

Stillness hung between them.

Her breath caught — but she didn't flinch. Didn't turn away.

He didn't speak. Didn't reach for clothing or armor. Just knelt there — like a confession.

"You shifted..." she murmured, as if her voice might break the spell.

"I didn't want to wake you last night," he said. "So I stayed that way."

She stared, eyes wide, flicking down his chest — not with desire, not even curiosity, but recognition. A scar crossed over his ribs — deep, old. Not a surface wound. Something survived.

"You didn't have to guard me," she said softly.

"I did," he replied. "Because no one else ever has."

Her throat tightened.

She moved again — slowly, hesitantly — and knelt before him. Her fingers hovered just above that scar.

"This one?" she asked. "What gave you this?"

He glanced down briefly. "A silver dagger. Years ago. My first battle. He got in one lucky strike before I ended him."

Her hand didn't touch. Not yet. "Does it still hurt?"

"No," he said. "But sometimes… it aches. When it rains."

She nodded. "I know that feeling."

And then — she touched it.

Her fingers brushed the scar. Gently. Reverently. And he shuddered.

Not from pain.

From her.

She froze.

But he didn't move. Didn't lean in. Didn't breathe too loud.

"You're not afraid," he said quietly.

"I am," she whispered. "But not of you."

And in that fragile sentence — something broke. Something that had been tightly coiled inside her chest for years.

She leaned forward. Rested her forehead against his bare shoulder. Her fingers curled against his chest — not to seduce, not to tempt, but just to exist next to someone who hadn't hurt her.

Thorne exhaled and wrapped his arms around her — one hand pressing to the curve of her back, the other tangling into her hair, holding her like something sacred. Something only war could recognize as rare.

"I don't know what I'm doing," she confessed into his skin.

"You don't need to," he murmured. "Just stay."

They stayed like that until the sun broke the horizon. Until the last ember in the fireplace hissed out. Until warmth came not from flame, but from being seen.

— When Riven descended to the Great Hall later that morning, wearing the second set of clothes he'd had made for her — softer wool, looser sleeves, dark red lacing at the waist — the entire court fell silent.

All of them.

Conversations halted. Goblets froze mid-air. Scrolls remained unread.

She wasn't in chains.

She wasn't being dragged behind the Alpha King.

She walked beside him.

And Thorne — the war-forged, bone-breaking, blood-slick Alpha King — kept a half step behind her.

Not because he was lesser.

Because he chose to follow her lead.

Every wolf in the room saw it.

And one of them hated it.

A tall, angular woman with silver-blonde hair stepped forward. Her armor was ceremonial, her smile painted. Power clung to her like frost.

"Alpha King," she said smoothly, bowing low. "You called us to council."

"I did," Thorne replied. "But first—meet Riven."

The woman's eyes flicked to her. Saw the scars. The worn hands. The cautious grace.

Her smile sharpened like a blade.

"A gift from the battlefield?" she asked lightly. "I didn't know you were collecting trophies now."

Riven stiffened.

The blood in the room turned cold.

Thorne's voice dropped like a guillotine. "Say that again."

The woman hesitated. "I meant no disrespect, my King. Only that… we don't know who she is."

"She's mine," Thorne said, voice low, thunderous. "And the next wolf who questions her worth will lose their tongue."

Gasps. Stillness. No one dared breathe.

Riven stared at him.

No one had ever stood for her like that.

Not even herself.

She turned her face away, blinking hard. Her throat tightened.

"Come," Thorne said gently, touching her elbow. "Let's leave the dogs to their noise."

He led her out — not dragging, not commanding.

Just… with her.

— Later, Riven found herself drawn to the ancient library tucked in the east wing. She wandered beneath tall archways, where dust danced in golden light and the scent of old parchment clung to every breath.

She trailed her fingers along spines of forgotten knowledge, pausing on a worn volume: Histories of the Werewolf Clans.

She opened it on a stone bench, flipping through pages thick with bloodlines and betrayals.

"So many kings," she whispered, "took girls like me as nothing more than conquest."

A voice answered from the dark.

"Too many."

She turned sharply.

Thorne stood in the shadows, leaning against the bookshelf, arms crossed.

"You followed me," she said.

"Always," he replied.

He stepped forward. Into the light. Into her breath.

She didn't move.

"Is that why you chose me?" she asked. "Because you wanted to end the pattern?"

"No," he said softly. "I chose you the moment I smelled your blood in the rain. I didn't even know who you were. I just... knew."

She looked down. "And now?"

He stepped closer. So close she could feel the heat of his breath.

"What do you smell now?"

He bent slightly. Inhaled. Slow. Deep.

"Storms," he murmured. "Lightning in the dark. Fire under snow. And one more thing."

Her voice barely escaped her lips. "What?"

"…Hope."

Her lips parted.

One tear fell. Then another.

He lifted his hand slowly. Touched her face with the gentleness of a prayer.

She didn't flinch.

Didn't move.

His thumb brushed the tears from her cheek. His fingers held her like she might break, and he wouldn't forgive himself if she did.

"You let me touch you," he whispered.

"I didn't let anyone else," she replied.

And that was the moment he knew.

This was no victory.

This was a vow.

And he would spend the rest of his life proving her right for trusting him.