Alpha King's Slave Mate

Chapter 6 – The Way He Looked at Her

The castle courtyard was alive with motion. Warriors sparred in the square. Servants bustled with buckets of water and fresh linens. Sunlight streamed through the trees lining the stone walls, scattering gold across the worn training grounds. Horses neighed in the distance, their hooves thudding against dirt paths as stablehands guided them back and forth. The clang of steel echoed with rhythm, as if the whole castle beat like a living, breathing heart.

Riven sat on a bench near the edge of it all, arms folded loosely around her knees. She was quiet — watching. Breathing.

A part of her still didn't believe this was real.

No chains. No whips. No cold floors or dry bread. Just a breeze, the scent of pine, and freedom that felt like a fragile illusion. Birds flitted between the stone towers, and the murmur of wind stirred her hair. It felt like she had stumbled into a dream — one she didn't dare wake from.

She was lost in thought when a shadow fell over her.

"Didn't expect to see the King's prize all alone," said a voice, low and smooth.

She looked up.

The man before her was tall — taller than Thorne — with dark auburn hair tied at the nape of his neck. He wore a warrior's uniform, his arms bare, muscles flexing with every movement. His eyes were silver-grey, wolfish but smiling.

"I'm Lucien," he added. "Captain of the western patrol."

She didn't answer.

He chuckled. "Not much of a talker, huh?"

"Not to strangers."

"I won't be a stranger long," he said, stepping closer.

Too close.

Riven rose to her feet instinctively, but kept her shoulders even. Calm. The way she'd learned — don't flinch. Don't give them more power than they already have.

Lucien's eyes wandered, appraising her.

"They say the King favors you," he murmured. "But no one knows why."

Her spine stiffened.

Lucien tilted his head, lips curving. "I'm just saying, if you ever get bored of his brooding... I'm less possessive."

That's when she felt it.

A pressure in the air. A sudden weight, like the world holding its breath.

And then — a growl.

Low. Ancient. Terrifying.

Lucien froze.

Riven turned.

Thorne stood at the edge of the courtyard, his eyes molten gold. Not shimmering. Not glowing.

Burning.

His steps were slow, deliberate, silent.

Every wolf turned to watch.

Lucien's confidence faltered. "Alpha—"

"You're breathing too close to her," Thorne said, voice like thunder behind clenched teeth.

Lucien's smirk vanished. "I meant no offense—"

"She's not for your scent. Not your gaze. And sure as hell not for your touch."

The final words snapped like a whip.

Lucien lowered his eyes and backed away without another word. His shoulders were tight, but even he knew better than to challenge a territorial Alpha.

Riven stood frozen.

Thorne walked straight to her — and stopped inches from her face.

His hands did not touch her.

But his voice did.

"I gave them rules," he said. "They don't look at you. They don't speak to you unless you speak first. You're not theirs to test."

She blinked at him. "I didn't ask you to protect me like that."

"I don't need your permission," he growled. "You're mine to guard. You're mine."

Her breath hitched.

But then—something in her softened.

"You were jealous," she said.

He paused.

"…Yes."

"You didn't like him looking at me."

"No."

"You looked like you might tear him apart."

"I still might."

She smiled.

And that, more than anything, undid him.

---

Riven wandered again that evening. Not far. Just enough to breathe.

The castle was older than most ruins in her memory. It had secret staircases and overgrown balconies, winding corridors where time had slept for centuries. Shadows crept long along the walls, dancing with the flicker of torchlight. She let her fingers graze the cold stone as she walked, as if touching the past would help her find her own.

She followed a stairwell that curved upward until she reached a wooden door.

It creaked as she pushed it open.

The room smelled of old parchment and lavender.

Inside, a small desk sat beneath a narrow window. Moonlight painted the dust in silver.

And there, among stacks of books and maps, she found something odd — a ribbon.

Silk. Faded blue. Wrapped around a small silver brooch.

She didn't know why her hands shook as she picked it up.

But her heart — it knew.

The emblem on the brooch was simple: a howling wolf against a crescent moon.

Familiar.

Too familiar.

She closed her fingers around it, breath shallow.

A flash — a memory not her own — danced at the edge of her mind.

A woman's voice. Soft. Kind. "Hold still, sweet girl. Let me tie your hair with Mama's ribbon."

Her knees buckled.

She sat against the stone wall, clutching the brooch like it could anchor her to this world.

Who had tied her hair like that?

Who was the woman in her head?

And why did the memory hurt?

Her eyes stung. Her fingers trembled. She pressed the brooch to her chest, willing the ache to pass, but it didn't. It clung to her like a second skin.

---

Thorne found her just past midnight, curled on a window ledge in one of the high towers. Her arms were around her knees, hair messy from the wind.

He didn't ask how she got there.

He just sat beside her, saying nothing, until she finally looked at him.

"I think I remembered my mother," she whispered.

His jaw tensed. "You don't remember her before?"

"No," she said. "Not clearly. But I found this."

She held out the brooch and ribbon.

Thorne took it gently.

His expression shifted.

"Do you recognize it?" she asked, voice small.

"…Yes."

Her heart thudded. "Whose is it?"

He looked at her. Slowly. Carefully.

"It's the crest of the Crescent Fang pack."

She frowned. "I don't know that name."

"They were one of the oldest bloodlines in the north. Noble. Powerful. Feared." He paused. "But they were slaughtered. Over a decade ago."

"…Why?"

"No one knows. The pack was wiped out in one night. Burned. No survivors."

A long silence passed between them.

Riven's voice cracked. "Then how did I survive?"

He looked at her, expression unreadable. "I don't know. But maybe we were both meant to."

Their eyes met.

For a long moment, the only sound was the wind outside and their shared breath.

Then — he lifted his hand.

Not rough. Not forceful.

Just an offering.

And she leaned into him, pressing her forehead to his chest. Letting his warmth quiet the storm inside her.

Thorne wrapped his arms around her like he was holding the only thing in the world worth saving.

Because to him — she was.