Alpha King's Slave Mate

Chapter 7 – The First Time She Touched His Pain

The castle was still.

It was nearing dawn, but the world hadn't woken yet. The sky remained dark, stars fading slowly, like reluctant ghosts. Wind whispered faintly through the towers, curling past the stone corridors with the chill of secrets.

Riven sat at the edge of Thorne's bed.

Her hands were trembling.

Not from fear. But from the realization that he wasn't invincible.

He'd come in just before the first light — blood on his shoulder, his lip split, a gash torn through his ribs. His cloak had been soaked crimson, dripping onto the stone floor. He hadn't made a sound, not a grunt, not even a groan. Silent as a wraith. Steady as death.

She hadn't even known he was gone.

"You said you weren't fighting anymore," she murmured, pulling the wet cloth from the basin beside the bed.

He sat shirtless, quiet, unmoving, letting her do what no one else had ever dared. Moonlight stretched in from the arched window, silvering his skin, casting shadows across the planes of his body.

"I didn't plan to," he said after a pause. "But rogues don't care for schedules."

"Did you go alone?"

"I didn't want the court to see me bleed."

Her heart twisted at that. "So you came here? To me?"

He didn't answer.

She pressed the warm cloth to the gash along his ribs. He winced — barely — but made no protest. His hands were clenched at his sides, jaw taut, breath controlled.

Blood smeared across his skin.

Her lips parted, breath catching.

Even wounded, he was a sculpture carved in shadow and strength — all taut muscle and hard bone, his skin warm and alive beneath her fingers. He smelled of smoke, pine, and something darker — the metallic tang of blood, the ghost of rage.

She'd never touched a man like this. Not willingly.

Not with her own hands, steady and unshackled.

And yet… he sat still for her. He bowed his head for her. He bled — openly, unhidden — for her.

She soaked the cloth again, this time adding a bit of salve from the jar the healer left on the table. A faint herbal scent bloomed between them, softening the copper bite of blood.

"You should've called someone else," she whispered.

"No one touches me," he said quietly. "Except you."

She paused.

Her gaze flicked to his face.

His eyes — golden, raw — met hers without fear. No wall. No mask.

"Why?" she asked.

Thorne reached up slowly and cupped her wrist. His thumb ran along the bone of her hand, calloused but gentle, anchoring her in place.

"Because your hands never hurt me."

Her breath faltered.

And something inside her broke all over again.

---

Her fingers returned to his ribs, dabbing gently along the wound, more careful this time.

"You heal fast," she said, trying to steady her voice.

"I'm still a man before I'm a wolf. Wounds this deep will scar."

"Do you mind scars?"

"I wear them like proof," he murmured. "Of what I survived. Of who I protected."

Her lips parted.

His words curled deep into her, tugging at something ancient and sore.

"You don't have any," he added suddenly, eyes dropping to her bare arms.

She froze.

"Visible ones, I mean," he clarified, brows drawing down. "You hide them well."

She turned away, setting the cloth aside. Silence pooled between them.

"I stopped counting them after twenty," she said softly. "Some on my back. A few behind my thighs. None that anyone ever cared about."

"I care," he said instantly.

The words hung between them — unfiltered, unguarded.

Riven didn't respond. Not in words.

Instead, she moved.

She shifted her legs, pulling the hem of her nightgown just above her knee.

Thorne stilled.

A long, thin white scar ran along the side of her thigh.

"That one was from a whip," she said. "When I tripped while carrying a tray."

He didn't move.

Another.

She rolled back her shoulder, revealing the curve of her upper back. "This was for speaking out of turn."

He said nothing.

Her voice cracked. "They used to say I was lucky. That slaves didn't get to die. Only serve."

Thorne leaned forward, slowly, reverently. He pressed his forehead to her scarred shoulder.

"You're not a slave anymore," he whispered. "Not in my castle. Not in my arms. Never again."

She closed her eyes, throat tight.

"I don't know how to be anything else."

"Then I'll teach you."

---

By late morning, the castle stirred again.

Riven stood in the corridor just outside Thorne's war room, a linen shawl wrapped around her shoulders. She didn't like the attention, but she didn't hide either.

She was no longer invisible.

"You don't have to stand," Thorne had said earlier. "You belong in this room as much as I do."

But she wasn't sure what she belonged to anymore.

Not yet.

"Alpha King," came a voice from the hall.

She turned, startled.

Two wolves approached — messengers, judging by their crests. One bore the symbol of the Howling Marsh, another northern region known for its isolation.

But it wasn't them who caught her attention.

It was the boy trailing behind them.

He looked no older than fifteen — pale hair, wide eyes — and the second he saw her, he stopped in his tracks.

"Riven?" he whispered.

Her blood froze.

She blinked at him. "Do I… know you?"

His eyes filled with tears.

"My sister," he whispered hoarsely. "You're my sister."

Her heart stopped.

She stumbled back against the wall, breath stolen.

Thorne was beside her in an instant, his hand steady at her waist.

But her world spun.

Sister?

No.

Impossible.

She had no family left. No one remembered her. No one knew her.

The boy stepped closer. "I—I thought you died. They told me the Crescent Fang was wiped out. I was only a child. I—I was taken to Howling Marsh after the fire."

Thorne's face shifted — shock giving way to anger.

"Who told you she was dead?" he demanded.

"The marsh elders. They said only one survived the attack, and she was too burned to be saved."

Riven felt the room tilt.

She reached for the wall, but Thorne caught her first.

She whispered, "Is this true? Am I…?"

Thorne held her close, voice firm. "We'll find out everything."

She looked at the boy again — his tear-streaked face, the way his eyes mirrored her own.

Somewhere deep inside, something clicked.

Something remembered.

A laugh.

A small hand.

Warm arms wrapping around her.

The word sister.

Her knees gave out.

Thorne swept her into his arms before she could hit the ground.

---

She awoke in his bed. Again.

But this time — she'd asked.

She didn't want to be alone.

When the memories came back, they came like a storm. Shouts. Fire. Her mother's scream. The feel of blood on her hands.

She didn't want to dream.

So she curled beside him, her head on his chest, his heartbeat anchoring her to the present.

"You're safe," he whispered in the dark. "You're not lost anymore."

She pressed her hand to his bare chest. Felt the way it rose and fell beneath her palm.

"I think I was born here," she said. "In this land. In these woods. I just forgot."

"And now?"

She looked up at him.

"I remember your scent," she whispered. "From years ago. Before I even knew what it meant to miss someone."

His hand cupped her cheek.

"You smelled like home," she finished.

His lips brushed her forehead.

She didn't flinch.

And when she pressed herself closer, letting him hold her — not as a king, not as a master, but as a man who'd waited a lifetime — the world finally, finally, felt a little less broken.