Alpha King's Slave Mate

Chapter 9 – His Mate, Not His Slave

The palace was still.

So quiet that Riven could hear the steady rhythm of her own heartbeat thumping in the soft morning light. Slow, steady, like a drum keeping time—almost safe. Almost normal.

She lay motionless on the massive bed, the cool sheets tangled around her legs, her bare shoulder still pressed to the faint warmth that Thorne had left behind. His scent clung to the air, a mix of leather, woodsmoke, and something faintly wild—like the forest after rain. It was comforting, like an invisible thread binding her to him, even when he wasn't there.

Thorne had slipped away before dawn, leaving only a soft kiss pressed gently to her forehead. No chains to bite, no commands to obey, no cold guards looming in the shadows. Just that whispered promise, fragile but fierce:

"I'll return before nightfall. Don't be afraid."

She wasn't afraid.

Not anymore.

Because the mark on her neck still tingled—a subtle pulse beneath her skin, faint but unmistakable. It felt alive, as if something of Thorne's essence now dwelled inside her, lingering beneath her flesh even when he was far away.

It should have terrified her.

But it didn't.

Instead, it felt like… being truly seen.

For the first time in her life, someone had chosen her. Not out of mercy or duty. Not to wield power or claim possession. But because something primal and undeniable within him had always known—she was his.

And she—

She wasn't ready to admit it yet.

But her body had already surrendered to that truth.

---

The morning light stretched through the castle's stone corridors as she moved silently, barefoot, wearing one of Thorne's oversized linen shirts that swallowed her slight frame. The fabric carried the faint scent of him, an invisible balm against the nerves that still fluttered beneath her skin.

At the eastern wing, Lira waited, leaning against the cool stone wall with her arms crossed.

The silver-haired Beta's eyes were sharp, unreadable—like a blade hidden beneath calm water.

"I heard he marked you," Lira said, voice low but laced with something like awe—or perhaps warning.

Riven lifted her chin, no longer hiding the subtle red imprint glowing faintly beneath her collar.

"I did."

Lira stepped closer, her gaze intense, almost fierce. "You do realize that mark makes you his. Entirely. You might still see yourself as a girl who slipped in from the shadows, but now you carry the Alpha King's claim. That changes everything."

Riven met her gaze steadily. "I didn't ask for it."

"But you accepted it," Lira replied evenly. "So now, you bear the consequences."

Riven narrowed her eyes. "You sound like I'm a threat."

Lira's lips curved in a half-smile, edged with bittersweet honesty. "You are. Not to me. But to those waiting in the dark—those who hope for the king to fall."

A charged silence settled.

Then Lira's voice softened just a fraction. "He's not like the others. Colder. Sharper. But for you… gods help him, he's beginning to soften."

Riven swallowed hard. "Is that so terrible?"

"For a king?" Lira whispered. "Yes."

---

Later, seeking refuge from the unspoken, Riven found herself wandering into the king's private library—a place thick with musty parchment and ancient wisdom. Towering shelves rose to the vaulted ceiling, filled with leather-bound tomes, flickering lamps casting warm pools of light, and velvet chairs that no slave had ever been permitted to touch.

Without hesitation, she settled into one, curling up with a heavy volume on ancient wolf customs.

She didn't understand every word. But one passage caught her breath and held it:

"To mark is not to possess. It is to protect.

To bare the throat is not weakness—

It is surrender between equals."

She touched the tender skin over the mark beneath her collarbone.

It no longer felt like a brand.

It felt like a promise.

---

By the time the sun dipped beneath the horizon, casting the sky in bruised purples and golds, the heavy palace doors creaked open once again.

Riven was already waiting on the marble steps, the cool stone pressing into her bare feet.

Thorne emerged, his black cloak dusted with fallen leaves, his face shadowed with exhaustion.

But his eyes—those fierce, silver eyes—lit up the moment they found hers.

He said nothing.

He crossed the marble floor with long, purposeful strides and wrapped his arms around her.

No guards. No ceremony. No audience.

Just him.

And her.

"I missed you," she whispered into his chest before she could stop herself.

Thorne stiffened as though the words were sharper than any dagger. Then, slowly—deliberately—he melted against her. One hand cradled the back of her head, fingers threading through her hair with a gentleness she never expected.

"You don't say that," he murmured, voice low and fierce. "Not unless you mean it."

She lifted her face, eyes locking with his.

"I mean it."

Something inside him shifted—a flicker of softness beneath the steel.

His lips found hers—slow, tender, utterly his. No rush, no hunger—just a quiet ache, like he was memorizing every taste, every breath.

He pulled back, resting his forehead against hers.

"I thought about you all day," he whispered. "And I hated every moment I wasn't by your side."

A soft smile touched her lips. "You're the king. You have duties."

"I'm your mate," he replied, brushing stray hair from her face. "And I've never bowed to anyone. But you… if you asked, I'd kneel."

Her heart stuttered.

In the thick silence that followed, he did.

He dropped to one knee, right there in the corridor, before guards, nobles, and shadows.

Then he pressed his forehead to the back of her hand.

"I bow to no one," he said fiercely. "But I kneel to you."

She stared down at him—the Alpha King, feared by many—now offering his loyalty not as a ruler, but as a man.

Her man.

---

Later, when the halls were empty and the moon poured silver light across cold stone floors, Thorne carried her back to his bed.

Not like a possession.

But like a prayer.

He laid her down gently, crawling over her, resting his weight on his forearms so as not to crush her fragile frame.

"Do you feel it?" he whispered.

"What?"

"Our bond."

She nodded, heart pounding.

"It's terrifying," she admitted, voice barely audible. "But I don't want to run from it anymore."

He smiled—a raw, broken smile no one else ever saw—a smile full of everything he couldn't say aloud.

"You don't have to run," he promised. "Not anymore."

His lips trailed down her throat, feather-light.

"I'd burn this entire kingdom to the ground," he said softly, "if it ever dared to hurt you again."

Her breath hitched.

"I was just a slave," she whispered.

"No," he murmured fiercely. "You were mine. Even then."

His hand slid beneath her shirt, fingers spreading across her stomach in a worshipful touch.

"Let me worship you tonight," he said. "Not like a king, but like a mate who waited his whole life for you."

She nodded.

And that night, he didn't take her like a beast.

He loved her like a man who had known war and silence and shadows—and had finally, finally found his light.