KARIS ROMERO POV:

My fingers brushed against the cold silk of the ribbon. Humiliation was a physical thing, a toxic sludge filling my throat, making it hard to breathe. My hand trembled, poised to pull the knot and let the last of my dignity fall away.

Then, before I could move, a hand shot out of the darkness and clamped around my wrist, yanking my hand away from the ribbon. A startled gasp escaped my lips as I was pulled forward, my body tumbling against his. His other hand found the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair, tilting my face up toward his.

His mouth crashed onto mine.

There was no warning, no hesitation. The kiss was brutal and demanding, his lips bruising against mine, his teeth scraping my lower lip. I tasted copper—blood—and I wasn't sure if it was his or mine. His tongue invaded, claiming, plundering, as if he were trying to consume me whole.

I froze beneath the assault, my body rigid with shock. My hands pressed against his chest, pushing uselessly against the wall of muscle beneath his shirt. He didn't budge. He didn't even seem to notice my resistance. His grip on my neck tightened, holding me in place as he took exactly what he wanted.

Then his other hand moved. It slid from my wrist, trailing down my arm, across my ribs, my hip. It found the hem of the silk nightgown and began to push it upward, his fingers cold against the bare skin of my thigh.

Panic surged through me like ice water.

My mind, paralyzed with fear, suddenly sparked to life. I couldn't let this happen. I couldn't let him take this from me. I had to stop him. I had to do something, say something, anything.

I tore my mouth from his, gasping for air. His hand froze on my thigh. I felt his breath on my face, hot and ragged, his frustration a palpable force in the darkness.

"Alpha King," I gasped, my voice a trembling whisper. "Please—forgive me for tonight."

The shadow above me went utterly still. The silence that followed was different. It wasn't impatient anymore. It was sharp, heavy, and full of pressure. The Alpha pheromones in the air thickened, a clear signal of his displeasure. My Omega instincts screamed at me to apologize, to grovel, to do whatever he wanted. I forced them down.

"Give me a reason," his voice was colder than the marble floor, a blade of ice in the dark.

His hand was still on my thigh, still poised to push higher. I could feel the heat of his fingers burning against my skin, a reminder of how close I had come to losing everything.

I took a shaky breath, preparing the lie. "I... I am on my cycle."

It was the only excuse I could think of, the only female condition that might, in some packs, grant a moment's reprieve. I lowered my head, my hair falling over my face like a curtain, and waited for the explosion. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat of terror.

His hand slowly withdrew from my thigh. I felt the absence of his touch like a release from a cage.

A low, humorless chuckle echoed from the darkness. It was a sound of pure disbelief.

He leaned down. I felt a shift in the air, a subtle warmth as he drew near. His breath, smelling of the cold night air and the faint trace of my own blood on his lips, ghosted across my forehead. There was no desire in his proximity, only clinical assessment. Only danger.

"You think I can't tell?" he murmured, his voice a low vibration that seemed to travel straight through my bones.

The words struck me like a physical blow. Of course. An Alpha of his power could scent the hormonal changes in an Omega from across a room. My lie was pathetic. Amateurish.

A wave of icy despair washed over me. I was caught. The punishment for lying to the Alpha King would be far worse than simply obeying his initial command. I braced myself for pain, for rage, for him to rip the gown from my body.

But it didn't come.

He straightened up, the warmth of his presence receding. He took a step back, the pressure in the air lessening just slightly.

"You have more courage than I thought," he stated, his voice returning to that flat, unreadable tone. The calmness was more unsettling than any anger could have been. It meant he was thinking, calculating.

I didn't dare move or speak. I remained a statue of feigned submission, my head bowed.

I heard him move away, the soft sound of his boots on the rug. He shed his outer layers, the rustle of expensive fabric a stark contrast to the silence. Then, the mattress on the far side of the bed dipped.

He was in the bed.

"Come here," he commanded.

My body moved before my mind could process it. I shuffled across the vast, cold expanse of the sheets, stopping at the very edge, keeping as much distance between us as the bed would allow. I lay stiff as a board, my back to him.

I could feel the heat radiating from his body. He was a furnace in the frozen room, yet his presence offered no comfort, only a different kind of cold. A cold that came from pure, predatory power.

The space between us felt like a mile-wide chasm, yet his existence filled every inch of the room, every breath I took.

The night passed in agonizing silence. I didn't sleep. I lay there, listening to the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing, every nerve alight with tension. I was acutely aware of every tiny shift he made, every rustle of the sheets.

Just before the first hint of dawn painted the sky in shades of gray, the mattress shifted. He was up.

In the pre-dawn gloom, I watched his dark form move with silent efficiency, dressing without a wasted motion. He was a phantom, preparing to melt back into the world outside this room. I thought he was going to leave without another word. I prayed for it.

But his voice cut through the silence, right beside my ear. He had moved without making a sound.

"Do not lie to me again," he warned, his tone low and sharp. "The next time you try such a pathetic trick, you will regret it."

My entire body went rigid. The blood drained from my face.

He knew.

He had known all along my excuse was a lie. He had let me think I'd succeeded, only to deliver this cold, final threat. It was a game to him.

The door clicked shut. His footsteps faded down the hall.

Only then did I dare to suck in a ragged breath. My back was drenched in a cold sweat, the silk nightgown clinging to my skin like a second, terrified layer.

KARIS ROMERO POV:

The moment the sound of his footsteps vanished, the tension that had held my body rigid for hours finally snapped. Exhaustion hit me like a physical blow, and I collapsed into a fitful, shallow sleep.

It was no escape.

I was immediately plunged into the nightmare.

The same one that had haunted me for months. The night my world ended. The air was thick with the coppery scent of blood and the choking smoke of burning homes. The screams of my pack, my family, echoed in my ears, a symphony of agony.

I saw my father, the strong and proud Alpha of the Romero pack, on his knees. His silver-streaked hair was matted with blood, his eyes wide with a disbelief that mirrored my own.

And standing over him was Holland Berger.

My Holland. My fiancé.

His golden hair, which I had loved to run my fingers through, looked like a demonic halo in the flickering firelight. His handsome face, which had always looked at me with such warmth, was a mask of cold, triumphant ambition.

In the dream, Holland raised a silver dagger, its blade dripping with the blood of my people. He looked directly at me, across the field of slaughter, and his lips curved into a smile. It was a slow, deliberate, and utterly monstrous smile.

"Karis," he mouthed, the name a silent curse.

I woke up with a strangled scream caught in my throat, gasping for air. My body was slick with cold sweat. The sheets were tangled around my legs.

Faint gray light filtered through the window. A new day. But for me, it was still the dead of night.

Tears streamed down my face, hot against my cold skin. I scrubbed them away with the back of my hand, my breath coming in harsh sobs. Crying was a weakness. Sentiment was a poison. I couldn't afford either.

I forced myself out of the opulent bed and mechanically made it, smoothing every wrinkle, erasing any sign that I had been there. A ghost in the king's chambers. Then, I slipped out of the room and padded silently down the long, empty corridors.

The contrast between the upper floors and the servants' quarters was jarring. Here, the halls were narrow, the air was stuffy, and the quiet opulence was replaced by the low hum of a castle waking up.

I began my chores. I scrubbed floors until my knees were raw. I helped prepare breakfast in the cavernous, steaming kitchens. I moved like an automaton, a perfect Omega servant, using the mindless physical labor to numb the raging inferno of grief and hatred in my soul.

Around mid-morning, Beatrice Foster found me polishing silverware in the pantry. Her face was set in its usual stern lines.

She thrust a small, rough-spun cloth bag into my hand. It was filled with dried, brittle leaves that gave off a pungent, earthy smell.

"Contraceptive herbs," she said, her voice as crisp and cold as a winter morning. "Boil them and drink it. The Alpha King does not want any accidents."

I took the bag, my fingers closing around the fragile herbs. "Yes, Matron," I murmured, keeping my eyes fixed on the floor.

Of course I didn't want the tyrant's child. But the order, the herbs themselves, were another brand of humiliation. A declaration that my body was not my own, that even my ability to bear life was something to be controlled and nullified by him.

Beatrice's sharp eyes scanned my face, a flicker of something analytical in their depths. "Did you displease the Alpha King last night?" she asked, her tone casual, but the question was a probe.

My heart gave a painful lurch. "No, Matron," I lied smoothly, my face a mask of placid obedience.

She didn't press, but her gaze lingered for a moment too long. "Do your duty, Anitra," she warned, her voice dropping lower. "Just do what you're told. It's the only way you'll survive here."

She turned and swept out of the pantry, leaving me alone with the scent of bitter herbs.

I clutched the small bag in my fist. The acrid smell mixed with the phantom scent of blood and smoke from my nightmare, and my stomach churned violently.

Holland's handsome, treacherous face swam before my eyes. He had promised me a life together, promised to make me the happiest Luna in the world. Instead, he had orchestrated the murder of my entire family, my entire world, all for power. All to climb higher by aligning with the Sinclairs.

The raw, burning hatred that surged through me was a powerful antidote to fear. It burned away the last vestiges of the scared girl in the King's bed. It cauterized the weeping wound of my grief.

I would survive. I would do more than survive.

I would become stronger. I would learn every secret of this castle. I would wait, and I would watch. And one day, I would be the one holding a silver dagger, and I would personally carve that smile off Holland Berger's face.