The scent of damp wood and burning tallow filled the air, mingling with the faint stench of old blood. It was the kind of smell that never left a place, seeping into the very walls, into the skin of those who lived within it. Aria Voss had grown used to it. The scent of servitude. The scent of a life that did not belong to her.
She scrubbed the stone floors of the servant’s quarters, her fingers raw from the harsh lye soap that burned against her calloused skin. The bucket of water beside her had long since turned murky, but she did not dare change it until she was finished. Stopping would only earn her lashes, and she had endured enough of those for one lifetime.
Her body ached from the day’s work—no, from a lifetime of servitude. Born into this world with no name worth remembering, no family to claim her, she had been raised as nothing more than property within the grand estate of Lord Cedric Rothmore, a nobleman whose cruelty knew no bounds. Aria had never known freedom, only commands. Only punishment when she did not obey quickly enough.
"Aria!" A sharp voice rang out through the halls, followed by the clicking of heeled boots against the cold stone floor. Lady Eleanor, Lord Rothmore’s second wife, stepped into view, her dark red gown brushing against the floor as she stopped in front of Aria. "Get up. Now."
Aria hurried to her feet, keeping her head bowed. She knew better than to meet the Lady’s gaze. The last servant who had dared to look Eleanor in the eye had been thrown to the wolves. Literally.
"You are to be bathed and dressed immediately," Eleanor said, her lips curling in distaste. "His Majesty, the Lycan King, arrives tonight. And my husband has graciously decided to offer you as a gift to him."
Aria’s heart stilled.
The Lycan King?
Her stomach twisted violently, though she knew better than to show it. She had heard the whispers, the stories spoken in hushed voices by the other servants. King Kieran Vale was not merely a ruler—he was a conqueror. A beast who had carved his kingdom from the bones of those who had dared to defy him. A Lycan so powerful, so ruthless, that even the nobles feared him.
And now… she was to be his?
Eleanor’s eyes narrowed as she studied Aria’s silence. "You should be grateful. A creature like you would never amount to anything on your own. Our king may decide to make you one of his pets. If you're lucky, he might even allow you to live."
Aria’s hands clenched at her sides, but she swallowed the bitter words rising in her throat. She was no fool. Speaking out would only earn her a beating—or worse.
"Yes, my lady," she said, forcing her voice to remain steady.
Eleanor smirked, clearly pleased with Aria’s submission. "Good. The maids will prepare you. I expect you to be presentable by the time the king arrives. Do not shame this household."
With that, the Lady turned and swept out of the room, leaving behind the cold silence of Aria’s fate.
—
The bathwater was scalding, but Aria did not flinch as the maids scrubbed her skin raw. The scent of lavender and honey filled the air, an expensive fragrance meant to mask the stench of servitude. She stared at her reflection in the water, watching as the filth was stripped away, revealing pale, unmarked skin beneath.
She had always known she was different from the other servants. Her skin was unmarred, unlike the others who bore the scars of years spent in chains. Lord Rothmore had never allowed her to be permanently marked, though she had never understood why. Now, as the maids worked to transform her, she felt the weight of a truth she had never been given.
They dressed her in a gown finer than anything she had ever worn before—deep crimson velvet, the color of blood, cinched at the waist with gold embroidery. Her long, chestnut-brown hair was brushed until it gleamed, falling in soft waves down her back. The moment she stood before the mirror, she barely recognized herself.
"You almost look noble," one of the maids muttered, her tone dripping with something close to resentment.
Aria said nothing. She had no reason to respond. It did not matter how she looked.
She was still a prisoner.
—
The grand hall of Lord Rothmore’s estate was alive with the murmur of nobles, their jeweled attire glistening beneath the golden candlelight. A feast had been prepared in honor of the king’s arrival, though the air was thick with tension. None of them knew why King Kieran had come—not truly.
And then, the doors opened.
The temperature in the room seemed to drop as he stepped inside.
Aria’s breath caught.
The stories had not done him justice.
Kieran Vale was a vision of lethal grace, his presence suffocating. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and clad in black, the fabric of his fitted tunic doing little to conceal the raw power beneath. His dark hair, nearly black, fell just above his shoulders in waves, framing a face that was both cruel and devastatingly handsome.
But it was his eyes that sent ice down Aria’s spine.
They were gold. A shade so piercing, so unnatural, that they seemed to glow even in the dim candlelight.
A predator’s gaze.
Every noble in the room bowed their heads in submission, the air thick with fear and reverence. Even Lord Rothmore, a man known for his arrogance, lowered himself slightly in the king’s presence.
"Your Majesty," Rothmore greeted, his voice careful. "It is an honor to have you in our home."
Kieran did not reply immediately. His gaze swept over the room, his expression unreadable. And then—
He saw her.
Aria did not know how she knew, but she did. The moment his golden eyes locked onto hers, the world seemed to still. It was not a look of recognition, nor of curiosity. It was something deeper.
Something primal.
The air shifted. A low growl rumbled from the king’s chest, so quiet that only those nearest could hear it. The tension in the room grew thick, suffocating.
And then, Kieran spoke.
"Who is she?"
Silence.
Aria felt every eye in the room turn to her, but she could not move. Could not breathe.
Lord Rothmore, ever the opportunist, smiled. "A gift, Your Majesty. A servant of my household. I offer her to you as a token of my loyalty."