The gates groaned shut behind her, sealing Elira inside a world far colder than the forest she'd been dragged through. The castle loomed like a beast itself—its towers jagged against the storm-lit sky, its windows like watching eyes. Even the air here felt different. Still. Waiting.
Kael said nothing as he led her across the stone courtyard. His footsteps were heavy, deliberate, echoing off the walls like a drumbeat of war. Her own were bare and silent, her toes numb against the rough ground. She kept pace a few steps behind him, not because she wanted to—but because the silence between them demanded it.
A thick mist crept along the edges of the courtyard, curling around wolf-shaped gargoyles that lined the path like frozen sentinels. Each one bared its fangs in a permanent snarl, as if to remind her: this was no place for the weak.
When they reached the massive oak doors, Kael raised one gloved hand. The iron handles groaned as he pulled them open. Warm light spilled out from within, flickering from torch sconces and hanging lanterns. Inside, the air smelled of smoke, pinewood… and something darker. Like iron. Like blood.
"This way," he said, voice low but sure.
She followed.
The hallway was long and arched, its ceiling so high it vanished into shadow. Paintings lined the walls—faded portraits of men and women with silver eyes and grim expressions. Some had furs draped over their shoulders. Others bore swords. None smiled.
Kael led her through a narrow stone stairwell, then down another passage where the walls grew warmer, the firelight closer. Finally, he pushed open a carved wooden door and gestured her inside.
The chamber was vast—far more than she expected for someone sold like cattle. A fire blazed in a hearth carved with wolf heads. A copper bathtub steamer in the corner, next to a table laid with fresh bread, cheese, and slices of fruit. A fur rug covered the floor, and a grand canopy bed stood in the center, draped in ivory and gold.
Elira didn't move.
She stared at it all, wary. Suspicious.
"Everything here is yours now," Kael said. "Use the bath. Eat. Rest."
She turned toward him, arms crossed protectively over her chest. "And then? What—do you wait until I fall asleep to take what you paid for?"
The words hung in the air like poison. Her voice trembled slightly, but her eyes were defiant.
Kael didn't flinch. But a flicker of something—disappointment?—crossed his face.
"I don't take what's not given," he said calmly. "You were forced into this. I wasn't blind to it."
"Then why did you allow it?" she asked. "Why let them hand me over like meat on a plate?"
"Because if I hadn't," he said, stepping toward her, "they would've sold you to someone far worse."
She stared up at him, her breath caught in her throat. Up close, the silver mask shimmered with ancient runes she couldn't decipher. His eyes were dark, but not cold. Not cruel. His voice, while firm, held no malice.
And yet… he was still the Beast.
"You're afraid," he said softly.
"I'm furious," she spat.
A beat of silence passed.
Then, unexpectedly, he nodded. "Good. Keep it. Anger keeps you alive."
He moved toward the door, but paused in the frame.
"You've been broken by cowards," he said without turning. "But I don't break things, Elira. I rebuild them."
The door shut behind him with a soft click.
And suddenly, she was alone.
Elira stood in the center of the chamber, surrounded by warmth, comfort, luxury… and yet she still felt like she was standing on a ledge. This wasn't a cage of iron—but it was a cage nonetheless. One crafted of courtesy and velvet.
She crept toward the bath and dipped her fingers in the water. It was warm—perfect, inviting. The food on the table was fresh. Her gown, torn and dirty from the forest, hung heavy on her shoulders. She peeled it off and slipped into the bath, sinking deep beneath the steam and silence.
For the first time in days, she exhaled.
But even with her body relaxed, her mind stayed sharp. Watching. Listening.
The Beast had shown her kindness—but she'd learned long ago that kindness was often the first lie before betrayal.
Still… his eyes lingered in her memory. Not because they were cruel. But because they weren't.
The bathwater was almost too warm, nearly scalding against her raw skin. But Elira welcomed the sting. It was real. Not like the numbness she'd carried since the moment her stepmother pulled the rope tight around her wrists.
She slid lower, until the water kissed her chin. Her hair fanned out behind her like gold, and the firelight danced across the copper tub, casting glowing ripples on the walls. It should've felt like peace. It didn't.
This wasn't her home. This wasn't safety.
She'd been sold.
Her hands gripped the sides of the tub, fingers whitening. Her body had escaped the ropes, but the memory of them burned in her skin. Her brothers' hands had shoved her forward. Her stepmother's voice—so sharp, so smug—had echoed behind her as if this were a victory.
And the worst part? She hadn't even screamed.
She'd kept her chin high, her jaw locked, and her heart hidden—because if she'd let herself feel it then, she would have shattered into too many pieces to ever gather again.
But now…
Now there was no one watching.
A single sob escaped her throat—raw and broken. She slapped a wet hand over her mouth, but the second one came harder, deeper. Her body shook with it. Then another. And another. Until she was no longer bathing but curling forward, arms wrapped around her knees, gasping against the storm inside her chest.
She cried for her father, taken too soon. For the home that had become a prison. For the fear that never left her bones. And for the truth that stung deeper than any blade:
No one had come to stop them.
Not a neighbor. Not a guard. Not a single soul had stood in the way when they'd dragged her out like a piece of livestock.
And now she belonged to a stranger in a mask.
Elira rocked slightly in the tub, tears dripping into the water. Silent. Steady.
"I won't stay weak," she whispered to the flickering fire. "I won't."
She wiped her eyes with trembling fingers and looked around the lavish room. This wasn't mercy. It was survival in a prettier cage. But she'd endured worse.
And if this Beast Lord thought she would quietly become his bride—he was in for a war.