Chapter 9

The throne room is colder now. Or maybe that’s just Griffin.

He sits like the storm he is—quiet, regal, dangerous. Shadows pool beneath the folds of his coat. The crowd lines the walls like they’re painted there, eyes sharp, mouths quieter.

I stand in the center. Not shackled this time. Just... placed.

I’m no she-wolf or vampire, but I can sense Aemon tense at my side. His hand doesn’t touch me, but I can feel the cool-warmth of it, the way it almost does. I don’t look at him.

I keep my eyes on the Draven House’s leader.

“Kill her,” Griffin orders. The words are commanding in his deep voice. “Slowly.”

The purple haired girl is brought in. Blood smeared across her face like my own sister Arya the last time I saw her. She snarls, even now. Even in chains. Just like what Arya would do.

My jaw tightens.

“But first, sniff out who helped her escape,” Griffin adds, lounging deeper into his throne. “Should be easy. After all… your daddy’s an Alpha Werewolf.”

A pause.

Then, the twist of a smile.

“But she’s human, Draven,” the female vampire from earlier says with a wicked grin.

“Oh. Yes. She’s just… human.”

The word drops like a knife into my chest.

There’s a ripple of sound behind me—amused, cruel.

Griffin leans forward.

“Spill her blood before me, Blake.”

My name, in his mouth, is a violation.

I can’t help but notice it’s the first time he says it instead of ‘Little flower’.

The room holds its breath. Because they know. They all know. I couldn’t kill a she-wolf if I tried. Not without help. Not without shifting. Not without being anything more than what I am.

And that’s the point, isn’t it?

I look at the girl again. Her eyes lock on mine. Not pleading. Not afraid. But then, why would she?

My heart kicks against my ribs.

Is it because of what I didn’t drink the blood earlier?

I don’t move.

But Aemon does.

He steps forward, his jaw tight. “I’ll handle it.”

It slices through the hush. His body is angled just slightly in front of mine. It’s barely a shield, but it draws attention.

A quick flash of rage burns in Griffin’s red eyes, then it’s gone so fast that I almost believe I’ve imagined it.

“She does this alone,” Griffin says to his brother. Then, a pause, just long enough for cruelty to bloom as his gaze darkens. “Unless you’d like to claim her more publicly than you already have.”

Aemon doesn’t flinch. But the heat between them is palpable.

Griffin’s cold eyes turn back to me.

Griffin tsks, all mock disappointment. “Fine,” he says coldly. “Choose her punishment then. And carry it out.”

He’s giving me power.

Power that’ll rot in my hands.

The weight of everyone’s stares is intensely pressuring me.

“I won’t jump through hoops just because you get bored,” I say. Not loud. But my words slice through the room like a wire pulled taut.

Gasps. A shifting of feet. Even Aemon’s gaze sharpens.

Griffin rises. He’s so tall that I need to tilt back my head and he isn’t closer to me yet.

One slow step after the other, descending from his throne with all the grace of a lion approaching a prey. My spine straightens. My stomach flips. I can’t move. I can’t escape.

He stops a breath away. His hand lifts.

I wait for him to strike. But then, he grips my chin between his thumb and forefinger to hold my gaze. Not hard, but commanding. Those red eyes bore and burn into my soul. Even though his touch is cold.

“You defy me again,” he murmurs, his eyes burning into mine. “Interesting.”

She’s still behind me, but she lets out a sharp, frightened sound. The purple haired girl. The one I wouldn’t touch. I don’t turn. Neither move. But I can feel her terror.

I hate that my breath stutters. It’s a trap. Everything with him is. I know that. I know that. But still—

I see it coming too late.

His arms are on me before I can step back. And there’s no fight, not really—not when the air is sucked from the room, not when I feel every gaze on us.

On me.

“Your blood may be rare,” inching closer, Griffin admits, his voice low, almost like for me alone, “but your defiance dilutes its value.”

This is punishment. Not the kind you scream about. The kind you feel long after the bruises fade.

The back of his fingers slowly brush along my exposed throat, until they pause right below my ear.

Griffin leans in, his lips brushing my skin below my ear. His mouth hovers there.

Oh, Gods... What did I do?

Aemon steps forward—but Griffin doesn’t even look at him.

Then his massive hand fists into my light brown hair tightly, wrenching my head into the most degrading angle. Griffin displays me like a butcher, showing off the prime cut before slicing. He knows that no one here will dare stop him, but then, everyone here likes blood.

Louder, just enough for the whole damn room to hear it, Griffin coldly taunts, “She doesn’t want you, brother. Just your protection.”

I flush. I burn. I want to rip his throat out.

He keeps his mouth near my skin, as if it’s mine that summoned him.

“Shall I let you watch, brother?” Griffin asks, wicked now. His grip tightens—sharp pain stings my scalp as hair tears free. Griffin’s fingers don’t loosen. “As I taste her delicious blood before you.”

My fists are clenched. My nails dig half-moons into my palms; the pain anchors me. I burn with fury. With shame. With the helpless, snarling instinct to rip him apart even as my body betrays me and trembles.

I hate him.

I hate the way his words slither under my skin, the way he makes me feel like I chose this.

I don’t say a word.

But I swear to the Goddess—Griffin’ll bleed for this. I feel so humiliated like I’m nothing more than a blood bag. Even for Aemon. Because this is what Griffin’s doing. He’s proving to me and to everyone that I’m nothing more than that for them.

In my mind, I recall when I was fourteen and my father made me choose between my best friend in the pack and a punishment. I told him to take me instead. I thought that meant something. I thought it would protect her.

Father punished us both—me for defying him, and her for making me try.

And now, here I am again. I’m being punished and the purple haired girl will be too. I should have learned my lesson.

My eyes lock with Griffin’s again, right as I feel a cool breeze beneath my dress touching my pussy lips. And then I remember I’m not wearing anything beneath this dress.

Oh Goddess…

The heat that shoots up my spine isn’t desire. It’s rage and humiliation and the mortifying realization of the knowledge that I’m already stripped beneath his hands.

And judging by the curve of his mouth as I shift on my feet, he knows that, too.

Bastard.

But all I do is try to stay still, powerless and silent, slightly shaking like prey before the bite.

And still, Griffin doesn’t sink his fangs.

I want to claw his face. I want to scream.

He drags it out. He waits, like he wants me to beg.

Goddess help me, I’m scared.

And he knows that, too.

The silence stretches.

The wait makes me nervous.

“You’ll beg for my fangs before the end, little flower,” Griffin whispers, his deep timbre curling around me, drawing an involuntary shiver down my spine. “And I’ll make sure my brother hears it.”

Then, his fangs brush my exposed skin.

I flinch. My pulse jumps.

Then pain lances through me, white-hot and blooming.

I gasp—humiliation, pain, heat—all tangled in my throat.

One moment, my knees are buckled, the next, the floor vanishes beneath me. I blink, disoriented, as my feet swing uselessly in open air, Griffin’s strong arms locked around me like steel bands. When did he—?

I can’t believe he’s biting me right now. Here. Oh, Goddess...

Not in private.

No.

Not like Aemon told me he’d do it.

Griffin’s bite is not gentle. It’s not seductive.

It’s violent. Charged.

My nails dig into his coat as I feel the brush of his breath against my skin. I don’t cry out. I refuse to make a sound. Or a moan. I don’t give him that. I let it burn.

But Goddess, it’s fucking hard.

The crest mark he had his brother make on the other side of my neck hasn’t even healed yet, and he’s already working on another mark.

Griffin drinks slowly—obscenely now. A moan insists on coming out of my mouth. I part my lips—

Then Griffin jerks back, breathing unsteadily.

A low, guttural snarl tears from his throat.

Blood on his lips, fangs bared.

Out of the corner of my eyes, I watch his red gaze, staring first at his bite, then tracing the blood’s path as it drips down to the hollow of my collarbone.

Then his red eyes wide.