Chapter 4 – The Scar Beneath Her Collarbone
Riven wasn't used to stillness.
Quiet made her uneasy, and yet for the third night in a row, she hadn't heard a single scream. No boots scraping the dungeon floors. No growling from the other cages. No chains clinking in the dark. Just wind brushing the high window of the Alpha King's chamber, and the soft hush of logs burning down to cinders.
She sat cross-legged on the rug before the fire, still dressed in the black wool tunic he'd given her. It was too fine for her. It made her feel like a lie.
Thorne was seated nearby, reading something handwritten on thick parchment. A report, maybe. Or a letter from one of his commanders. But he wasn't focused. She could feel it. He kept glancing at her — subtle, quiet looks when he thought she wouldn't notice.
She noticed.
"Do I make you nervous?" she asked suddenly, her voice breaking the silence.
His eyes lifted instantly, sharp and silver.
"No," he said.
"You keep looking at me."
"Because I keep forgetting how to look away."
She went still.
He meant it — not as a flirtation. Not as a trick. Just plain truth. The way he said everything else.
Riven glanced back at the fire, eyes softening. "You're not like them."
"Them?"
"The ones who bought me."
Thorne didn't speak. But his knuckles clenched.
She looked at her hands, fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve. "They liked when I begged. When I cried. Some of them laughed when I tried to bite."
Thorne set the parchment down slowly.
"I'll kill them," he said softly. Deadly calm.
"No," she replied quickly, voice hardening. "No more blood for me."
He studied her a long moment. Then nodded. "As you wish."
And just like that — he surrendered the revenge she could've had.
Because she asked.
She looked up at him, something unreadable in her expression. "Why are you so gentle with me?"
Thorne's jaw tensed. "Because no one else was."
Silence wrapped around them like smoke.
Finally, Riven reached behind her neck and tugged at the tie of her tunic. Not enough to undress — just enough to bare the top of her collarbone.
A jagged scar crossed from her shoulder toward her chest, half-faded but unmistakable.
Thorne didn't move.
"I was fourteen," she said. "One of the guards wanted to brand me. Said I wasn't obedient enough. That I needed to be reminded who I belonged to."
His fists curled tightly at his sides.
"He used silver," she added, voice flat.
"I can smell it," Thorne said quietly. "Even now."
She looked at him, startled. "You can smell it?"
"I can smell everything about you," he said, voice low. "The lavender soap from the bath. The fear in your blood when someone walks too close. The memory of pain that still lingers on your skin."
He exhaled roughly, jaw clenched.
"But I also smell your strength. Your rage. The part of you that never gave in — not once. That part sings louder than any scar."
She looked away, breath trembling. "You talk like you know me."
"I do," he said simply. "Or at least… I want to."
Something warm pressed behind her ribs.
"Will it always feel like this?" she whispered. "Like I'm waiting to wake up in the dark again?"
Thorne stood and crossed to her slowly, like approaching a wounded wolf. He knelt in front of her, one knee down, eye-level.
"It might," he admitted. "But if you do… I'll be there."
He reached out, hand open, not touching.
She stared at it.
And after a long pause — she placed her hand in his.
It was small against his palm, trembling slightly.
He didn't squeeze. Didn't pull.
He just held it.
Her voice broke. "I'm not soft, you know. I'm not fragile."
Thorne's eyes darkened. "I know. You've survived things most warriors wouldn't. That's not fragility, Riven. That's fire."
She bit her lip.
He leaned closer, just slightly. His voice dropped to a near whisper. "But even fire deserves rest."
Their foreheads were nearly touching now.
Then — her stomach growled.
She blinked, then laughed — a soft, startled laugh she hadn't made in years.
Thorne smiled. Really smiled. And it hit her like lightning.
He was beautiful.
"You didn't eat again," he murmured.
She looked down. "I'm not used to food that doesn't make me sick."
"I'll make you something myself," he said.
She gave him a look. "You cook?"
"I hunt," he said. "I skin. I prepare. You won't starve under my roof."
"…Or my sky," he added after a pause.
She tilted her head. "That's poetic for a warlord."
"I'm many things," he said. "You'll see."
She stared at him a moment longer. Then whispered, "I want to believe you."
He leaned back slightly, hand still holding hers.
"Then take your time."
---
Later that night, Riven lay curled on the far edge of her bed, unable to sleep.
The fire had gone out.
She rose and padded softly across the room, opening the heavy wooden door.
And there he was.
A massive black wolf, fur like midnight fog, golden eyes glowing faintly in the dark.
He raised his head slowly, watching her with stillness that held no threat. Only awareness.
"Goldie," she whispered.
His ears perked.
"…That's what I'm calling you," she said. "You watch like a guard dog, not a king."
He huffed, as if insulted.
She knelt slowly beside him. Her fingers hovered above his head.
"Can I…?"
The wolf leaned forward, gently pressing his massive head into her palm.
The touch sparked something warm in her chest.
He didn't move. Didn't growl.
Just breathed with her.
And for the first time in years, Riven didn't feel alone.