Maren's POV
The iron burns my wrists.
I don't pull against the chains anymore. That's what they want to see me fight, to see me break. So I stand perfectly still on this platform while a hundred eyes crawl over me like insects.
The auction house smells like wet stone and old blood. Torches flicker on crumbling walls that used to belong to the Council, back when the Council cared about laws. Now this place is just a hole in the ground where monsters come to buy and sell wolves like cattle.
Eleven of us stand in chains tonight. I'm number seven.
The man next to me is shaking so hard his chains rattle. He's young maybe nineteen. He whispers prayers under his breath to the Moon Goddess, begging her to save him. I used to pray like that too. Before I learned the truth.
The Goddess doesn't answer prayers from wolves that nobody wants.
Next! The auctioneer's voice cracks like a whip.
They drag the praying boy forward. Someone bids. Someone else bids higher. The boy's face goes white. In less than three minutes, he belongs to a silver-mine owner from the western territories. They'll work him until his bones break, then toss him in an unmarked grave.
My stomach twists, but I keep my face blank. I learned that from my mother before she died. Never let them see you bleed, Maren. Not on the outside.
Number seven!
Rough hands shove me forward. I stumble, catch myself, lift my chin. The platform is higher than I expected. Below me, the crowd spreads out like a sea of teeth and hunger. Pack alphas in fine clothes. Territory brokers with cold eyes. Hunters looking for cheap labour.
And in the back, half-hidden in shadow, sits my father.
Alpha Aldric Ashvale. Leader of the pack I was born into. The man who raised me, trained me, taught me everything I know about healing.
The man who sold me to pay his gambling debts.
Our eyes meet for one second. Just one. Then he looks down at the floor like I'm already dead.
Something inside my chest cracks, but I don't let it show. I've cried enough over him. Tonight, I'm done crying.
The auctioneer circles me like a shark. He's a thin man with a smile that never reaches his eyes. He grabs my arm not gently and yanks me around so the whole crowd can see.
The scar, someone mutters.
The auctioneer's grin widens. Oh yes. Let's talk about this beauty, shall we?
He traces one finger down the long white line that runs from my temple to my jaw. I got it five years ago, the first time my father tried to sell me. I fought. I ran. I almost made it to the border before his hunters caught me and dragged me back.
My father punished me himself. The scar was his way of making sure I'd never forget who owned me.
Damaged goods? someone calls out.
Damaged? The auctioneer laughs. This is proof of spirit, gentlemen. This one fights. This one survives. He raises his voice so it echoes off the stone walls. But more importantly this one heals.
The crowd goes quiet.
That's right, the auctioneer says softly, dangerously. Number seven is an Ember carrier. Bloodline gift. The only one of her kind left in the northern territories.
A ripple of whispers spreads through the room. Hands that were resting on armrests now grip them tight. Eyes that were bored are suddenly sharp and hungry.
The Ember Gift is rare. So rare that most wolves think it's a legend. My grandmother had it. My mother had it. Now I'm the last.
It means I can heal any wound on any shifter broken bones, torn flesh, even poison. I can sense injuries before they kill someone and pull them back from the edge of death.
I'm a weapon wearing a healer's skin.
She's worth more than this entire line up combined, the auctioneer announces. So let's start the bidding at five thousand silver marks.
The crowd explodes.
Numbers fly like arrows. Six thousand. Seven thousand. Eight. Alphas who came here for cheap labour are suddenly throwing fortunes at my feet. I stop listening to the amounts. It doesn't matter. Whether I sell for five thousand or fifty thousand, I'm still a slave.
I scan the crowd one more time, looking for my father.
He's standing now, pushed back against the wall by the crush of bidders. His face is pale. His hands shake.
Good. I hope he chokes on every coin.
The bidding hits ten thousand. Then eleven.
Twelve thousand!
The voice comes from somewhere in the back, deep and cold and absolute.
The entire room freezes.
I can't see who spoke. The crowd is too thick, too frantic. But I feel something shift in the air something heavy and dangerous, like the moment before lightning strikes.
The auctioneer clears his throat. Twelve thousand silver marks from the gentleman in the back. Do I hear thirteen?
Silence.
No one moves. No one breathes.
Twelve thousand going once
Still nothing.
Twelve thousand going twice
Someone near the front turns to look toward the back of the room. Their face goes white.
Sold! The auctioneer slams his hand down. Number seven goes to
The crowd parts like water.
A figure steps forward from the shadows.
He's tall. Broad-shouldered. He moves like a predator, smooth and certain, and every wolf in his path scrambles to get out of his way. He wears a dark hood pulled low, but I can see his jawline sharp enough to cut glass.
My heart pounds so hard I think my ribs might crack.
I know what he is before he even reaches the platform.
Everyone knows.
The auctioneer's voice drops to barely a whisper. Number seven has been purchased by
The hooded figure reaches the platform. Reaches for the transfer papers. Reaches for the pen.
And then he looks up.
Our eyes lock.
Grey. His eyes are grey like storm clouds, like steel, like nothing I've ever seen. They should be cold. They should be empty.
But they're not.
He looks at me like he knows exactly what it feels like to be sold by the people who were supposed to love you. Like he knows exactly what it costs to stand here in chains and refuse to break.
He looks at me like he recognizes me.
My breath catches in my throat.
The auctioneer finishes his sentence in a voice that shakes: the Rogue King.
The room erupts in chaos.
But I don't hear any of it.
Because the Rogue King Kael Duskhorn, the most dangerous unmated alpha in the entire Shattered Wilds, the monster every pack warns their children about is still staring at me.
And his hand is reaching toward mine.
This won't hurt, he says quietly. Only I can hear him over the noise. I promise.
I don't believe him.
But I also don't have a choice.
His bare hand closes around mine to seal the transfer.
And the world explodes.