After His Luna Sold Me at Auction

The Blackridge pack house smells like cedar and old stone. I notice that first—before the high ceilings, before the warriors stationed at every doorway, before the sheer size of the place makes it clear I'm not in rogue territory anymore.

Elias carried me through the front entrance like it was the most natural thing in the world. Set me down in the main hall. Told me to rest.

I didn't.

Instead, I planted myself in one of the high-backed chairs near the central fireplace and refused to move when a nervous Omega tried to guide me toward the guest quarters. The look on her face told me everything I needed to know: wolfless strangers don't sit in the main hall. They take the small rooms. The back corridors. The spaces no one important ever sees.

I've spent a decade accepting smaller and smaller spaces. I'm done.

So I sit. And I wait. And I watch the pack members flow past—warriors, healers, ranked wolves who glance at me with expressions ranging from curiosity to contempt. None of them speak to me directly. But I hear the whispers.

Rogue auction.

Wolfless.

What is the Prince thinking?

I'm still cataloging the exits when the front doors slam open.

The woman who enters moves like she owns the building. Tall. Elegant. Dark hair swept back in a style that probably took an hour. She's flanked by six warriors in Thornfield colors—deep green and silver—and every one of them has the kind of aura that says ranked wolf.

She stops in the center of the hall. Her eyes sweep the room, dismiss the Omegas and lower-ranked wolves, and land on me.

Her lip curls.

"You," she says.

I don't stand. Don't bare my neck. Just meet her gaze and wait.

She crosses the distance between us in four sharp strides. Up close, I can see the Luna-in-training grooming—the perfect posture, the calculated authority, the way she's been taught to use her aura like a weapon.

"I am Rayna Anderson," she announces. "Daughter of Alpha Richard of Thornfield. Elias Creed's intended mate."

Intended. Not actual. I file that away.

"Scarlett," I say. "No pack affiliation."

Her eyes narrow. "I know what you are. The entire region knows by now. Rogue auction slave. Wolfless. No standing."

She says it like she's reciting facts. Clinical. Detached. It lands harder than any insult.

I smile. "And yet here I am. In the main hall. While you're standing in front of me asking questions."

Her aura flares. I feel it—a pressure against my chest, my throat—but I've spent five years surviving wolves stronger than me. I know how to breathe through dominance displays.

"Bare your neck," Rayna says quietly.

Behind her, the Thornfield warriors shift. Hands move toward weapons. The message is clear: comply or be made to comply.

I lean back in the chair. Cross my legs. Let the silver collar scar on my throat catch the firelight.

"I don't bare my neck," I say, "to wolves who need an entourage to feel powerful."

The hall goes silent.

Rayna's face flushes. Her hand rises—whether to strike me or grab me, I don't know—but she freezes mid-motion.

A new aura floods the room.

Lycan. Royal. Absolute.

Every wolf in the hall drops. Knees hit stone. Heads bow. Even Rayna's warriors stagger under the weight of it.

I feel it too—that crushing pressure—but I'm already seated, already braced, and somehow that makes it easier to keep my chin up.

Elias stands in the doorway.

He's in human form, but the golden eyes are blazing. His gaze moves from Rayna to her warriors to me, and I watch his expression shift—cold assessment to something darker, more possessive.

"Rayna," he says.

His voice is quiet. Conversational. It makes the Alpha tone underneath even more devastating.

Rayna straightens. Tries to. Her knees are shaking. "Elias. I came to discuss our arrangement—"

"There is no arrangement," Elias interrupts. "The Thornfield political mating is dissolved. Effective immediately."

The words hit like a physical blow. Rayna's face goes white. "You can't—"

"I can." He steps into the hall. Doesn't look at her. Looks at me. "Scarlett is under my personal protection. Lycan authority. Blood-oath creditor status. Any wolf who threatens her answers to me."

The Thornfield warriors are already backing toward the door. Smart wolves. They know when they're outmatched.

Rayna doesn't move. She stares at Elias like she's waiting for him to take it back. To laugh. To admit this is some kind of test.

He doesn't.

"Leave," he says.

She turns. Finally. But before she reaches the door, she looks back at me. Her expression is no longer shock. It's calculation. Cold. Precise.

A promise.

Then she's gone, and the hall exhales.

Elias crosses to where I'm sitting. Crouches so we're eye-level. His scent—iron and pine smoke—wraps around me, and that strange stirring in my chest happens again. Faint. Almost painful.

"You didn't have to do that," I say quietly.

His mouth curves. "Yes, I did."

"Why?"

He reaches out. Slowly. Gives me time to pull away. When I don't, his fingers brush the collar scar on my throat—feather-light, careful.

"Because you're mine to protect," he says. "And I don't share."

I should argue. Should tell him I don't need protection, don't need a Lycan Prince rearranging his political alliances for a wolfless stranger.

But the words stick in my throat.

Because part of me—the part that's been alone for a decade—wants exactly this. Wants to be claimed. Wants to be worth the fight.

I hate that part of me.

I look away. "She'll come back."

"I know," Elias says. "Let her."

He stands. Offers me his hand.

I take it.