Traded to the Ruthless Alpha

The dining hall was cold and vast, lit by iron chandeliers that hung from vaulted stone beams.

A dark oak table stretched the length of the room. When I walked in, my heart hammered against my ribs, and my feet naturally carried me to the farthest wooden chair at the very corner.

At my father's house, I was only allowed to touch the food after Dorian and Seraphine pushed their empty plates away. Sitting near the head of any table was an offense that earned a backhand.

I folded my hands in my lap, keeping my head bowed.

Heavy footsteps echoed across the stone floor. Ronan stepped into the room, wearing a simple dark wool sweater that clung to his broad chest. He glanced at the empty seat beside him, then looked down the long expanse of wood to where I sat.

"Maris," he said. His voice was quiet, but it filled the empty space. "What are you doing all the way down there?"

"I can wait," I said quickly. "If you want to eat first, I don't mind."

Ronan pulled out the heavy carved chair immediately to his right. "Come sit here. You don't eat scraps in this house."

I hesitated, my muscles locking up, before I forced myself to stand. My boots squeaked against the polished slate as I walked the length of the table. Every instinct told me this was a test, but Ronan simply held the chair steady until I sat down, sliding it in gently behind me.

A side door swung open, and an older man in an apron carried out a steaming tray.

"Good evening, Alpha. Miss Maris," the cook said. His silver hair was neatly combed, though his hands shook as he set down two bowls of braised beef, roasted root vegetables, and thick slices of warm bread.

The aroma made my stomach twist with hunger. It smelled like garlic, thyme, and rich brown butter.

"Thank you, Mr. Rowe," I murmured, taking a tentative forkful of the tender meat. The savory flavor hit my tongue, warm and rich. "This is delicious. Truly."

Edwin Rowe blinked, his weathered face flushing with surprise. "You like it, miss?"

"It's the best thing I've ever tasted," I said honestly. Then I noticed the way his right fingers twitched as he set the salt cellar down. "Does your wrist hurt, sir? You've been holding it stiffly since you came in."

The old cook froze. He looked down at his bandaged wrist, then back up at me with wide eyes. "Just a bit of arthritis from the damp weather, miss. Nothing to worry about."

"Soaking it in hot birch bark tea helps," I offered quietly. "My grandmother used to do that when the mountain frost set in."

Beside me, Ronan hadn't touched his food. His golden eyes were fixed on my face, watching every bite I chewed. Only after I swallowed my third mouthful did he finally pick up his fork.

He ate steadily, his movements smooth and quiet. When his plate was clean, he pushed it forward slightly.

"Edwin," Ronan said.

The cook hurried out from near the pantry door. "Yes, Alpha?"

"Bring another serving, please."

Edwin Rowe stood stock-still for two seconds before stammering, "Right away, Alpha. Right away."

When the cook disappeared into the kitchen, the heavy door swung shut behind him, but it didn't latch completely. Through the crack, I heard a ragged gasp, followed by a muffled sob.

Alarm flared in my chest. "Did I say something wrong?"

Mrs. Gable stepped out from the sideboard, pouring water into my glass. Her eyes were shiny with unshed tears.

"No, child," she whispered, her voice tight with emotion. "You did nothing wrong. The Alpha hasn't finished a full meal at this table in over six months. He usually takes black coffee to his study and works until dawn."

I glanced at Ronan. He didn't deny it. He simply took a slice of bread and tore it in half, placing the larger piece on my plate.

Before I could process that, a loud crash echoed near the hallway archway. A young teenage attendant had dropped a tray of crystal glasses. Shards scattered across the stone, and water pooled around his shoes.

"I'm sorry!" the boy gasped, dropping to his knees. He began frantically grabbing shards with bare hands, his knuckles trembling so hard they knocked against the floor. "Please, Alpha, I didn't mean to—I'll pay for them, please don't—"

"Stop," I called out, rising from my seat before I could think twice.

The boy looked up, his pale face white with sheer terror.

I turned toward Ronan, putting myself slightly between him and the boy. "The floor was wet by the threshold, Ronan. He slipped. It wasn't his fault."

I braced myself for the shout. In my father's hall, breaking a glass meant being locked in the cellar for the night.

Ronan looked at me, then looked down at the boy on the floor.

"Leave the glass, Peter," Ronan said evenly. "Have the guards sweep it up before someone cuts their feet. Tell the quartermaster to log the replacement from the pantry account."

The boy stared, blinking in disbelief. "Y-yes, Alpha. Thank you, Alpha."

"Go wash your hands," Ronan added.

The boy scrambled to his feet and practically bolted down the corridor.

Over the next three days, the cold tension in the keep began to thaw.

The pack members who had glared at me from the courtyards started watching me with curiosity instead of suspicion. When one of the guard's young pups tore his paw on sharp shale behind the stables, I sat on the frozen ground and cleaned the cut with witch hazel, wrapping it carefully until the whimpering pup licked my cheek.

Two nights later, during a sudden mountain downpour, I found a lost four-year-old girl crying near the west gatehouse. Instead of leaving her, I wrapped my own jacket around her shivering frame and sat under the stone eaves, talking softly to keep her calm until the search patrol found us.

By the end of the week, the whispers in the halls had shifted. They no longer called me the unwanted tribute.

On Sunday evening, Ronan summoned me to his ground-floor study. Maps and border treaties covered the mahogany desk.

"You took classes in town before you came here," Ronan said without preamble.

I stiffened, my fingers curling into my sweater hem. "Yes. Business and regional history at the college."

"You're going back tomorrow," he said. He slid a folder toward me. "Your tuition is settled. A car will take you in the morning and bring you back every afternoon."

I stared at him. "My father said marriage meant I was done with school."

"Your father isn't here," Ronan replied. "You have a right to your future, Maris. Pack your books."

The next morning, a sleek black sedan pulled up to the main university gates. The engine purred like a sleeping cat, the polished paint gleaming under the overcast sky.

The moment the driver opened my door, the entire quad went silent.

Dozens of students stopped walking. Heads turned, eyes narrowing as they took in the expensive vehicle and the silver crest stamped on the front bumper.

Heat flooded my cheeks. I grabbed my canvas bag, pulled my collar high, and practically stumbled out onto the concrete. I wanted to sink through the pavement and disappear.

"Well, well. Look what crawled out of the luxury car."

A shrill voice cut through the murmurs.

Brielle stood at the center of the walkway, flanked by three girls from the elite pack families. Her designer leather jacket was zipped to her chin, her arms crossed over her chest.

"Brielle," I said quietly, trying to sidestep her.

She shifted to block my path. "Did you really think a shiny car would make everyone forget what you are? You're a purchased stray."

Several students in the surrounding circle snickered.

"Leave me alone," I muttered.

"Your own father couldn't wait to unload you," Brielle sneered, taking a step closer until her breath hit my face. "He traded you like livestock to pay off his border debts. And what did you do? You spread your legs to trick Alpha Ronan into keeping you in the main house instead of the kennels. How pathetic."

My hands shook around my bag straps. "You don't know anything about it."

"I know Ronan Blackthorn wouldn't touch trash like you unless he was forced," she snapped, her voice carrying across the entire courtyard. "You're a disgrace."

I kept my mouth shut and pushed past her shoulder, rushing into the lecture hall with my head down.

By noon, the humiliation had followed me to the dining commons.

I bought a bowl of cheap potato soup and a roll, carrying the plastic tray toward an empty table near the exit. I just wanted to finish eating in peace and get through the afternoon.

A sudden, violent shove struck my shoulder from behind.

The tray flew out of my hands.

The bowl shattered on the linoleum floor, splashing greasy, lukewarm soup directly across the front of my cream sweater and the thighs of my jeans. Thick yellow broth dripped down my sleeves, smelling heavily of stale bacon fat and old onions.

Laughter erupted in a wave around me.

Brielle stood right behind where I had been walking, holding an empty water bottle with an exaggerated look of shock on her face.

"Oops," she giggled, loud enough for thirty people to hear. "Clumsy me. But honestly, Maris, that cheap soup matches your clothes anyway."

Her friends laughed, pointing at the dark, oily stain spreading across my chest.

I stood there in the middle of the crowded cafeteria, my skin burning with humiliation. Inside my chest, Wren curled into a tight, trembling ball, whimpering with deep shame and impotent rage.

I couldn't fight back. If I fought Brielle, her family would complain to the council. They would say Ronan's tribute was violent. They would say I was a feral liability.

Without saying a single word, I grabbed a handful of paper napkins, wiped what I could off my jeans, and walked out into the cold rain to wait for my afternoon classes.

By the time the sedan brought me back to Blackthorn Keep that evening, the soup had dried into a stiff, crusty patch on my sweater. The greasy smell clung to my hair and skin like a badge of failure.

I tried to slip past the foyer silently, hoping to reach the stairs before anyone saw me.

"Maris."

The deep voice came from the open study doorway.

Ronan walked out into the corridor. The moment he crossed the threshold, his head tilted. His jaw locked instantly.

He didn't just smell the dried food. With his Alpha senses, he smelled the sourness of my cold sweat, the lingering terror, and the sharp, bitter tang of raw humiliation that was pouring off my skin.

His amber eyes turned completely dark, glowing with dangerous fury.

"What happened to your clothes?" he asked, his voice deadly quiet. "Who touched you?"

I pulled my arms across my chest, plastering a tired, rehearsed smile onto my face, the exact same smile I had used for nineteen years to stop my father from asking questions.

"Nothing," I whispered. "I was just clumsy at lunch and dropped my tray. Today was fine. Everything was fine."

Ronan stared down at me. The anger in his eyes didn't vanish, but something cracked behind the golden irises—a quiet, devastating realization.

He saw right through the mask. He saw that hiding her pain wasn't just a habit for her.

It was the only way she knew how to stay alive.