Chapter 8: The Whore Who Learned Her Place
The wine still burned on his tongue when he found her.
Seraphina stood at the edge of the dance floor, laughing at something Lady Marguerite had said, her head thrown back and her throat exposed. The torchlight caught the amethysts at her neck, made them glitter like frozen fire. She was radiant. She was his.
And he had just fucked another woman's mouth.
Gavin pushed the thought down, buried it beneath the weight of the crown and the wine and the years of habit that had taught him to feel nothing when it mattered. He crossed the hall, accepted a fresh goblet from a passing servant, and slid his arm around Seraphina's waist.
"Having fun?" he asked.
"Tolerable." She leaned into him, her body warm and pliant. "Lady Marguerite was just telling me about her son's hunting accident. Apparently he tried to wrestle a boar."
"Did he win?"
"He has eleven stitches and a new appreciation for wild pigs."
Gavin laughed. It felt natural. It felt real. He pressed a kiss to her temple and let himself sink into the warmth of her presence.
This was right. This was what he wanted.
The other thing—the balcony, Beatrice, the taste of her—that was nothing. A slip. A mistake. One last indulgence before he closed that door forever.
"You're quiet," Seraphina said.
"I'm tired."
"Liar." She turned in his arms, her pale green eyes searching his face. "Something's wrong."
"Nothing's wrong." He cupped her cheek, ran his thumb over her cheekbone. "I'm just... happy. Happier than I've been in a long time."
She studied him for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then she smiled.
"Good," she said. "You deserve to be happy."
He didn't deserve anything.
He kissed her anyway.
Across the hall, Beatrice emerged from the shadows of the balcony doors.
Her lips were swollen. Her hair was disheveled. The pale gold silk of her gown was rumpled, and there was a dark stain on the hem that might have been wine or might have been something else entirely.
She moved through the crowd like a ghost, her eyes fixed on the dais, on the throne, on Gavin.
Marcus saw her first.
He was standing near the hearth, a goblet of wine in his hand, his expression that carefully neutral mask he wore when he was watching and waiting and calculating. He tracked Beatrice's progress across the hall, noted the flush on her cheeks, the slight tremor in her legs, the way she kept her thighs pressed together as she walked.
He set down his goblet.
By the time Beatrice reached the edge of the dance floor, Marcus was there.
His hand closed around her upper arm—not gentle, not subtle. Hard enough to bruise. Hard enough to make her gasp.
"Lord Marcus—"
"Not here." His voice was low, controlled, utterly devoid of warmth. "You and I need to have a conversation."
He pulled her away from the crowd, through a side door, down a narrow stone staircase that spiraled into darkness. Beatrice stumbled on the steps, her heels catching on the rough stone, but Marcus didn't slow.
"Where are you taking me?"
"Somewhere we can talk without an audience."
The wine cellar opened before them—a labyrinth of shadowed arches and ancient barrels, the air thick with the scent of oak and fermentation. Torches flickered weakly against the damp walls, casting long, shifting shadows that seemed to move of their own accord.
Marcus released her arm and turned to face her.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?"
Beatrice rubbed her arm, her expression caught between defiance and something that might have been fear. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't." Marcus stepped closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Don't lie to me, Beatrice. I've known you too long. I've watched you too long."
"You've watched me?"
"Everyone watches you." His lip curled. "You make sure of that."
She smiled—a brittle, defiant thing. "Jealous?"
"No." He reached out and caught her chin between his fingers, tilting her face up to the torchlight. "I'm disgusted."
Her breath caught.
"Your lips are swollen," he said. "Your hair is a mess. You smell like sex and cheap perfume. And you just walked through a room full of wolves with your thighs pressed together like you're trying to keep something inside."
Beatrice's smile faltered.
"You fucked him," Marcus said. "Didn't you?"
She jerked her chin out of his grip. "So what if I did?"
"So what?" Marcus laughed—a cold, humorless sound. "You fucked the king. The king who is about to be mated. The king whose mate is standing twenty feet away, smiling and dancing and completely fucking oblivious."
"She doesn't have to know."
"She will." Marcus's voice was hard as iron. "She'll know. They always know. And when she finds out, when she realizes that her mate fucked some desperate court whore on the night of their celebration—"
"I'm not a whore."
"You're acting like one."
Beatrice's hand shot out, aiming for his face. Marcus caught her wrist before it connected, twisted her arm behind her back, and pulled her against him.
"Let go of me," she hissed.
"Not until you listen." His mouth was at her ear, his breath hot against her skin. "You will not tell anyone about what happened on that balcony. Not a single soul. Do you understand?"
"Or what?"
"Or I'll make sure everyone knows exactly what kind of woman you are."
Beatrice laughed—a sharp, wild sound. "Everyone already knows what kind of woman I am. I've never pretended to be anything else."
"No," Marcus agreed. "You haven't."
His free hand slid down her back, over the curve of her hip, between her thighs.
She gasped.
"You're wet," he said.
"I—"
"Soaked through." His fingers pressed against the damp silk of her gown, found the heat beneath. "You're dripping, Beatrice. Is this from him? Or did you get wet again the moment I touched you?"
"Fuck you."
"Answer the question."
She tried to pull away, but his grip was iron. His fingers moved in slow circles against her cunt, pressing the silk into her folds, feeling the slick heat that had nothing to do with Gavin and everything to do with the man who was holding her captive.
"I asked you a question," Marcus said.
"Both," she admitted. "It's from both."
"Of course it is." He pulled his hand away and turned her to face him. "You just like getting fucked by a man with power. Don't you?"
"Power?" She laughed, but it was breathless now, unsteady. "You don't have any power."
Marcus's eyes went dark.
"I don't?" He grabbed her by the waist and spun her around, bending her over the nearest barrel. The oak was rough and cold against her palms, and she could smell the wine that had soaked into the wood over centuries. "You think I don't have power?"
"You're just his advisor. His friend. His—"
Marcus yanked her gown up around her waist.
His hand clamped over her mouth.
"I'm not the king," he said, his voice a low growl against her ear. "I don't need a crown to fuck you senseless. I don't need a throne to make you scream. I don't need anything but my hands and my cock and the knowledge of exactly what you are."
Beatrice tried to speak, but his palm muffled the words.
"You're a hole," he said. "A warm, wet hole that any man with a bit of authority can fill. You opened for Gavin on that balcony. You'll open for me now."
He yanked her hips back, positioned himself at her entrance, and thrust in.
No warning. No preparation. Just the brutal, sudden fullness of him inside her, stretching her, filling her, making her cry out against his hand.
"You're so fucking tight," he grunted. "How is that possible? How many men have fucked you tonight, and you're still this tight?"
She couldn't answer. His hand was still over her mouth, his hips already moving, already finding a rhythm that was punishing and relentless.
He fucked her like he hated her.
No—worse. He fucked her like he was proving something. Every thrust was a statement, a declaration, a brutal assertion of control. His hand on her mouth, his other hand gripping her hip hard enough to leave fingerprints, his cock driving into her with a force that made the barrel beneath them creak and groan.
"You think Gavin's the only one with power?" he hissed. "You think a crown makes a man? Let me tell you something, Beatrice. Power isn't a crown. It isn't a throne. It isn't a title or a name or a bloodline."
He pulled out almost all the way, then slammed back in.
She screamed against his palm.
"Power is knowing exactly how to break a woman like you."
He fucked her harder.
The cellar echoed with the sounds of their bodies—the wet slap of skin on skin, the creak of the barrel, the muffled cries that escaped through Marcus's fingers. The torches flickered, casting their shadows in wild, shifting patterns against the walls.
Beatrice's first orgasm hit her without warning.
She clenched around him, her body convulsing, her knees buckling. Marcus didn't slow. He fucked her through it, his rhythm unbroken, his grip unrelenting.
"That's one," he said.
She whimpered.
"Gavin came on that balcony, didn't he? Came in you, left you dripping, sent you back to the party like a good little secret." He laughed, low and cruel. "He didn't make you come. Did he?"
She shook her head, as much as she could with his hand still over her mouth.
"No. He didn't." Marcus angled his hips, found a new depth, made her gasp. "He used you. Came in you. Told you you were nothing. And you let him."
Another thrust. Another wave of pleasure-pain crashing through her.
"But I'm going to make you come," he said. "Over and over. Until you can't remember his name. Until you can't remember your own. Until the only thing you know is my cock and my hand and the word 'please.'"
She came again.
This time it was violent—a full-body convulsion that left her shaking, drooling against his palm, her vision going white at the edges. Marcus fucked her through it, over it, into another one that built before the first had even finished.
"Two," he said.
She tried to speak, tried to beg, but the words were swallowed by his hand.
"Three?"
She shook her head. She couldn't. She couldn't do another one. Her body was on fire, her mind was blank, her legs had turned to water.
But Marcus didn't stop.
He fucked her with the same brutal rhythm, the same merciless precision. His cock hit something deep inside her—something she hadn't known existed—and she came again, sobbing now, tears streaming down her cheeks and over his fingers.
"Four."
She was limp. Boneless. Draped over the barrel like a discarded doll. His seed was still inside her from Gavin, and now his own cock was there too, filling her, stretching her, claiming her in a way Gavin never had.
"One more," he said.
"No—"
"One more."
He shifted his angle again. His free hand snaked around her hip and found her clit—swollen and oversensitive and so, so wet.
He rubbed it.
Beatrice shattered.
She came with a scream that was more sob than sound, her entire body convulsing, her cunt clenching around Marcus's cock like a fist. He fucked her through it, drawing it out, prolonging her pleasure-pain until she was crying openly, her tears soaking his hand, her voice breaking on words she couldn't form.
Then he came.
He pulled out just in time, spilling his seed across her ass and lower back, hot and thick and utterly humiliating. She felt it drip down her skin, mixing with the sweat and the slickness between her thighs.
Marcus released her.
She slumped over the barrel, gasping, trembling, unable to move. She could feel his cum running down her leg, could feel Gavin's still inside her, could feel the raw, brutal ache of what had just been done to her.
"That," Marcus said, his voice calm and steady, "is power."
She didn't answer.
He tucked himself back into his trousers, straightened his tunic, smoothed his hair. He looked like he'd just stepped out of a council meeting. Not a hair out of place. Not a bead of sweat on his brow.
"I told you to stay away from him," he said. "I told you to think before you approached the King and his mate. You didn't listen."
She still didn't answer.
"You will now."
He started toward the stairs, then paused. Turned back.
"You won't tell anyone about this," he said. "Or about the balcony. You'll go back upstairs, you'll fix your hair, you'll smile, and you'll be exactly what everyone expects you to be."
Beatrice lifted her head. Her eyes were red, her face was tear-streaked, but there was something in her expression—something defiant. Something unbroken.
"And if I don't?"
Marcus smiled. It didn't reach his eyes.
"Then I'll tell Seraphina myself."
He climbed the stairs and disappeared into the darkness. Beatrice lay over the barrel, her body aching, his cum cooling on her skin, and listened to the distant sounds of the celebration drifting down through the stone.
Somewhere above her, Gavin was dancing with his mate.
Somewhere above her, the pack was laughing and drinking and celebrating a future that would be built on lies and secrets and the bodies of women like her.
She pushed herself upright, wincing at the ache between her legs. She smoothed her dress, fixed her hair, wiped her face with the back of her hand.
Then she climbed the stairs and went back to the party.
The smile on her face was perfect.
The smile on her face was perfect.
Perfect as she climbed the stairs from the wine cellar, each step sending a fresh ache through her thighs. Perfect as she paused at the top, smoothed her hair, and licked her lips to wipe away the salt of her own tears. Perfect as she stepped back into the Great Hall, into the warmth and noise and celebration, as if nothing had happened at all.
The pack barely glanced at her.
They were too busy watching their king. Gavin stood at the center of the dance floor, Seraphina in his arms, his head bent low as he whispered something against her ear. She laughed—a bright, genuine sound—and he spun her, caught her, pulled her close.
They looked like a painting. Like something out of a story.
Beatrice watched them from the shadows and felt nothing. Or maybe she felt everything, compressed into a single, jagged point behind her ribs, too sharp to name. She found a goblet of wine, drank it down, took another.
The wine was sour on her tongue. Everything was sour now.
Gavin never looked at her. Not once. Not a glance, not a flicker of recognition. She was nothing to him—less than nothing. A hole he'd used and discarded, just as he'd promised.
That was the thing about promises. He'd told her the truth. He'd warned her. And she'd spread her legs anyway.
The wine in her stomach curdled. She set down the goblet and slipped out of the hall, into the cold corridor, toward the room she'd been given as a visiting lady of the court. It was small and plain, a far cry from the chambers she'd hoped for when she'd first arrived at Blackthorn.
She'd hoped for a crown. Now she had a stain on her dress and Marcus's seed drying on her skin.
She undressed, washed, crawled into bed. Sleep didn't come. She lay awake in the darkness, staring at the ceiling, and listened to the distant music until it finally faded.
The days that followed passed in a blur.
Gavin disappeared into meetings with Marcus and the council. Seraphina walked the gardens with Lady Marguerite, visited the kitchens, sat with the pack elders by the fire. She was settling in, Beatrice realized. She was becoming the queen.
And Beatrice was becoming a ghost.
She drifted through the palace like smoke, always present, never noticed. The servants stopped bowing when she passed. The ladies stopped including her in their gossip. Even the guards—the ones who'd once leered at her, flirted with her, promised her the moon—looked through her now.
She was nothing. Just as Gavin had said.
On the third night, she found herself in the eastern corridor, near the guest quarters. She wasn't supposed to be here—this wing was reserved for visiting lords and their retinues—but she'd needed to walk. Needed to move. Needed to feel like she existed somewhere, even if only in the dark.
She was standing by a window, looking out at the moonlit courtyard, when she heard it.
Footsteps. Soft and deliberate, behind her.
"What are you doing?"
The voice was low, amused, familiar.
Beatrice spun around.
Marcus stood at the end of the corridor, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. He was dressed in dark clothes—simple tunic, leather boots, no sign of the court finery he wore during the day. He looked like a hunter.
A wolf.
She tried to still her racing heart. "What do you want?"
"I asked you first."
"I'm walking."
"At midnight? In the guest wing?" He pushed off the wall and started toward her, slow and deliberate. "That's not walking, Beatrice. That's lurking."
She stepped back. Her shoulders hit the window frame. "I'm not lurking."
"Then what are you doing?"
She scrambled for an answer. "There's a guard. One of the night patrol. He's been following me. Flirting with me. Won't take a hint."
Marcus stopped a foot away from her. His eyes narrowed.
"A guard."
"His name is—I don't know his name. He wears the grey cloak. He's—"
"I know the night patrol." Marcus's voice was flat. "There are twelve men on that rotation. None of them are stationed in this wing. None of them would leave their post to follow a woman."
Beatrice's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"So," Marcus said, "try again. What are you doing?"
She had no answer. She had only the truth—that she couldn't sleep, that she couldn't breathe, that she was haunting these corridors because the alternative was lying in her bed and thinking about everything she'd lost and everything she'd thrown away.
But she couldn't say that. Not to him. Not to the man who'd already seen her at her worst.
"It doesn't matter," she said.
"You're right. It doesn't." Marcus caught her wrist, his grip firm but not painful. "Come with me."
"What? No. I—"
"I wasn't asking."
He pulled her away from the window, down the corridor, through a door she hadn't noticed—a narrow passage that led to a spiraling stone staircase. They climbed in silence, her wrist still in his hand, her heart pounding in her throat.
The stairs ended at a heavy oak door. Marcus pushed it open and pulled her inside.
His rooms. She recognized the layout—the wide bed carved with wolves, the fire burning low in the hearth, the maps and books scattered across a heavy desk. She'd been here once before. Years ago. Before Gavin was king. Before everything.
"Marcus—"
He closed the door.
The latch clicked into place with a sound that echoed through her bones.
He advanced on her without a word, his face set in stone, his eyes burning with something she couldn't name. She stumbled back, her spine hitting the cold stone wall, and he was there—crowding her, towering over her, his breath hot on her face.
"Did you think I wouldn't find you?" he said.
"I wasn't hiding."
"You were lurking. Same thing." He grabbed her chin, tilted her face up. "You were walking the corridors alone at midnight, when every sane woman in this palace is sleeping. You were looking for something."
"I wasn't—"
"You were looking for him." His voice dropped to a growl. "For Gavin. Weren't you?"
"No."
"Liar."
He spun her around, one hand on her shoulder, the other fisted in her hair. Her cheek met the wall, cold and rough, and she gasped.
"You don't learn," Marcus said against her ear. "You don't fucking learn."
"What are you—"
His hands found the ties of her gown. He yanked them loose, shoved the fabric down her shoulders, bared her to the waist. She was naked beneath—no chemise, no stays, just skin and the goosebumps that rose as the cool air hit her.
"Wait—"
His palm sealed over her mouth.
"No," he said. "No more waiting. No more talking. You had your chance to walk away, and you didn't take it. Now you're going to be open for me tonight."
She tried to speak, tried to protest, but the words were muffled against his hand. He pressed her harder against the wall, kicked her legs apart with his boot, and she felt the hard press of his cock through his trousers against the curve of her ass.
"You like this," he said. "You hate it, and you like it. That's the problem with you, Beatrice. You've never been able to tell the difference."
He freed himself with one hand—the sound of laces being pulled, of fabric shifting—and then his cock was there, hot and blunt, sliding against her folds. He didn't enter her. Not yet. He just rubbed himself along her slit, coating himself in her slickness, letting her feel every inch of him without giving her anything.
"You're wet," he observed.
"I—"
"Don't deny it." His hand tightened on her mouth. "You're always wet. For Gavin. For me. For any man who looks at you like he owns you. That's what you are."
She shook her head.
But her body betrayed her. Her hips shifted back, an involuntary movement, seeking more contact. Marcus laughed—low and cold—and positioned himself at her entrance.
"Say please," he said.
She couldn't. His hand was still over her mouth.
"Say it with your body."
She stayed still for a heartbeat. Two. Then she pressed back against him, just slightly, a silent surrender. He didn't need more than that.
He thrust in.
The wall scraped her cheek as he fucked her. His rhythm was punishing from the first stroke—deep, hard, relentless. He didn't build up. He didn't warm her. He just took her, over and over, his hips slamming into her ass, the sound of their bodies meeting echoing off the stone walls.
"You think you're special," he grunted. "You think a man like Gavin would want you for more than a night. You think your cunt is a crown to put on his head."
She couldn't answer. Couldn't breathe. Her mind was a white blur of pleasure and pain.
"It's not." He pounded harder. "It's a hole. Just a hole. Any hole will do when a man is desperate. And Gavin was desperate."
Hot tears squeezed from her eyes, leaking onto his fingers.
"He's always been desperate. That's his problem. He doesn't think. He doesn't plan. He just takes what he wants and assumes the world will clean up the mess." Marcus's voice was cold. Controlled. Utterly at odds with the brutal rhythm of his hips. "I clean up his messes. I always have. And now I'm cleaning up you."
Her first orgasm hit without warning—a violent clenching of her walls, a full-body shudder that left her gasping against his palm. Marcus didn't slow.
"That's one," he said.
He fucked her harder.
The second came faster, wrenched out of her with a sharp thrust that made her knees buckle. Marcus caught her with an arm around her waist, held her up, kept going.
"Two."
She was sobbing now. She could feel the tears running down her face, could taste them on his fingers. Her body wasn't her own—it was a vessel for sensation, a collection of nerve endings that Marcus had learned to play like an instrument.
"Three."
She came again. Her vision went gray. She couldn't feel her legs.
"Four."
There was no pleasure anymore. Only the raw, ragged edge of pleasure-pain, the way her cunt clenched around him in desperate, involuntary spasms, the way she couldn't stop. She was a machine, an object, something being used for a purpose she couldn't comprehend.
"Five."
She shattered.
Her legs gave out. She slid down the wall, boneless, taking Marcus with her. He landed on top of her, his weight pressing her into the floor, and for a long moment, neither of them moved.
Then he pulled out.
The loss was a physical thing—sharp and sudden and empty. She heard him stand. She didn't open her eyes. She lay there, cheek against the cold stone, and heard the rustle of fabric as he adjusted his clothing.
Then his hand was on her chin, tilting her face up.
She opened her eyes.
He was kneeling above her, his face close to hers. His expression wasn't cruel. It wasn't angry. It was something else entirely—something she couldn't read.
He kissed her.
Soft. Deliberate. Almost tender. His lips moved against hers like he had all the time in the world, like he hadn't just fucked her senseless against a wall.
When he pulled back, his eyes were dark and steady.
"Remember who owns the shadows in this palace," he said.
She blinked at him.
"I own them." His thumb traced her lower lip. "Not Gavin. Not the council. Not the guards you pretend to avoid. Me. And you—" He pressed a kiss to her forehead, almost gentle. "You are open for me whenever I want you. Whenever I call. Whenever I decide. Do you understand?"
She nodded.
"Good." He stood, offered her a hand, and pulled her to her feet. "You can sleep here tonight."
"I—what?"
"Sleep. In my bed." He gestured toward the wide four-poster, the furs and blankets piled high. "You're broken, Beatrice. You're exhausted. And you're going to sleep in my bed and wake up tomorrow and start learning to be something better than a hole."
She stared at him.
"Why?"
"Because I'm tired of watching you destroy yourself." He crossed to the bed and pulled back the covers. "And because you're mine now. Whether you like it or not."
She should have argued. Should have fought. Should have demanded to know what he meant, what he wanted, what game he was playing.
Instead, she walked to the bed.
She climbed under the furs, her body aching, her mind empty. Marcus watched her for a moment, then moved to the door.
"Where are you going?"
"To do my job." He paused with his hand on the latch. "Gavin's going to ask me where I've been. I'll tell him I was patrolling. He won't question it."
"And me?"
"He won't ask about you." His voice was flat. "He never does."
The door closed behind him.
Beatrice lay in the darkness, in a bed that smelled of Marcus—sweat and leather and something sharp, something clean—and felt the tears start again.
She cried until she couldn't cry anymore. Then she slept.
When she woke, the sun was streaming through the high windows.
The bed beside her was empty. Marcus hadn't returned. But on the pillow next to her head, there was a folded piece of paper.
She opened it. Three words, scrawled in a sharp hand.
Stay away from him.
She crumpled the paper in her fist and pressed it to her chest.
Then she got up, dressed, and walked out into the palace.
The day passed in a haze. She ate nothing. She spoke to no one. She found a bench in the gardens and sat there for hours, watching the light shift through the trees, listening to the distant sound of wolves training in the yard.
She thought about Gavin. About the way he'd looked at her on the balcony—like she was nothing—and she thought about the way he'd looked at Seraphina in the hall—like she was everything.
She thought about Marcus. About the way he'd fucked her against the wall—brutal, punishing, relentless—and she thought about the way he'd kissed her after. Soft. Deliberate.
She didn't understand him. She didn't understand any of them.
But she understood the way her body responded to him. That she couldn't deny.
That night, she dreamed of shadows. Of hands that held her down. Of a voice that whispered her name like it owned her.
She woke with her heart pounding and her thighs wet.
And somewhere in the darkness, she knew Marcus was watching.