The Scorned Luna-Chapter 67: What Did You Do?

"You are assigned to the combat grounds," a guard announced to Sofia while she was doing the dishes. Swallowing hard, Sofia paused. The last time she had worked at the combat grounds, it hadn’t been a pleasant experience, and she wondered what else she was going to face there now.

​"Get going," the guard urged.

​Composing her emotions and drawing in a deep breath, Sofia followed him. As she walked, she wondered: Why me? There were other maids who could have worked in the training yard; why must it be her? But then she realized she was the only one they deemed fit for the humiliation.

​The combat grounds were filled with the sound of flesh hitting flesh and the heavy grunts of powerful men in motion. As Sofia stepped into the arena, the scent of sweat and testosterone hit her. She stopped in her tracks, her breath catching in her throat.

​There, in the center of the ring, were Damien and Alaric. Both were shirtless, their skin glistening under the morning sun. Sofia’s eyes immediately darted to Alaric. He was a masterpiece of scars and power. Thick, intricate tattoos swirled across his broad shoulders and down his muscular arms, but it was the image on his back that made her heart stall—the portrait of a beautiful, ethereal woman.

​Who is she? Sofia wondered, a strange, sharp pang of jealousy hitting her. His wife? His mate?

​"Water! Slave, move it!" a warrior barked, snapping her out of her trance.

​Sofia hurried forward. As she moved to assist the warrior, Damien’s gaze snapped toward her. He slowed down, his eyes raking over the way the grey maid’s dress clung to her heavy breasts and curvy hips. He was so distracted by the sight of her that his footwork faltered.

​Alaric, noticing the shift in the air, landed a light jab to Damien’s shoulder and let out a dark, mocking chuckle.

​"Careful, Damien," Alaric teased, his voice a low rumble. "You’re staring at her like a man possessed. Tell me... are you in love with your little murderer?"

​Damien’s face hardened, his pride flaring in front of his men. "Never," he spat, his voice loud enough for Sofia to hear every word. "She isn’t worth love. She’s just a good fuck slave. Nothing more than a vessel for my anger."

​The words hit Sofia like a physical blow. She lowered her head, her full lips trembling as she fought back tears.

​But it was Alaric who reacted most violently. His emerald eyes turned a dark, lethal shade of forest green. The disrespect, the coldness toward a woman Alaric’s wolf was already starting to claim, made his blood boil. Without warning, Alaric lunged, his fist connecting with Damien’s collarbone with a sickening thud.

​The sparring match turned into something much more dangerous. Alaric wasn’t teaching anymore; he was punishing. He moved with a brutal, blinding speed, his strikes heavy and brutal. Damien tried to keep up, but Alaric was a god of war, driven by a silent rage. With a final, swift movement, Alaric’s blade sliced across Damien’s upper arm, drawing a bright line of blood.

​Damien stumbled back, clutching his arm, his eyes wide with shock. "Uncle? Are you okay? You... you’re fighting like you want me dead."

​Alaric stood in the center of the ring, his chest heaving, his muscles rippling with tension. He looked at the blood on the floor, then at Sofia, who was staring at him in terror.

​"I’m just distracted," Alaric rasped, his voice thick with a fury he couldn’t name.

​Without another word, he turned and stormed out of the arena, leaving the entire pack in a stunned silence. He marched to his room, slamming the door so hard the frame rattled. He threw himself into a chair, shutting his eyes tight as he took a deep, jagged breath.

​What is wrong with me? He snarled internally. He was an Alpha King. He was supposed to be in control. But the thought of Damien touching her—the thought of him calling that beautiful, broken girl a "fuck slave"—made him want to burn the entire pack to the ground.

​Damien stood in the center of the ring, his arm dripping blood onto the dust, his face contorted with a mixture of confusion and humiliated rage. He looked at Sofia, who was trembling by the water bucket, her face pale.

​"You!" Damien barked, pointing a shaking finger at her. "Go to his room. Take him water, whiskey—whatever he needs to calm his temper. Go!"

​It was a reckless, stupid command born of Damien’s desire to get her away from him before he snapped and took his frustration out on her in front of his warriors. He didn’t realize he was sending a lamb straight into the lion’s den.

​Sofia grabbed a silver tray with a pitcher of ice water and a crystal glass. Her heart hammered against her chest as she climbed the stairs. She reached Alaric’s suite and knocked softly. When no answer came, she pushed the door open and stepped inside.

​The room was dim, the curtains drawn. She set the tray on the low table, her hands shaking so much the glass rattled. "Alpha Alaric? I... I brought you water."

​She turned to flee, but a shadow moved faster than her eyes could track. A large, calloused hand shot out, grabbing her arm and spinning her around. In a heartbeat, Sofia was slammed against the heavy oak door, the breath leaving her lungs in a sharp gasp.

​Alaric was towering over her, his shirtless chest heaving, the scent of sweat and raw power rolling off him in waves. He didn’t look like the gentle man from the study; he looked like a predator. He pinned her wrists above her head with one hand, his emerald eyes glowing with a terrifying, golden light.

​"What are you?" he rasped, his voice vibrating deep in his chest. "What have you done to me? I have lived for years with ice in my veins, and in one day, you’ve turned it to fire. Why can’t I get you out of my head?"

​Sofia’s lips parted, her full, trembling mouth struggling to find words. "I... I didn’t do anything, Alpha... please..."

​"Liars get punished, little bird," he growled.

​He didn’t give her a chance to speak again. He crashed his mouth down onto hers, sealing her lips with a kiss that was nothing like Damien’s. It wasn’t just a claim; it was a desperate, starving demand. It tasted of whiskey, salt, and ancient hunger.

​Sofia’s eyes flew wide. She beat her small fists against his massive, tattooed chest, her mind screaming that this was wrong—that he was Damien’s uncle, that she was a slave. But as his tongue swiped across her bottom lip, a spark of electricity shot down her spine, settling deep in her wet, aching center.

​The resistance died in her throat. Her hands, which had been fighting him, suddenly tangled into his snowy-white hair. She kissed him back with a sob, her body melting against the hard planes of his muscles.

​Alaric let out a guttural sound, a mix of a moan and a growl. He released her wrists and slid his hands down to the voluptuous curve of her hips, lifting her as if she weighed nothing at all. Sofia instinctively wrapped her thick, silky legs around his waist, her grey maid’s dress bunching up to reveal her soft thighs against his skin.

​He walked her toward the bed, never breaking the kiss, his thick arousal straining against his trousers, pulsing right against the heat of her center.