The clatter of plates echoed through the royal dining hall as the seven girls moved silently, cleaning under the cold watch of the guards. No servants helped them. This was part of the ritual—proof they belonged.
Aurora wiped the marble table, fingers raw. Zev's voice echoed in her head, replaying every clipped command, every threat tucked behind silence.
"Hey."
A girl stepped beside her, stacking goblets. Tall. Confident. Hair pinned in golden curls that looked too proud for a slave.
She glanced at Aurora and smirked. "You're the one assigned to Zev, right?"
Aurora nodded, cautious.
The girl let out a low whistle. "Unlucky."
She dropped another goblet into the tray. "They gave me Alpha Mateo. Still a bastard, but at least he jokes."
Aurora frowned. "Assigned?"
"That's what we are, aren't we?" the girl muttered. "Matches on a gameboard."
Another girl chimed in from the wine jugs with a grin. "Zev doesn't keep anyone long. One girl tripped in front of him—gone the next morning."
Someone else added, quieter: "He has rules. If you break them, you vanish."
The voices were a blur of mockery and fear.
Monica leaned in, her voice a hush. "Don't get attached to hope. Most girls placed with him don't make it to week two."
She walked off with a full tray, leaving Aurora cold.
Aurora kept wiping the same spot on the table, her jaw locked tight.
She sat later on the edge of the straw mattress, gown wrinkled and spine aching from chores. Her hands throbbed. Her thoughts did worse.
Monica's words echoed like a dare.
Then—
A knock.
No. A thud.
Heavy. Intentional.
The door creaked open. A guard. Silent. Waiting.
Aurora rose, nerves unraveling.
She followed barefoot through marble halls, the quiet suffocating. Only the torchlight lit the path toward the chamber she had begun to dread.
Aurora stepped into Zev's chamber, the torchlight casting molten gold along the stone walls. He didn't turn. Just stood by the fire, shirtless again, hair tousled like he hadn't slept.
He said nothing.
Not at first.
Then his voice came—low, cold. "You stripped last time. Why?"
She blinked. "Because… you told me to."
"Did I?"
Zev turned slowly, finally facing her. His eyes scanned her figure in that thin gray gown with unmistakable disappointment.
"You undressed like a girl begging to disappear," he said. "Pathetic."
Aurora's hands curled into fists. She said nothing.
He stepped toward her, calm, unhurried. "Strip again."
She stiffened.
He tilted his head. "Unless you'd like me to call for someone braver."
Aurora's breath caught—but she obeyed.
Her fingers trembled at the collar, slipping the fabric off her shoulders until the gown fell silently to the floor. She didn't cover herself this time. She just stood there, skin flushed with shame and fear.
Zev didn't touch her.
Didn't leer.
He only circled once, slowly—like observing a creature he might tame or discard.
Then he stepped back.
"Still hollow," he said.
He turned and sat in the velvet chair, firelight brushing his jawline in hard angles. His fingers drummed once on the armrest before falling still.
"Seduction isn't about skin," he muttered. "It's about power. Poise. Intent."
His eyes sharpened. "So stand there. And learn what it feels like to be seen."
Silence.
Seconds dragged. Aurora's skin prickled under his unwavering gaze. But she stayed still—bare, breathing, burning.
Then, after what felt like forever:
"Cover yourself."
She blinked.
Zev didn't repeat himself. Just waited.
Aurora bent quickly, gathering the fabric, sliding it back over her shoulders like armor she didn't earn.
Once she was dressed, he looked away.
"You'll sleep by the hearth," he said flatly. "If you want to stay here, learn to hold a man's attention *with your presence,* not pity."
He stood, poured himself a drink, and didn't glance back.
"You have potential," he added, so quietly she almost missed it. "But potential bores me."
He returned to his chair.
"Sleep, rabbit. Tomorrow, we test if you're more than just breath and obedience."
------
The clang of knives. The hiss of flame. The kitchen pulsed with heat and silence as Aurora stepped into its mouth like prey.
A row of girls worked along the stone counters, sleeves rolled, eyes down. Pans sizzled. Flour clouded the air like smoke before battle. Each movement was watched—judged.
A plump woman with razor-sharp eyes stalked between them, barking commands.
"Slice thinner. That's a royal mouth you're feeding, not a mutt."
Aurora's fingers worked the dough—press, turn, fold. Her hands trembled, the burn from last night's fire still etched into her skin.
Monica stood nearby, brow tight as she stirred spiced meats over a low flame. Without looking up, she muttered, "Still breathing?"
Aurora gave the smallest nod.
"Don't get used to it."
She didn't answer.
The girl to her left leaned in slightly, whispering, "They say one girl smiled at a guard. Queen called her a 'spice.' Sweet on the surface—rotting underneath."
Another added, "Now she's scrubbing chamber pots with bloodied hands."
Aurora didn't flinch. Just pressed harder into the dough.
"Zev breaks them first," Monica said. "Then the palace eats what's left."
Their words were hushed, but the panic in them was loud.
"Work," the head woman snapped, slamming a spoon on the counter.
Everyone froze.
Her voice cut like glass. "The Queen eats first. If she gags, you're gone. If she frowns, you're forgotten. Fail once—*and you'll be seasoning the next stew yourself.*"
The girls moved faster. Chopping, stirring, kneading, slicing.
Aurora rolled the dough thinner, shaping it into quiet perfection.
Survival didn't taste sweet.
It burned.The clang of knives. The hiss of flame. The kitchen pulsed with heat and silence as Aurora stepped into its mouth like prey.
A row of girls worked along the stone counters, sleeves rolled, eyes down. Pans sizzled. Flour clouded the air like smoke before battle. Each movement was watched—judged.
A plump woman with razor-sharp eyes stalked between them, barking commands.
"Slice thinner. That's a royal mouth you're feeding, not a mutt."
Aurora's fingers worked the dough—press, turn, fold. Her hands trembled, the burn from last night's fire still etched into her skin.
Monica stood nearby, brow tight as she stirred spiced meats over a low flame. Without looking up, she muttered, "Still breathing?"
Aurora gave the smallest nod.
"Don't get used to it."
She didn't answer.
The girl to her left leaned in slightly, whispering, "They say one girl smiled at a guard. Queen called her a 'spice.' Sweet on the surface—rotting underneath."
Another added, "Now she's scrubbing chamber pots with bloodied hands."
Aurora didn't flinch. Just pressed harder into the dough.
"Zev breaks them first," Monica said. "Then the palace eats what's left."
Their words were hushed, but the panic in them was loud.
"Work," the head woman snapped, slamming a spoon on the counter.
Everyone froze.
Her voice cut like glass. "The Queen eats first. If she gags, you're gone. If she frowns, you're forgotten. Fail once—*and you'll be seasoning the next stew yourself.*"
The girls moved faster. Chopping, stirring, kneading, slicing.
Aurora rolled the dough thinner, shaping it into quiet perfection.
Survival didn't taste sweet.
It burned.