Chapter 180: Humiliation

Seraphine's POV

I woke to the scent of cedar and leather—expensive, refined, nothing like the mildewed air I'd been breathing before the sedative knocked me out.

My eyes cracked open and I found myself staring at a vaulted ceiling, dark wood beams crossing overhead in geometric patterns. The bed beneath me was too soft, too clean. Silk sheets instead of rough cotton. A fireplace carved from black marble dominated one wall, cold and empty. Above it hung a massive crest—a raven with spread wings clutching a crown in its talons.

Ravencrest.

The collar bit into my throat as I tried to sit up, silver burning through the scabbed-over wounds. I had no idea how long I'd been out—hours? Days? Time meant nothing when they could just pump you full of drugs and drag you wherever the fuck they wanted.

He can't feel me. Can't find me. I'm alone.

The room was clearly Damien's—everything about it screamed wealth and power. Floor-to-ceiling windows draped in heavy velvet. A desk of polished mahogany covered in neat stacks of papers. Bookshelves lined with leather-bound volumes. Even the air felt expensive, like they filtered out anything common or dirty.

I was still wearing my filthy clothes from the clearing, blood-stiff and reeking. The bundle Damien had tossed on the bed earlier—back in that dingy room before we left—lay untouched where it had fallen. I hadn't cleaned myself. Hadn't changed. Some small rebellion in the face of complete defeat.

We must have traveled. He brought me here while I was unconscious.

The door opened without warning. Two guards entered first—both built like brick walls, both wearing Ravencrest insignia. They grabbed me before I could even think about fighting, hauling me off the bed with rough efficiency. My feet dragged across plush carpet, then cold stone as they pulled me into the hallway.

"Where are you taking me?" My voice came out raw, throat damaged from the collar's pressure.

They didn't answer. Just kept dragging me through corridors that seemed to stretch forever, all vaulted ceilings and stone walls hung with tapestries depicting Ravencrest victories. Other pack members stopped to stare as we passed—some curious, some hostile, all of them looking at me like I was something diseased.

We descended a spiral staircase, the air growing colder and damper with each step down. The stone walls here were bare, water trickling down in places where the mortar had crumbled. Old blood stained the floor in patches that no amount of scrubbing would remove.

Dungeon. They're taking me to a fucking dungeon.

The guards threw me into a small cell at the end of a narrow corridor. I hit the floor hard, palms scraping against rough stone. The door slammed shut with a sound like a coffin closing. I pushed myself up slowly, taking in my new accommodations—bare walls weeping moisture, a bucket in one corner that I didn't want to examine too closely, and a thin layer of moldy straw covering the floor.

This was more fitting than Damien's bedroom. This was where prisoners belonged.

I don't know how long I sat there in the darkness. Time felt meaningless when you couldn't see the sun, couldn't hear anything except water dripping and distant sounds of the pack going about their lives overhead. My stomach cramped with hunger. The last thing I'd eaten was... I couldn't even remember. Days ago, maybe.

Footsteps echoed down the corridor. I tensed, pressing back against the wall as the cell door opened.

Malachar stood framed in the doorway, backlit by torchlight from the hall. He held a wooden tray laden with food—fresh bread, scrambled eggs, sliced fruit, and a glass bottle of what looked like orange juice. The smell hit me like a physical blow, my stomach twisting desperately.

Don't react. Don't let him see how badly you want it.

"Well, well." Malachar's smile was all teeth, sharp and predatory. "The great Hale princess, reduced to this. Your father would be so disappointed."

I said nothing, just watched as he stepped into the cell. He held the tray out, letting me see everything clearly—the steam still rising from the eggs, the butter melting into the bread's warm surface.

Then he turned the tray over and dumped everything on the floor.

The glass bottle shattered on impact, juice splashing across the stones and soaking into the straw. Shards of glass glittered in the torchlight, scattered among the ruined food. A piece of glass had cut my cheek when it flew up, I realized distantly. I could feel warm blood trickling down to mix with the older stains.

"Eat up, princess." Malachar laughed, the sound bouncing off the stone walls. "This is what captures deserve. What traitors get for thinking they could play against Ravencrest."

I will kill you, I thought, staring up at him through the blood and tears I refused to let fall. Someday, somehow, I will rip out your throat and watch you choke on your own blood.

But I didn't say it. Didn't give him the satisfaction of a response.

Malachar kicked some of the food toward me, grinding bread into the filthy straw with his boot. "Not hungry? That's fine. You'll be hungry enough eventually. They always are, down here in the dark."

He left, slamming the door behind him. The lock clicked. Darkness swallowed everything except the faint torchlight bleeding under the door.

I stared at the food scattered across the floor. Glass mixed with bread. Eggs soaking up dirty water from the stones. Fruit bruised and splitting. Everything contaminated, everything ruined.

Don't. You're better than this. Don't—

But hunger is a physical thing, clawing at your insides with real teeth. And pride doesn't fill an empty stomach. My hands were shaking as I crawled forward, picking through the mess for anything salvageable. A piece of bread that had landed on relatively clean straw. Some fruit that I could wipe off. I ate with tears streaming down my face, hating myself, hating Malachar, hating every single thing that had led me to this moment.

This is survival, I told myself as I choked down food that tasted like humiliation. This is staying alive long enough to make them pay.

The guards came for me maybe an hour later. I'd pushed the remaining food scraps into a corner, trying to save something for later. They hauled me up again, ignoring the way I stumbled, still dizzy from the collar's constant burn.

This time we went up instead of down. Through different corridors, these ones wider and grander. Pack members lined the walls now, called together for some kind of gathering. They watched me pass with expressions ranging from curiosity to outright hatred.

"Matthias's daughter," someone spat. Literally—I felt the wet impact on my shoulder.

"Hale scum," another voice called. "Should have wiped out the whole bloodline."

I kept my eyes straight ahead, refusing to look at any of them. Refusing to give them the reaction they wanted.

The guards dragged me into a massive hall, easily three stories high with stained glass windows throwing colored light across marble floors. At the far end, raised on a dais of black stone, sat a throne carved from a single piece of dark wood. Damien occupied it with the kind of casual power that came from never doubting your right to rule.