Isabella's POV
The coldness of the floor scraped under my bare feet as the guards dragged me through the corridor.
My arms still throbbed from the manacles that had been ripped off too fast, skin burning where metal had chewed into me all night. Every step ached, but I forced my spine straight. I wouldn't let them see me stagger.
Not here. Not ever.
The Redmoon packhouse spread around me... dark walls, torchlight flickering, shadows dancing like they were alive.
The guard on my left grunted. "She walks like she owns the place."
"She won't for long," the other answered.
I didn't bother looking at them. Let them talk. Let them laugh. Let them fantasize about how their King would break me.
They had no idea who I truly was.
And that was my only advantage.
The guards shoved open a heavy iron door, and warm light spilled into the hallway. One of them gave me a rough push inside.
Leon stood near the window of the chamber, arms crossed over his chest... a predator lounging in his den.
He didn't look at me at first. He didn't need to. He knew I was there. My pulse jumped anyway, betraying me.
Finally, he turned.
"I gave you a chance to submit," he said, voice smooth, too casual for the danger in it. "You refused."
I lifted my chin. "Wasn't my thing."
His eyes flicked down my body—dirty, bruised, bleeding—and a faint smirk curved his lips.
"No. I suppose not." He took a step toward me, boots silent on the stone floor. "So instead of a breeder… I'm giving you a new purpose."
The air thickened around us. The guards tensed, waiting.
Leon's voice dropped, low and cruel.
"You will serve as my personal maid."
My stomach clenched. Not because of the word maid.
I had scrubbed floors in training camps. I had lived rougher than this palace. No, what sent ice through my veins was the way he said personal. Like it meant more than labor. Like it meant he wanted proximity… control… access.
"And I will enjoy watching the fire in you die," he added softly, almost like a promise.
The guards shoved me down to my knees.
I refused to bow my head.
Leon's eyes sharpened. He stepped closer, crouching until his face hovered inches above mine.
"You break," he murmured. "Everyone does."
"I don't."
His hand lifted. For a second, I thought he would strike me like Damon had. Instead, he flicked my chin lightly with one finger, as if testing a weapon he wasn't sure how to use.
"Clean the war hall," he ordered, standing. "Every drop of blood. Every bone. Every shattered piece. When you are done, clean my chamber floors. On your knees."
I rose. Slowly. Deliberately.
"I don't kneel," I said.
He turned, not even bothering to look at me. "Here, you do."
The war hall was a battlefield frozen in celebration. Blood splattered across the stones. Bones from roasted animals scattered near overturned chairs. Broken glass sparkled on the floor like jagged stars.
I set my jaw, picked up a bucket, and began scraping dried blood off the floor.
Around the second stain, I heard a low chuckle behind me.
Damon.
Of all the beasts in this cursed place, he was the one whose presence scraped nerves raw. He walked like he wanted a fight... or a victim.
"Well, well…" Damon's boots stopped inches behind me. "The little toy has chores."
I ignored him. Scraped harder.
He crouched, breath ghosting the back of my neck.
"Leon may have claimed you," he murmured, "but he doesn't get to keep all the fun."
I gripped the scrub brush until my knuckles whitened. I didn't lift my head.
"Touch me," I whispered, "and I'll take your hand off."
Damon laughed, sharp and delighted. His fingers brushed a strand of my hair—testing me. Prodding.
The instinct to flip him onto his back pulsed through me. I swallowed it down.
He leaned close enough for me to smell the wine on his breath.
"You think Leon will protect you?" he murmured. "He won't. You're nothing here."
I didn't answer.
He hated that.
With a frustrated grunt, he stood and stalked off, smashing a wine goblet against the wall on his way out.
Good. Let him be angry. Angry men made mistakes.
It took hours to clean the hall. My arms trembled. My palms blistered. My knees felt like they were grinding into the stone. I didn't stop.
Not once.
Every time my body wavered, I pictured Magnus's face—his smile, his little hands, his warm weight when I held him.
Pain was nothing.
Breaking was nothing.
Losing him had already taught me the worst kind of suffering.
When I finally finished, a guard pulled me toward the private corridors. Instead of taking me back to the servant quarters, he led me down another hallway.
Leon waited inside a smaller chamber, bare chest wrapped in bandages stained with dried blood.
He watched me enter, eyes unreadable.
"Come here," he said.
I didn't move.
"Did you forget the rules?" His voice dropped. "Come. Here."
My feet betrayed me before my mind did. I approached slowly.
"Clean it," he said, gesturing to the blood at his ribs. "I don't want the healers touching me tonight."
Because he didn't want anyone else near him. I understood the unspoken words.
He wanted me close.
I dipped a cloth into warm water and reached toward him. My hands trembled—not from fear, but from the exhaustion crushing my bones.
He noticed.
He misunderstood.
"You're afraid," he said quietly.
"No," I whispered. "Just tired."
"Tired breaks easier."
"I told you… I don't break."
Silence settled between us. Heavy. Tangled. Electric.
I dabbed gently at the wound. He hissed once... barely, but enough to tell me I'd surprised him.
His hand shot out, gripping my wrist.
I met his gaze head-on.
"Do you know why I chose you?" he asked.
"Because your brothers liked mocking me?"
"No." His thumb traced the thudding pulse in my wrist. "Because out of every prisoner… you're the only one who didn't cry."
"I don't cry for monsters," I said.
His jaw flexed.
Then he released my wrist abruptly, stepping back.
"Enough. We're done."
The guard reappeared, grabbing my arm.
"Take her to the lower levels," Leon ordered without looking at me. "She'll sleep there."
The lower levels?
I thought the dungeons were the lowest part of the fortress.
But the guard didn't take me back toward the dungeons. He led me down a narrow passage, deeper into a part of the fortress I hadn't seen before.
The torches grew fewer.
The air grew colder.
The stones felt older.
My heartbeat quickened.
"This isn't the servant quarters," I said quietly.
He didn't answer.
We reached a narrow iron door. The guard unlocked it, shoved me inside, and slammed it behind me.
The room was small. Bare. Only a thin cot pushed into the corner and a single candle flickering on a shelf. No windows. No air movement. No sound except my own breath.
This wasn't a resting place.
This was a warning.
A cage.
A reminder that I was trapped under the roof of a monster who didn't yet know the full danger of the woman he'd taken.
I sank onto the cot, muscles shaking from hours of scrubbing, chains, and fighting to stay upright. The metal door rattled once… then silence swallowed the room whole.
Leon wanted to break me.
His brothers wanted to destroy me.
Clara wanted to erase me.
And none of them knew who I truly was.
I exhaled slow.
Fine.
If they wanted war…
I would give them hell.