Chapter 13
Sylas
The servant who’d brought the tray had the good sense to keep his eyes lowered.
Growling, Sylas took the food, claws curling around handles carved from polished bone.
The spread was excessive—roasted meats sliced thin, soft bread still steaming from the ovens, dried fruits and honeyed nuts and three different kinds of broth in ceramic vessels designed to retain heat.
More than one human could possibly consume in a single sitting.
He didn’t care. He’d ordered variety because he didn’t know what she would eat. What her body needed. What her fragile human system could process after days of neglect.
Days. She’d been neglecting herself for days, and he hadn’t noticed.
The thought burned through him like corrupted Moon Tear energy, leaving ash and fury in its wake.
Unacceptable.
The door sealed behind him as he carried the tray back into his chambers.
Morning light streamed through the narrow windows now, painting his den in shades of amber and gold.
His nest of furs looked smaller somehow with her sitting in the middle of it—this tiny human female who’d somehow become the axis around which his entire existence had begun to rotate.
She watched him approach with those winter-sky eyes, her expression guarded. Wary. The defiance hadn’t left her face entirely, but something else lurked beneath it now. Something that had surfaced when he’d called her mate and hadn’t quite retreated.
Good. Let her think about that. Let her understand what she was becoming to him, whether either of them had planned it or not.
The beast in his chest settled into something warm and steady as he moved toward the bed. She was here. She was his. The rest was details.
Now he just needed to provide.
Sylas set the tray on the low table near the fire pit, then turned back to her. She’d pulled one of the furs around her shoulders like armor, her golden hair wild around her face, her slim fingers clutching the edges of the pelt as if it might protect her from what came next.
It wouldn’t. Nothing would. He was going to feed her and care for her and ensure she never forgot another meal as long as she lived in his fortress, and she was going to accept it whether her stubborn human pride liked it or not.
“Come here.”
Her chin lifted. “I can eat at the table.”
“You can.” He settled onto the cushions near the fire pit, arranging himself with deliberate casualness. The flames cast dancing shadows across his fur, warming the perpetual chill that came with channeling too much Moon Tear energy. “You won’t.”
“Sylas—”
“Come. Here.”
The command resonated through the chamber, carrying the weight of the Alpha’s voice he rarely used on her. Her eyes widened—surprise rather than fear—and something in him ached at the distinction. She should fear him. Everyone else did.
But she rose from the nest instead, the fur sliding from her shoulders, her bare feet silent against the stone as she crossed to where he waited.
Brave little human. Foolish, stubborn, starving little human who didn’t know how to let anyone take care of her.
He would teach her.
Sylas caught her wrist before she could settle at a safe distance, pulling her down beside him.
Not across from him. Beside. Close enough that her thigh pressed against his, that her scent washed over him in waves of Frosted Tears and sleep-warmth and something underneath that made his pulse quicken.
“This isn’t necessary,” she said, but her voice lacked conviction.
“It is.” He reached for the tray, selecting a slice of roasted meat—tender, seasoned with herbs the kitchens kept specifically for preparing human-suitable food. Ryxin’s pet had been helpful in determining what their species could digest. “Open.”
Her jaw tightened. “I can feed myself.”
“You can.” He held the meat steady, inches from her lips. Didn’t withdraw. Didn’t waver. “You won’t.”
Those blue eyes searched his face, looking for—what? Mockery? Cruelty? Some sign that this was a game designed to humiliate rather than nurture?
She wouldn’t find it. This wasn’t about control, no matter how it might appear. This was about ensuring she survived. About watching every bite enter her mouth and every swallow move down her throat, because apparently she couldn’t be trusted to manage such basic functions on her own.
This was about the beast in his chest, which had been pacing with agitation since the moment her stomach growled and wouldn’t settle until it saw her fed. Properly fed. By his hand.
“You’re being ridiculous,” she muttered.
“I’m being thorough.” He pressed the meat against her lower lip, feeling her breath catch. “Eat, Elsa. Don’t make me force it down your throat.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“I would.” He held her gaze, letting her see the truth of it. “I’ve carried you through snowstorms and bathed you when you couldn’t stand and held you through the night when neural damage could have stopped your heart. You think I’d hesitate to ensure you’re nourished?”
Something flickered in her expression. Surprise. Maybe something warmer.
She opened her mouth.
The meat disappeared between her lips, and Sylas watched her chew with an attention he usually reserved for battle tactics and political maneuvering. Her jaw worked. Her throat moved. The bite went down.
The beast purred.
“Again.” He selected another piece, this one smaller. Easier. “You’ll eat until I’m satisfied you’ve had enough.”
“And when will that be?”
“When you stop looking like a strong wind could snap you in half.”
She made a sound that might have been a laugh, muffled by the next bite he pressed to her lips. But she ate. Piece by piece, bite by bite, she ate what he offered with decreasing resistance and increasing acceptance.
This was what she needed. Care. Attention. Someone who noticed when she forgot herself in favor of survival mode, who forced sustenance past her defenses when her own instincts failed her.
Someone who saw her.
The intimacy of it settled something feral in his chest—something that had been prowling since he’d first caught her scent in his throne room and recognized it for what it was.
Frosted Tears. The rarest fragrance on his world.
The scent that meant mate to any Yzefrxyl male with functioning instincts.
He’d tried to ignore it. Tried to categorize her as an asset, a political tool, a bed-warmer to satisfy the court’s expectations. But the beast had known from the start what she was, and the beast was done pretending.
Mine. Fed. Safe.
The words resonated through him like a prayer.
She ate the bread he tore into pieces for her.
Drank the broth he held to her lips, tilting the vessel with careful precision so she could swallow without choking.
Accepted the dried fruit he pressed between her teeth one piece at a time, her eyes never leaving his face as she consumed what he provided.
By the time she turned her head away—”Enough, I can’t”—her cheeks had color in them again. The gray pallor that had alarmed him earlier had faded, replaced by something healthier. Warmer.
“You’ll eat more later.”
“I know.” The words came out resigned. “You’ll make sure of it.”
“Yes.” He set aside the tray, satisfied for now. “I will.”
She leaned back against the cushions, her body language loose in a way it hadn’t been since he’d carried her into this chamber the night before.
Full belly, warm fire, safety she couldn’t quite admit she felt.
The combination was working on her like sedative, softening the sharp edges of her vigilance.
But they weren’t done yet.
Sylas rose, moving toward the communication panel. A few quick commands summoned what he needed—not from the kitchens this time, but from the seamstresses who maintained the royal wardrobes.
“What are you doing?”
“You need proper clothing.” He turned back to study her, cataloguing the thin sleeping shift that had been acceptable for rest but was entirely inadequate for anything else. “Those rags you’ve been wearing won’t do.”
“They’re not rags. They’re practical.”
“They’re beneath you.” The words came out sharper than intended. “You’re the Alpha King’s—” He stopped. Considered. Chose carefully. “You’re mine. My pet. You’ll dress accordingly.”
Her eyes narrowed, but she didn’t argue. Progress.
The clothing arrived quickly—the staff had learned that delays where his pet was concerned resulted in consequences no one wanted to face. Sylas dismissed the servant at the door and carried the garments to where Elsa sat, spreading them across the furs for her inspection.
Not the simple shifts she’d been wearing.
Proper garments. Yzefrxyl finery in his colors—deep blue and silver, the shades of the Alpha King’s house, woven from fabrics soft enough for human skin but sturdy enough to provide warmth.
A fitted tunic with intricate embroidery along the collar.
Leggings that would hug her legs without restricting movement.
A cloak lined with fur from his own reserves, marked with his sigil in silver thread.
She stared at the spread with an expression he couldn’t read. “These are...”
“Mine.” He crouched beside her, claws tracing the edge of the tunic. “My colors. My marks. When you wear them, every Yzefrxyl who sees you will know whose protection you’re under.”
“Whose property I am, you mean.”
“If that’s how you need to frame it.” He met her eyes, held them. “I prefer ‘whose care.’ But the result is the same.”
She was quiet for a long moment. Then, slowly, she reached for the tunic. Her fingers brushed the fabric, testing its quality, and something in her expression softened.
“I’ll need help with the fastenings.” The admission cost her. He could hear it in the strain of her voice, see it in the tension of her shoulders. “I don’t know how Yzefrxyl clothing works.”
The beast rumbled with satisfaction.
“Of course.” He reached for the hem of her sleeping shift. “Lift your arms.”