But around us, the message is clear. Every warrior who was circling now backs away. The speculation dies. Because I've staked my claim publicly, and my status as the Chieftain's son makes that claim nearly unassailable.
Serah is safe.
And she's never looked at me with such devastating betrayal.
12
SERAH
His wordshurt.
I'm already breeding her.
My vision tunnels. The canyon spins. Every face in the crowd blurs together into a mass of witnesses to my humiliation. Heat floods through me—not desire this time but pure, scorching shame.
He didn't ask. He didn't warn me. He just stripped away every private moment we shared and threw them to the crowd like scraps for dogs.
"What are you doing?" The words scrape out of my throat.
"Protecting you." He says it like that makes this acceptable. Like reducing me to a breeding claim in front of hundreds of warriors somehow keeps me safe. "Serah, I had to?—"
"Don't." I wrench free of his grip, my skin burning where he touched me. "Don't you dare."
I stumble backward. The crowd parts around me—not out of respect but fascination. They're watching me like I'm entertainment. The human who thought she was special. The slave who got above her station and forgot her place.
And Rakk stands there looking stricken, like he's the victim in this.
I can't breathe. The walls of the canyon press in from all sides. Everywhere I turn, orcs stare with open speculation or barely concealed disgust. The female beside Rakk—Kira, that's her name—looks murderous. His father's expression is unreadable but calculating.
No one protests. No one challenges Rakk's claim.
Because of course they don't. He's the Chieftain's son. Future leader of this clan. And I'm just a human he decided to breed.
Special.What a joke. I actually let myself believe I was special to him.
My legs move without conscious direction, carrying me away from the crowd. Away from Rakk and his public ownership. Away from the wreckage of every tender moment that now feels poisoned.
Someone calls my name—Lola's voice, worried and apologetic. I don't stop. I push through the gathered warriors, past the festival preparations, toward the river where everything started unraveling.
Where he first touched me with such careful reverence that I actually believed it meant something.
The night air hits my face like a slap. I make it to the riverbank before my knees give out. I collapse onto the smooth stones where we sat together just last night, where he held me afterward and traced patterns on my skin and whispered words that felt like promises.
You're important to me. This is more than just sex.
But he never saidhowI was important. Never clarified whatthisactually meant to him. I was too afraid to ask, too terrified of wanting more than I was allowed.
Turns out I was right to be afraid. Just for all the wrong reasons.
I press my palms against my eyes, fighting the pressure building behind them. I refuse to cry. I've survived worse than public humiliation. I've endured actual torture. This is just—this is?—
Breeding.
The word loops through my mind like poison. Notmatingin the romantic sense Lola described when talking about her bond with Kaelen. Not evenclaimingwith its implication of possession mixed with protection.
Breeding.Clinical. Functional. Reducing me to reproductive purpose.
Every intimate moment we shared suddenly reframes itself in this ugly new context. The way he always made sure I found pleasure first—was that just investment in his breeding stock? The careful questions about my past, my body, my cycles—gathering information for reproductive planning?
