The Scorned Luna-Chapter 71: The Stakes
Damien’s finger moved inside her, but the heat he expected to find began to vanish. Usually, her body betrayed her with moisture, but now, she was turning cold. Her arching back went limp, and her eyes, once filled with a mix of fear and fire, became dull. She was no longer fighting him; she was simply waiting for him to finish.
The sudden dryness of her body was like a slap to his face. It told him louder than words that she was no longer there with him; her spirit had checked out. Damien pulled his finger out abruptly. He didn’t say a word. He couldn’t even look at her as he turned on his heel and walked out of the small room.
When he reached his own suite, he slammed the door and paced like a caged animal. He was angry—furious—but he didn’t know why. Was he mad that she didn’t want him, or was he mad that he couldn’t stop thinking about her? He looked at his hand, still feeling the ghost of her skin, and cursed under his breath.
As the sun set, the great festival began. The courtyard was lit with huge fires, and the smell of roasting meat filled the air. Damien sat on his high, throne-like chair. To his left sat his uncle Alaric, and nearby were his parents. Music played and people danced, but Damien’s eyes were searching the crowd. That’s when he saw her.
Sofia was moving through the tables, serving drinks. She wore the standard grey maid’s uniform, but the fabric was tight. It hugged her curvy waist and showed the shape of her thick thighs and heavy breasts. She looked exhausted, her eyes kept low, but she was still the most beautiful woman in the yard. Damien watched as other men—warriors and visitors—let their eyes linger on her body. He felt a growl building in his throat. Every time a man looked at her for too long, Damien wanted to tear his throat out.
"It is time," Alaric said, standing up.
The crowd cheered. The opening event of the festival was a combat competition between the Alpha and the guest of honor. Traditionally, both fighters had to place a "stake"—a bet on who would win.
Damien stood up, his eyes flashing. "If I win, Uncle, you will give me that stretch of land you own at the northern border."
Alaric smiled. It was a rich piece of land, but to him, it was a small thing. He leaned back, his green eyes drifting across the crowd until they landed on Sofia. She was holding a tray of wine, looking small and fragile in the distance. Alaric decided to test his nephew; he wanted to see just how much Damien was lying to himself.
"And if I win," Alaric said, his voice carrying over the music, "I want something of yours."
Damien narrowed his eyes. "Name it."
Alaric pointed a finger toward the serving girl. "If I win, I will cut off the head of your slave, Sofia. Since you say she is a murderer and a burden, I’m sure you won’t mind losing her."
The music stopped. The air became deathly still. Sofia froze where she stood, the wine tray trembling in her hands as she looked up in horror. Damien’s heart skipped a beat. The thought of Sofia’s head being severed made his blood run cold. He looked at Alaric, trying to see if he was joking, but his uncle’s face was like stone.
Damien wanted to shout "No!" but the words died in his throat. Around them, the crowd began to roar, the warriors pounding their fists on the tables, excited by the high stakes. They hated Sofia, and the idea of her execution felt like justice to them.
Sofia’s face drained of all color. The wine tray slipped from her fingers, clattering loudly on the stone floor as red wine pooled around her feet like blood. Her eyes met Damien’s, wide with a raw, paralyzing fear.
Alaric leaned in, a sharp, teasing glint in his eyes. "Change your mind, Damien? Are you afraid to lose your little toy? Or are you afraid your uncle is still the better warrior?"
Damien was terrified. He knew Alaric was faster, stronger, and far more experienced. If he agreed to this, he was putting Sofia’s life on a razor’s edge. But to back down now, in front of his parents and his entire pack, would be a sign of ultimate weakness. He looked back at Sofia, seeing her tremble, and a primal, protective fire ignited in his chest. He realized then that he couldn’t let her die. He had to win.
"Deal," Damien growled.
The fight began with an explosion of violence. Alaric fought like a beast unleashed, his movements a blur of lethal precision. He didn’t hold back, forcing Damien to use every ounce of strength in his body. The air was filled with the sound of heavy breathing and the thud of bone hitting bone. Everyone could see that this wasn’t just a ceremonial match anymore; this was a war.
Damien’s heart pounded against his ribs. He was bruised and bleeding, but he refused to stay down. As Alaric landed a heavy blow to his gut, Damien pushed a desperate message through their mind-link.
"Uncle, please! Stop this! Let me win... Why do you want her dead?"
Alaric responded with a smirk. "Why do you care, Damien? She is a traitor, remember? You told the world she is a murderer. Why keep a snake in your house?"
The fight became even more intense. Damien had never fought like this in his life. He was no longer fighting for land or pride; he was fighting for the woman he claimed to hate. He surged forward, his muscles screaming, his eyes glowing a fierce, golden yellow.
Sofia stood by the pillars, her legs shaking so hard she could barely remain upright. Her mind was a chaotic mess. Alaric—the man who had kissed her so tenderly and worshipped her—was now fighting with everything he had to take her life. And Damien—the man who had made her life a living hell—was the only thing standing between her and the grave.
The tension became too much to bear. The flickering firelight, the roaring crowd, and the sight of Alaric’s blade coming inches from Damien’s throat sent a wave of dizziness over her. Her vision blurred, her knees finally gave out, and she fainted, her body hitting the cold ground as the world went black.
The thud of Sofia’s body hitting the stone floor echoed louder than the clash of steel in Damien’s ears. For a split second, both Alaric and Damien froze. Damien’s heart stopped, his gaze snapping to the fallen girl. In that moment of distraction, Alaric’s blade was at Damien’s throat, the cold steel biting into his skin.
"She’s gone, Damien," Alaric whispered, his voice dark and challenging. "I’ve won. Her life is mine."
"No!" Damien roared, a sound of pure agony that shook the very foundations of the courtyard.
He didn’t care about the blade at his neck. He didn’t care about the land, the title, or the pack watching him. He shoved Alaric’s sword away with his bare, bleeding hand and sprinted toward Sofia. He slid on his knees through the spilled wine, reaching her before anyone else could move.
"Sofia! Sofia, wake up!" he gasped, his voice cracking. He gathered her into his arms, pulling her curvy body against his chest. Her head fell back against his shoulder, her skin deathly pale. He pressed his face into her neck, searching frantically for a pulse. When he felt the faint, steady thud of her heart, he let out a sob of pure relief—a sound so raw it silenced the entire pack.
Alaric walked over slowly, his sword now sheathed. He looked down at the pair—at his nephew, the "heartless" Alpha, who was currently cradling his slave as if she were the most precious jewel in the world. Alaric’s emerald eyes softened, a small, knowing smirk playing on his lips.
"It seems the bet is over," Alaric announced to the stunned crowd.
Damien looked up at his uncle, his eyes glowing with a protective ferocity that would have made a rogue wolf tremble. "You won’t touch her. You’ll have to kill me first."
"I don’t need to kill you, Damien," Alaric said calmly, crossing his arms over his broad, tattooed chest. "I already got what I wanted. I wanted to see if you would fight for her. I wanted to see if you actually had a heart left in that ribcage."
Damien’s parents stood up from their seats, looking confused and angry. "Damien! What is the meaning of this? She is a servant—a criminal!" his father barked.
Damien didn’t even look at them. He stood up, lifting Sofia’s heavy, limp body into his arms as if she weighed nothing. He held her close, his fingers digging into the fabric of her uniform over her thick thighs.
"She is mine," Damien said, his voice echoing with the authority of an Alpha. "And from this moment on, if anyone—anyone—speaks of her death or touches a hair on her head, they answer to me."
He turned and walked away from the festival, carrying Sofia back toward the packhouse. He didn’t go to her small, cramped servant’s room. He walked straight to the Alpha’s suite.
