TO TAME THE BRUTAL LYCAN BEAST Chapter 8: Serving The Beast

VALORIA WILDEROSE

"She will be serving today."

A wave of nausea hits , and the world around begins to topple over itself.

Suddenly, all eyes shift to —silently and murderous—pressing down on my windpipe and restricting the flow of oxygen.

I wish to disappear into a ball of nothing, to be swallowed whole by the floor beneath my feet, to be set ablaze into a wall of flas—anything but be here right now.

"Did you not hear ?" he speaks again, raising a brow.

I shake out of my trance, forcing air painfully down to my lungs.

I rise from my seat slowly, fighting through the painful stares, taking each step closer to the king, walking up to the very front of the table like a stiff log of wood until I am standing in front of him.

Right in front of the beast that watches with pure amusent. His smile never falters for a mont, beaming with delightfully deranged and sickly enjoynt.

I wondered why , seconds ago, confused as to why out of every one of the stunningly gorgeous won seated around, but the look on his face explains it.

I realize I made the mistake of thinking he had let off the hook for so miraculous reason, though he knows I’m a spy.

No, it was all to make hope for a mont.

The torture begins now.

A cold chill runs down my spine, my breathing turns labored. Every second it takes until I reach him is filled with dread.

"Serve ."

My trembling hands reach for the at first—the juicy, fat-roasted pork.

I grab the serving fork and knife, slicing through the at that now feels like a piece of brick fashioned with superglue and granite.

Sweat beads form on my forehead before I am able to get the ugliest, thinnest piece onto his plate with a loud, clumsy clatter.

The sides follow next, creating a ssy pile I can barely manage on his plate.

Then I move for the wine jug. It takes precision and focus I can barely manage with the constant stares, but by so miracle I pour his glass without spilling a single drop.

Thankful and satisfied, I move to place the wine and plate in front of him, counting my small steps before I can reach him—but then, sothing underneath the table trips all of a sudden, just as I am about to drop it.

My left leg is hooked, and I fall forward with all the food in my hands. The food hits first, dirtying the floor before I fall into it.

The wine crashes last, spilling all over instead of the tiled ground.

Disoriented and confused, my mind rushes to figure out what happened, until my gaze falls on his outstretched foot that had been purposefully set in my way, retracting back to its rightful place.

I et his eyes, slowly shaking like a leaf in the wind, just as he erupts into a dark, dented laugh.

On command, everyone in the room follows suit, echoing him as loudly as possible, mocking .

Their harsh whispers and taunts sink deep into my flesh with every passing mont I remain on my knees, dirtied with food.

"My, my, you’ve made quite the ss, little mouse." He looks down on , grinning wickedly, not done with . "Be a good rodent and clean it up, will you? Eat it."

I remain still and silent, staring down at the pile of food mushed together—delicious, yet filthy. Hot tears gather in my eyes.

"Don’t be shy. It’s probably cleaner than anything you’ve eaten in your life."

He isn’t wrong. It is cleaner than the moldy bread I’m used to eating—much richer and more nutritious.

I tremble with fear, hesitant to do it, but then my face is suddenly pushed down into it without warning. His foot sits on my head, holding down.

"Don’t waste my ti," he growls, hints of annoyance in his voice.

I cry harder, shutting my eyes, hating myself again with every passing mont. Even now, I’m too terrified to do anything. My fear is my shackle once more.

I tell myself that it’s okay, taking the first bite and swallowing without chewing.

I remind myself that I’m fine, and it will soon end—that I just need to keep going, and maybe soon he will get bored and let go.

"Good girl," he praises lowly once most of it is gone, without letting up for air even once. "You missed a spot." He presses down harder instead.

I remind myself again to be patient—that the taunting always ends at so point, just like back ho.

They always got tired, always left alone when the joke eventually ended.

But it never really ends, does it? The joke did, but not their cruelty—not the circle of having to endure it because of fear.

Sothing in snaps, followed by a flicker of light, sothing similar to the sparks I felt on that battlefield yesterday when everything was at stake.

Suddenly, all the fear is gone, and all I feel is anger, disgust—repulsed by his childish oppression, all of it more overbearing than my own fear of death.

"If it’s n-not to your liking, m-maybe you should j-join , your m-m-majesty."

The words slip out of before I can stop them, straight from my bitter heart to my lips, reaching my ears for the first ti.

The room goes deathly silent.