Category C

"No…" I say, forcing the single syllable past the thick lump in my throat. "I'm not."

The silence in the cramped interrogation room stretches, thick and suffocating. This single, unavoidable truth has completely derailed my life. It ostracized me from my own pack. Because of that one night, I've been branded with every vile name under the sun—slut, whore, loose, tainted.

All because I went into a sudden heat and slept with a man who was not my fated mate. A night I barely even remember. The memories from that hotel room are nothing but fragmented shadows. Spikes of intense pleasure, a sharp touch of pain. None of it is fully clear, but the consequences ruined my life.

The balding man behind the heavy wooden table doesn't even blink. He looks down at his paperwork and takes another massive, wet bite of his green apple. He scribbles something down with his pen, his greasy eyes never lifting to meet mine.

"You are Category C," the man grunts, dismissing me with a lazy flick of his wrist. "Tell that to the guard at the door." Looking past me, he tilts his head and waves a pudgy hand at the next girl.

Realizing I'm being discarded, I hurry forward, desperate to get away from his leering gaze. I walk back into the line, my chest tight with shame.

At the heavy wooden door leading out, an armed guard steps in my path. "Category?"

"C," I say flatly.

"Stay to the right," he barks, waving me through.

I step through the heavy doors into a completely different environment. It's a massive, wide-open room that looks like a makeshift, chair-less auditorium. The stone floor slopes downward, funneling all attention toward a small stage at the front. Standing on that stage is a heavily muscled man barking orders at guards and workers.

"That's the King's Beta, Jaxon," whispers a pale girl as I walk past.

In this cavernous auditorium, the massive single line has broken into three distinct lines snaking toward the front. I stick to the far right wall and take my designated place in the third line. Category C.

It is painfully, humiliatingly obvious how we are being ranked. It's clear at a single glance that we are the bottom of the barrel, the group deemed least likely to be chosen by the King.

Category A stands on the far left. That line is packed exclusively with flawless, model-like girls. Perfect faces, glossy hair, stunning frames.

Category B, the middle line, is a bit different. The women there are curvier, their bodies softer, or perhaps a bit plainer.

Then there is my line. Category C. Here, none of us can even bear to look each other in the eye. Shoulders are hunched. The air is heavy with the suffocating weight of our sordid pasts. I imagine I'm not the only woman here carrying the ugly shame of a ruined reputation.

It all feels like a cruel joke. I could be with a man who has loved me for years. Instead, I am standing in this freezing underground cavern, being poked, measured, and ranked.

Suddenly, a terrified scream shatters my dark thoughts.

I whip my head around. One of the armed guards has cornered a woman in the Category B line. She is beautiful, with dark tresses of hair and a deeply curvy, voluptuous figure.

"Your measurements can't be right," the guard sneers, his voice dripping with mockery. "I'm going to need to check them for myself."

Without warning, he forcefully grabs her hips, violently yanking her body flush against his heavy armor.

The other girls standing nearby instantly veer away, scattering as far back as they can. They avert their eyes. No one steps forward to help.

The guard's hands roam aggressively. He grabs her ass tightly with one hand, his fingers digging into her flesh, and roughly gropes her breast with his other hand.

"No!" she whimpers, struggling wildly. She pushes against his chest, but the guard is relentless. The harder she fights, the tighter his grip becomes.

"Let me go!" she shouts, tears spilling over her eyelashes.

"Shut up and stand still," he growls. The mocking amusement is gone. Now, he just sounds pissed off.

Hot tears stream down the woman's panicked face as his hands continue to violate her.

I can't stand it. In no universe can I just stand here in silence and watch a woman be assaulted. I don't care that he's an armed guard.

"Stop!" I shout, breaking out of my line and storming forward. "Get your fucking hands off of her!"

A heavy silence drops over our section of the room. Everyone turns to look. Even the grabby guard freezes, turning to gape at me in pure disbelief. The curvy woman looks at me with pleading brown eyes.

"Who the hell do you think you are?" the guard snaps, his face twisting into an ugly scowl. "You have no right to interfere. Get back in your line, Category C trash."

I bite down hard on my bottom lip to hide its nervous shaking. Taking a deep breath, I lift my chin in pure defiance. He's no scarier than Blaire on a bad day.

"I could ask you the exact same question. Who do you think you are?" I demand, projecting more confidence than I actually feel. "That woman is standing in Category B. With a beautiful figure like hers, she is highly likely to be chosen by the King. What exactly gives you the right to taint one of the King's potential women with your filthy hands?"

The guard freezes. The arrogant sneer melts right off his face, leaving his skin a sickly, pale shade of white. He glances around nervously, finally realizing how much unwanted attention his stunt has drawn.

"Shit," he growls under his breath.

He forcefully shoves the curvy woman away. She stumbles backward and falls hard to the stone ground. He turns and storms off into the shadows, casting a violently furious glare in my direction. I match it with an unwavering glare of my own, refusing to back down until he finally breaks eye contact.

Leaving the safety of my spot, I rush over to the fallen woman and gently grab her arms, helping her back to her unsteady feet.

"Thank you…" she whispers through her broken sniffles. "You saved me…"

"What's your name?" I ask softly.

"Nadia…" she replies, her voice shaking.

"Nice to meet you, Nadia. I'm Tessa."

Nadia looks up at me, her wide, doe-like brown eyes brimming with gratitude and terror. Almost immediately, fresh tears spill over her lashes. "Do you really think the King will choose me? I might have been better off with that terrible guard…"

"Don't say that," I tell her firmly.

"But it's true, isn't it?" she cries softly. "Everyone says the King is an old, decrepit man… and that he is brutally rough with his women. They say he hurts them."

Before I can offer her comfort, a sudden, nervous cacophony ripples through the massive room. It starts as a low murmur and quickly swells into a tidal wave of excited, frantic whispers. The heavy atmosphere shifts entirely. All the girls around us suddenly seem thrilled and terrified, their eyes locked onto something happening directly behind me.

Curious, I turn around, following their collective gazes to the heavy double doors at the entrance.

A man has just walked into the room.

My breath catches in my throat. He is incredibly tall, standing head and shoulders above the guards flanked around him. He is remarkably, devastatingly handsome. He has a clean-shaven face and striking, pale blue eyes that seem to pierce right through the dim lighting. Dark, windswept hair curls effortlessly around a face constructed of sharp, masculine angles. High, aristocratic cheekbones. A firm, sturdy chin. His lips are plush, full enough to promise devastatingly soft kisses.

But it's his gaze that truly commands the room. It is cutting, sharp as a blade, and his intensity is downright fierce. He carries himself tall and proud, every movement radiating absolute power. A man who knows that all he has to do is dip his chin, and every soul in this room would blindly follow his command.

"That's the King," one of the girls standing behind us whispers in raw awe.

As she says it, I look closer and notice the intricate details of his clothing. Subtle, gleaming golden threads are meticulously woven through his dark, imposing royal garb. A narrow, elegant golden chain crosses the width of his forehead, resting against his dark hair.

King Roman in the flesh.

Beside me, Nadia lets out a sharp, genuine gasp. I completely understand her reaction. He is certainly not the ancient, decrepit old man I expected.

But as I stare at him, a deep, unsettling unease begins to claw at my mind. There is something else severely bothering me. My pulse quickens, a cold sweat breaking out on the back of my neck.

He almost seems familiar somehow. The shape of his jaw. The broadness of his shoulders. The predatory grace of his stride.

Roman's sharp, calculating glare sweeps slowly across the vast room, assessing the hundreds of women presented to him.

Then, suddenly, his pale blue eyes snag directly on me.

He stops.

The breath is violently punched from my lungs. The entire room seems to blur and spin out of focus, leaving only him in my line of sight.

It can't be.

King Roman's eyes darken, a flicker of recognition flashing across his handsome features. He shifts his weight and starts walking directly toward me.

My body goes completely numb. The floor beneath my feet feels like it's giving way. The fragmented, hazy shadows of my ruined past suddenly, violently align into terrifying clarity. The scent. The sheer size of him. The dominating presence.

I remember exactly how I know him.

Three years ago, in that dimly lit hotel room bed. King Roman was the stranger who pushed my legs apart, shoved his cock inside me, and ruthlessly claimed me.