Chapter 15 #3
“Yes.” Sylas settled onto the edge of the bed, the furs dipping beneath his weight. “Tomorrow, at the evening court. Public demonstration of ownership. The kind of display that leaves no room for questions about my judgment.”
“What kind of display?”
“A collar.” He watched her face, tracking every micro-expression. “Visible proof that you’re claimed. Property. Not a threat to the natural order.”
Her fingers curled into the furs. Tension radiated through her frame—the same defiance he’d seen when she’d refused the bracer, when she’d demanded answers instead of accepting captivity.
But she didn’t refuse. Didn’t argue.
“And tonight?”
The question hung between them.
“Tonight you stay here.” His voice came out rougher than intended. “With me.”
Something flickered behind her eyes—uncertainty, maybe. Or calculation. “Why?”
Because I need you.
The thought surfaced unbidden, and with it came a surge of fury so sharp it made his claws extend.
He needed a human. A fragile, furless creature who couldn’t survive a single night in proper cold without his protection.
The Alpha King of the Yzefrxyl—fifteen years on the throne, three challengers torn apart with his bare claws, the Moon Tear power of Lux herself burning through his veins—and he needed this weak little thing to keep his sanity intact.
It was pathetic. Infuriating.
Wrong.
And he couldn’t stop.
“Lie down.” The command came out harsh.
Elsa’s eyes widened. “What—”
“Lie. Down.”
She obeyed slowly, wariness in every line of her body as she sank back into the furs. He followed her down, crowding her against the nest, his bulk dwarfing her completely. His muzzle pressed into her hair before he could think better of it, dragging a deep breath through his lungs.
Frosted Tears. Sweet. Mine.
“Sylas—”
“Don’t talk.” His paw found her waist, claws catching in the thin fabric of her shift. He pulled her closer, fitting her back against his chest, her small body disappearing into the curve of his. “Just...stay still.”
She went rigid against him. He could feel her heart hammering through her ribs—too fast, too hard, prey-animal terror that should have pleased his beast but instead made him want to snarl.
Not at her.
At himself.
His tongue dragged across her temple before he could stop it. Salt and skin and that maddening scent that wound through his brain and quieted the static of Moon Tear energy. He licked again—behind her ear, along her jaw, the vulnerable curve of her throat where her pulse pounded.
“What are you doing?” Her voice came out strangled.
“I don’t know.” The admission scraped raw. His tongue traced her collarbone, tasting. Claiming. “I don’t—”
He couldn’t finish the sentence. Couldn’t explain the compulsion that drove him to map every inch of her skin with his mouth, to catalogue her flavor, to mark her with his scent until no other male could mistake who she belonged to.
Three days. Three nights in his nest, her presence bleeding into his furs, her warmth seeping into his bones. Three days of the Moon Tear madness retreating to a manageable hum instead of the screaming roar that had plagued him for fifteen years.
Because of her.
Because of this pathetic, breakable human who couldn’t fight off a yearling pup, let alone the creatures that hunted his storm-woods.
“You’re shaking.” Her voice had steadied. Observing now instead of panicking.
He was. Fine tremors running through his frame, muscles locked tight with the effort of not taking. Not dragging her under him and—
No.
Sylas pressed his muzzle harder into her neck, breathing through the need that pulsed beneath his skin. His beast howled for things he couldn’t give it. Things that would break her.
“The energy.” The words came out fractured. “The Moon Tears. They’re quieter when you’re close.”
“I know. You told me.” Her hand lifted—slowly, carefully—and settled against his paw where it gripped her hip. “That’s why you keep me in here.”
“I keep you in here because I’m weak.” The fury bled through, making his grip tighten. Not enough to hurt. Enough to feel her breath catch. “Because the Alpha King of the Yzefrxyl needs a human to keep from going mad.”
“You’re not weak.”
“I am.” Another lick—throat, shoulder, the curve of her ear.
He couldn’t stop. Didn’t want to stop. “Fifteen years of fighting the contamination. Fifteen years of watching it eat at the edges of my mind, wondering which full moon would finally break me. And then you crash into my Holy Land smelling like salvation, and suddenly I can think again.”
His claws flexed against her hip, punctuating the words.
“Do you understand what that means? What you’ve done to me?
” He dragged his tongue along the shell of her ear, felt her shiver.
“I should have thrown you in the pits. Should have let Xar have you, let the priests study you, gotten you as far from me as possible before this dependency became permanent.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because I couldn’t.” The words ripped out of him, ugly with truth. “Because the moment I scented you, my beast decided you were ours, and nothing—not politics, not dignity, not the throne itself—was going to make it let you go.”
She was quiet for a long moment. Her pulse had slowed beneath his tongue—not calm, but no longer panicked. Accepting, maybe. Or just resigned.
“The collar tomorrow,” she said finally. “It’s not just about politics.”
“No.”
“It’s about you needing everyone to know I’m yours. Because you can’t stand the thought of anyone else touching me.”
His growl vibrated through both of them. “Yes.”
“Because I’m the only thing keeping you sane.”
“Yes.” The word came out savage. He pressed her harder into the furs, his body bracketing hers completely. “And I hate it. Hate needing anything this much, hate that it’s you, hate—”
“Hate that I’m human.”
The accuracy of it made him snarl. His teeth found her shoulder—not biting, not breaking skin, just holding. Feeling her pulse thunder against his tongue. Reminding his beast that she was here, she was his, she wasn’t going anywhere.
“I should terrify you.” The words came out muffled against her skin. “You should be fighting. Screaming. Trying to escape.”
“Would it help?”
“No.”
“Then what’s the point?” Her voice held something like dark humor. “I’d rather save my energy for fights I can win.”
He huffed against her shoulder. Not quite a laugh. Closer to despair.
His tongue traced the marks his teeth had left—not blood, just indents in soft skin that would fade by morning. He licked them anyway. Again. Again. Soothing wounds he’d caused because he couldn’t stop himself from causing them.
“You’re going to keep doing that all night, aren’t you.”
“Probably.”
She sighed. Something in her body loosened—not relaxation, exactly, but a release of tension. Adaptation. The same practical acceptance she’d shown from the first moment she’d woken in his fortress.
“The collar,” she said again. “What does it look like?”
“Silver. Thin. It won’t hurt you.”
“But it won’t come off.”
“Not until I remove it.” His paw slid from her hip to her stomach, pressing flat. Holding her against him. “You’ll wear it in public. In private. In my nest, where you’ll stay until I decide otherwise.”
“And if I refuse?”
The question was almost academic. They both knew she wouldn’t. Couldn’t. But he answered anyway.
“Then I collar you anyway, and you learn what happens when pets disobey their masters.”
Her breath caught. Not fear. Something else.
“You won’t refuse,” he added, quieter now. “You’re too smart for that. Too practical. You’ll wear it because it keeps you alive, and you’ll hate me for making you, and you’ll plot escape routes that don’t exist while I lick the taste of rebellion off your skin.”
“You think you know me.”
“I know you survive.” His tongue found her throat again—the pulse point, the vulnerable hollow. “Whatever it takes. Whatever it costs. You bend so you don’t break, and you hate yourself for bending, but you do it anyway.”
She was silent. He’d hit something true, and they both knew it.
“Sleep.” The command came out softer than before. “Tomorrow will be difficult. You’ll need strength to endure it.”
“I’m not tired.”
“Then lie still while I—” He didn’t finish. Didn’t need to. His tongue was already tracing patterns across her skin, mapping territory, claiming what the collar would make undeniable.
She didn’t fight him. Didn’t encourage him either. Just lay there, small and warm and his, while the Alpha King of the Yzefrxyl used her body to keep the madness at bay.
The Moon Tear energy hummed through his veins—present but manageable. A background noise instead of a screaming demand. All because of the human in his arms.
Pathetic, he thought again.
But he didn’t stop.
Hours later, when sleep finally claimed him, his muzzle was still pressed to her throat, his tongue resting against her pulse, his beast purring with a satisfaction that had nothing to do with logic and everything to do with need.
He dreamed of Frosted Tears blooming across frozen fields.
And beneath him, Elsa lay pressed against his chest in the darkness, the taste of a monster’s obsession still drying on her skin.