Chapter 18 #2
Like they were partners. Like they were in this together. Like her survival and his were somehow intertwined in ways that went beyond ownership and property and the political games that had defined his existence.
His muzzle pressed harder against her palm, and a sound escaped him—not quite a whimper, not quite a growl. Something in between that he didn’t have a name for.
“The gown.” His voice had gone thick. “It smells like them. The court. The ceremony. Xar.”
Her fingers tensed against his fur. “What?”
“I need—” He couldn’t finish. Couldn’t articulate the desperate need that drove him to tug at the gray silk, claws catching on expensive fabric with a sound that should have been alarming. “Their scent is on you. I need to—”
“Sylas.”
“Please.”
The word cost him everything. Alpha Kings didn’t beg. Didn’t ask. Certainly didn’t plead with their pets for permission to do what every instinct demanded.
But she wasn’t just his pet anymore. Something had shifted during her test—something fundamental that he couldn’t define and didn’t want to examine too closely. She was more now. More than property. More than asset. More than a scent that kept him sane.
She was his in ways that went beyond claiming her his property.
And he needed her to say yes.
Elsa held his gaze for a long moment. Those blue eyes searched his face, reading things he’d spent years learning to hide. Then, slowly, deliberately, she nodded.
“Okay.”
The relief that flooded through him was almost painful. His claws made quick work of the gown—careful despite his desperation, cutting away fabric without touching the skin beneath. The silk fell away in pieces, baring her to the warm air of his chambers.
She shivered.
His tongue found her shoulder before the tremor had finished, dragging a long stripe across skin that tasted like fear and adrenaline and something sweeter beneath.
The court’s stench began to fade with each pass—Xar’s challenge, Vask’s ambition, the hundreds of watching eyes that had witnessed her test—replaced by his own scent. His saliva. His claim.
Mine. Cleansing what’s mine. Making her smell like us.
The beast purred its approval.
Elsa’s breath caught as his tongue moved lower, tracing the curve of her ribs.
Not sexual—not exactly—but intimate in ways that went beyond anything he’d done with the casual partners who’d warmed his bed over the years.
This was about ownership and care and the primal need to erase every trace of anything that wasn’t them.
“Sylas.” Her voice came out strangled. “What are you—”
“Cleaning you.” He dragged his tongue across the valley between her breasts, and her whole body arched beneath him. “They touched you. Their eyes, their attention, their judgment. I can taste it on your skin.”
She made a sound—half laugh, half sob—that he felt more than heard. “That’s not how touch works.”
“It is for me.”
His muzzle moved to her stomach, and she went rigid. Not from fear—he could read her well enough now to know the difference. From sensation. From the intimacy of what he was doing, the complete surrender it required.
She was letting him. Despite everything. Despite the terror she must feel, the uncertainty of what came next, the vulnerability of lying bare beneath a creature who could end her life with a single swipe of his claws.
She was letting him.
Trust. She trusts us.
The realization made something crack open in his chest. Something that had been locked away since long before she’d crashed into his life. Something that felt dangerously close to the bond his people spoke of—the connection between mates that went beyond political alliance or breeding convenience.
He’d never wanted it. Never sought it. Had convinced himself that an Alpha King couldn’t afford such weakness.
But she’d given it to him anyway. Without asking. Without understanding what it meant.
His tongue traced patterns across her hip, and she whimpered—a small, broken sound that made his beast want to roar with satisfaction. Not from power or dominance, but from the simple pleasure of making her feel good. Of caring for her in ways words couldn’t express.
“The ceremony.” He spoke against her skin, lips brushing the delicate curve of her waist. “You purified a contaminated core. That shouldn’t be possible.”
“I know.”
“How did you do it?”
“I don’t know.” Her fingers found his fur again, threading through the thick strands along his shoulder. The sensation sent sparks racing down his spine. “I just...refused to let it win.”
Refused.
As if fighting Moon Tear corruption was a matter of willpower. As if the madness that had claimed countless males over generations could be defeated by simple human stubbornness.
And yet she had.
His tongue moved to her thigh, and she gasped—a sharp intake of breath that made his beast preen. The skin here was softer, more sensitive. He could feel her pulse jumping beneath the surface, rapid and uncertain.
“You saved me.” The words came out muffled against her flesh. “In the ceremony. When I started to lose control.”
“I called your name.”
“You anchored me.” He pressed his muzzle harder against her leg, breathing her in. “The beast wanted Xar’s blood. Wanted to tear him apart in front of everyone. But you called me back.”
She was quiet for a moment. “Is that why you brought me here? To reward me for being useful?”
The bitterness in her voice made him lift his head. His eyes found hers—still glowing, he knew, still showing the feral edge that hadn’t quite faded—and something twisted in his chest at what he saw there.
Fear. Not of him. Of what this meant. What they were becoming.
“I brought you here because I need you.” The admission cost him everything. Every wall. Every defense. Every careful pretense of control. “I need your scent and your presence and the way you make the madness quiet. I need you close enough to touch when the energy gets too loud. I need—”
He stopped. Swallowed. Forced himself to finish.
“I need you, Elsa. Not your usefulness. Not your scent. You.”
Her eyes went wide. Glistening with something that might have been tears.
“You’re my captor.” The words came out cracked. “You collared me. Leashed me. Paraded me in front of your court like property.”
“Yes.”
“You keep me prisoner because I happen to smell like something sacred to your people.”
“Yes.”
“And now you’re telling me you need me?”
“Yes.” He lowered his head, pressing his muzzle to her stomach again. Breathing her in. “I know what I am. What I’ve done. What this makes me.”
Monster. Captor. The creature from her nightmares.
“But I can’t let you go.” The confession scraped out of him, raw and ugly. “I can’t. The beast won’t allow it. The bond won’t allow it. And even without those—” His claws flexed against the furs beside her. “Even without those, I don’t think I could survive losing you now.”
Silence.
She didn’t push him away. Didn’t scream. Didn’t do any of the things a sane human should do when a monster confessed his obsession.
Instead, something shifted in her scent.
Subtle at first—a warming beneath the Frosted Tears sweetness, a deepening that made his beast go absolutely still. Then stronger, richer, blooming from between her thighs with an intensity that hit him like a physical blow.
Arousal.
His muzzle lifted from her stomach, nostrils flaring as he chased that new thread of scent. She was responding to him. Not with fear or resignation or the practical acceptance she’d shown before. With want.
“Elsa.” Her name came out fractured. A warning. A plea.
Her fingers tightened in his fur, and she didn’t answer with words. Instead, her thighs parted—just slightly, just enough—and the full force of her arousal crashed through his senses like a wave.
Sweet. Heady. Divine.
The beast didn’t ask permission.
His muzzle pressed between her legs before conscious thought caught up, and the first drag of his tongue through her slick folds made them both shudder.
She tasted like nothing he’d ever experienced—salt and musk and that impossible Frosted Tears sweetness, concentrated here where her body had opened for him.
A sound escaped her. Not quite a moan. Not quite a sob. Something between that made his beast howl with satisfaction.
He licked again. Slow. Deliberate. Learning the landscape of her pleasure with the same attention he’d given to cleansing her skin. She was so small here, so delicate, but she responded to each pass of his tongue with shivers that vibrated through her entire frame.
Mine. This is mine. She’s giving this to me.
The third lick made her back arch off the furs. The fourth drew a whimper from her throat that he felt in his bones. By the fifth, her thighs had fallen completely open, and her hips had started moving—tiny, desperate rolls that chased his tongue with an urgency that matched his own need.
He could feel her pulse against his lips. Could taste the way her pleasure built with each stroke. Could scent the moment her body tipped from uncertain to hungry.
Her fingers found his head.
Not pushing away. Pulling closer.
She fisted his fur with a grip that bordered on painful, and the sound that escaped her was nothing like the composed navigator who’d demanded answers and negotiated terms. This was raw. Broken. Real.
“More.” The word came out strangled, desperate, a plea torn from somewhere deeper than pride. “Sylas, please—”