Chapter 4, Thorne
The Choosing arena was a cavernous beast of stone and steel, capable of holding thousands of shifters, yet tonight it felt suffocatingly small.
Thorne sat in the VIP box, perched on a high-backed velvet chair that felt more like a throne than a seat.
Around him, the other Alpha males of the region were gathered, their silhouettes sharp against the flickering torchlight.
They drank wine, laughed at crude jokes, and postured, each one radiating the scent of aggression and power.
To Thorne, it was all a farce. He had attended these ceremonies for years, always with the same result: a selection of the finest human women, a display of wealth and status, and a night of rutting followed by the inevitable fading of interest.
It was a biological obligation, a ritualistic mating dance that he performed with a yawn.
He checked his watch, the silver face catching the light.
The auction had been dragging on for hours.
On the ground below, the stage was cluttered with women who had already been bid away.
They were being led off to the victors’ quarters, their faces a mix of relief and terror.
Thorne didn’t care. He had already marked his choices for the season, reserving the strongest for his own pack’s needs.
He leaned back, closing his eyes, ready to let the drone of the auctioneer’s voice lull him into a light doze.
Then, the air changed. It wasn’t a sound, though the roar of the crowd grew louder. It was a shift in the atmosphere, a sudden, sharp spike in the ambient energy that pricked at Thorne’s senses. He opened his eyes, his gaze snapping to the edge of the stage where the Doctor was standing.
The bidding had paused. The auctioneer’s gavel hung suspended in mid-air. The Doctor stepped aside, and the last woman was led out. She was small, her frame barely filling the fabric of the white dress, but the moment Thorne saw her, the world narrowed down to a single point of focus.
Her auburn hair spilled over her shoulders like a river of copper, catching the light and glowing with an inner fire.
She stood frozen, her green-gold eyes wide and darting around the massive crowd as if she were a deer caught in headlights.
She looked terrified, her small hands clutching the fabric of her dress until her knuckles turned white.
Thorne felt a jolt of electricity shoot through his veins, straight to his heart.
It was a sensation he had never known before, a primal, possessive force that roared to life within him with the violence of a storm.
His wolf didn’t just wake up; it surged, snapping at the bars of its cage, screaming a command that was deafening in its clarity.
Mine.
It wasn’t a want. It wasn’t a preference.
It was an undeniable, biological imperative.
He needed to claim her. He needed to mark her.
The thought of anyone else touching her, looking at her, or breathing the same air as her made his blood boil.
It was a terrifying, overwhelming urge that eclipsed his need for control, his need for power.
He stood up so suddenly that his chair scraped loudly against the stone floor, but he didn’t care. He had to get closer to her.
But he wasn’t the only one who felt it. From the shadows of the VIP box to his left, a man emerged.
Ronan, Alpha of the Ironclaw pack. He was a massive bear of a man, thick with muscle and scar tissue, his eyes burning with a similar intensity.
He had seen her, too. Ronan’s lips curled back, revealing teeth in a grin that was equal parts hunger and savagery.
He had been waiting for this moment, his eyes scanning the crowd, hunting for the perfect prize.
When he saw her, he knew he had found it.
Ronan stepped forward, his heavy boots thudding on the wooden platform. He looked at Thorne, a challenge flashing in his eyes. Ronan didn’t care about Thornes position or his power. He wanted her, and he was prepared to fight for her.
Thorne glared at him, his grey eyes turning cold and dangerous.
He saw the possessiveness in Ronan’s gaze, the same fire that was burning inside him.
They were rivals, bitter enemies who had fought over territory and resources for years.
But this was different. This was personal.
This was about the claiming of a mate. The Doctor stepped forward, his voice projecting through the arena so that every shifter could hear.
“And finally,” he said, gesturing to the girl with a dismissive wave of his hand.
“The final item. The rarest of them all.”
The crowd murmured, a wave of anticipation rippling through the stands.
They knew what the Doctor meant. The virgin.
The untouched prize. The one woman who would drive the price into the stratosphere.
“Virginity,” the Doctor announced, his voice dripping with glee.
“A clean slate. High fertility potential. The ultimate prize for any Alpha looking to secure his legacy.”
The girl looked down, her cheeks flushing a deep crimson.
She knew what was happening. She was being paraded like livestock and the men in the stands were hungry.
Thorne watched her, his wolf clawing at his skin, demanding he go down there and claim her right then and there. But he was the Alpha. He had to be rational. He had to wait for the auction to begin. He had to make them bid against each other. He had to win.
He locked eyes with Ronan, and for a split second, the two Alphas communicated without words.
A silent duel of dominance and desire. Ronan stepped closer to the stage, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, a clear threat.
Thorne matched him, his hand clenching into a fist at his side.
The auctioneer’s gavel struck the block with a sharp crack.
“Starting bid,” he shouted. “For the virgin of the Miller farm... one million credits!” The bidding war was about to begin. And Thorne knew, with absolute certainty, that he wasn’t just going to win. He was going to take what was his.