9. Mate
1089 Words
ASHER
I feel her before I see her.
It hits me like a blade to the chest—sharp, unwanted, real.
A pulse, a pull, a goddamn calling.
My Lycan stirs, wild and sudden, snapping awake from its attempted healing phase like a beast that’s been caged too long.
MATE.
The word slams into my skull with a force that makes my hands curl into fists against the arms of my throne. My nails bite into the stone. I taste blood—mine.
No. No, no, no.
She steps into the throne room, dragged by guards like she’s nothing more than a prisoner with a heartbeat. Filthy. Barefoot. Chains cutting into her skin. Skin that's pale. Hair a tangled mess of dark brown waves clinging to her face. When she raises her head, her eyes meet mine. Green even in their dullness, too damn bright. Somehow haunted.
But still, my Lycan howls.
Mate.
I want to tear the word out of my bones.
Because this? This fragile little thing they’ve thrown at my feet? This is what the Moon Goddess gives me?
A joke.
A f*****g insult wrapped in girl-skin and dried blood.
She stumbles forward but doesn't speak. Her knees buckle once before she finds her footing again.
Pathetic.
Weak.
Abnormal.
And yet—
My vampire stirs beneath my skin, hungry and vicious. Not for her body. She's too dirty for that. Not for her soul. Too broken.
But her blood.
It sings.
I can hear it hum beneath her skin, trembling like a dying songbird. Too fragile. Too soft. And yet it calls to me like I’ve been starved of something deeper than hunger.
My Lycan wants to protect her.
My vampire wants to devour her.
And I want to reject her.
I rise slowly, like the fury itself has taken shape in my limbs. My voice is low,
“Leave us.”
The guards hesitate.
Lucas, from his place in the shadows, frowns. “Asher—”
“Now.”
They obey. The doors close behind them with a finality that echoes off the stone walls.
She doesn’t move.
Not even when we’re alone.
Not even when the silence stretches like a noose around her throat. I can hear her heartbeat thudding peacefully, like someone that's already resigned to death.
Can she feel the bond?
I circle her like a predator, eyes dragging over every inch of her—thin wrists, bruised ankles, collarbone sharp like she’s been carved from famine. Her breathing is shallow. Her scent… different. Not quite human. Not quite wolf. Something in between. Something wrong.
And yet…
Mine, my Lycan growls, maddened.
Weak, my vampire sneers.
I grab her chin, forcing her to look up. Her eyes meet mine—and there it is. That thread. That pull. That ancient damn bond thrumming like lightning under my skin.
Her lips part. Not in fear. Not in wonder.
Just exhaustion.
“You?” I whisper, venom-laced. “You’re what the Moon Goddess chose for me?”
She flinches. Barely.
I let her go with a snarl and turn away, pacing like I might explode.
Of all the possible mates in all the realms, the goddess had the audacity to give me this. A dormant. A defective. A powerless, broken creature who can’t even shift.
“This is a mistake,” I growl into the dark. “A sick mistake.”
I slam my fist against the wall. Stone cracks.
She doesn't speak.
She doesn't even plead or cry. That might’ve made it easier. Made her fit the role I’ve already assigned her.
She just stands there, watching silently like she’s waiting for something worse.
I face her again, chest heaving, voice like ice cracking over fire.
“You are not my mate but you know what?” I say as I take slow steps toward her. “You'll be useful.”
I pull out the little dagger in my boot and cut the binds in her ankles and wrists. Not giving her any chance to speak, I take her frail hand in mine and step through the rift, teleporting us away from the throne room.
The air shifts around us as we step through the rift.
One second: cold stone, blood, and the weight of history.
The next: steel, glass, leather, and the faint hum of fluorescent lights.
My office.
Clean and modern.
Unlike the rest of most places in this damned realm still clawing at ancient ways, draped in bloodied tradition and rusted power. The elders refuse to let go of their obsession with rituals and sacred bloodlines, as if we’re still crawling out of caves howling at the moon.
Politics in the Moon Realm are like corpses—they stink, they rot, and they refuse to stay buried.
But this place? My office? My mansion at the outskirts, the manor and everything I've personally built? They are mine.
My rules.
I release her hand and round my dark desk slowly, letting the silence stretch and coil like smoke between us. The rift seals behind her with a soft crackle. She doesn't move. Still barefoot. Still silent. Green eyes fixed on me, unreadable.
Good.
I sink into the black leather chair, never breaking eye contact. The polished surface of the desk reflects her—small, trembling, bruised—and yet still standing.
I hate her for that too.
Maybe I hate everything about her or I just hate this bond between us
I lean back slightly, fingers steepled, voice low.
“Strip.”
Her body goes rigid.
But I don't flinch. I don't repeat myself.
I just watch.
Because this isn’t about lust.
It’s about power.
About peeling back whatever secrets she’s hiding under that filthy dress. I need to see it—her scars, her weakness, her truth. If she’s going to be useful, I need to know what I’m dealing with. I need to control it.
Let the Moon Goddess see how her favorite little joke gets played.
Let fate watch me ruin its chosen.
“Now,” I add sharply.
My wolf protests, snarling and pacing, but I shut him down. He already made his mistake the moment he called her mate. My vampire is joyous.
There’s no room for softness here.
Only strategy.
And survival.
Especially when the thing fate handed me in the name of salvation looks like she’d shatter from a breath.
But I’ll find the cracks myself.
And if I have to break her open to see what she’s hiding inside—
So be it.
- Writer
