The Lycan's Desire

Episode 004

Althea stood still, her nerves throbbing with blood. The warm breath of the King touched her neck, his hand crept up to the collar of her body, and was possessive and unyielding. Her stomach was knotted up.

She wanted to pull away. The burning of her body was out of place, foreign, and dangerous. She had listened to the stories, breathed them in terror--of ruts, of those intervals when the domination of a Lycan broke absolutely, under the urge of primitive necessity. However noble and refined it was, nobody was able to resist.

There was a smell about her which appeared to have intoxicated him. The tip of his nose touched the crook of her neck, and he breathed in with a groan that shook his chest. It was deep, throaty, and nearly contented. The heartbeat of Althea struck wildly in her ears.

"Take your clothes off. Get on the bed. All fours." Rough, commanding, and making her insides tight with tension, his voice was.

P... please...he heard a growl in response, low and warning, and it shuddered her despite herself.

Her legs were feeble, and she was shaking on her feet as she withdrew. She felt the memory of his golden-red eyes flashing into her mind, and could not help stumbling forward. She touched the straps of her dress and pulled them down, very slowly, her fingers shaky. The cloth had gathered round her feet and left her naked.

She got on the bed, heart racing, and opened up her legs. She waited with a bitter sigh and her back arched.

The bed moved under her mass. He was there. She might sense the strength in him; his presence is too strong, and her body tightened automatically. She was sweating, which attested to her fear and the tension growing in the room.

He pressed his hands to her thighs and pulled them apart, increasing their size. In the faint light, Althea saw him. It was rippled with the twitching of muscle beneath tight flesh. Raw strength. Frightening and awe-inspiring, both together. He was lost in the rut. Completely.

The hands dropped off and hit her thighs, and then she was tied behind. He flattened her chest on the mattress. It was a pained part of her back, and yet it was more than that; it was anticipation, dread, and something beyond her knowledge.

She could feel the top of him rubbing against her folds. Her eyes were likewise opened, and a sharp breath came out of her lips. He was enormous. Her body went rigid.

And before she could move, he had entered her, and a scream tore out of her throat. She attempted to push herself away, but his hold was too strong, and her hands were caught under him.

With a growl, he drew his and threw it in with even greater force. In the vastness of the room, the scream of Althea was lost, and her face was smothered in the sheets. She felt horrified and agonized in rough sweeps.

"Stop, it hurts!" she cried, voice raw.

His fist gripped her hips, and he put himself in her, again, again, again. Her head swiveled, and she felt pain all through the nerves, and the tears gathered and fell, streaming down her face. She was also betrayed by Kael and those who had planned this, and this only increased her anger. She would not break. Not here. Not now. Until all of them paid.

He pulled away and then pushed in, full and filling. Suffering and heat came together on a perplexing rush. Her mind was protesting, but her body responded. Something alien and undesired is aroused within her.

Althea's mind reeled. Her body had failed her, responding in the opposite of what she was afraid of. Her heat. Even when she did not want it, it had started.

Then he reached out, catching hold of her hair and pulling her a little, his nose pressed against the side of her neck. The hand that had pinned her wrists now pressed against her throat as he went on, steady and ruthless.

They were so intense and heavy that the bed cried out. The breaths of Althea ran like sharp, ragged gasps, each a struggle against the surges of feeling that rushed past her. She would scream, she would drive him away, she would push this away. But he grasped her round the waist, and she could not resist.

Meanwhile, far away in another section of the palace, Selene walked into another room. She was greeted by the warm air of the hall, which was decorated with golden candelabras flashing in the light. Her gaze settled upon Lady Vera, standing by the big window looking over the kingdom.

Vera was wearing velvet, expensive and thick, and covered with designs that conveyed prestige and authority. Her pose was dominating, every centimetre the Luna that she was destined to be.

Your Highness," said Selene, bowing meekly and speaking in a respectful and measured voice.

Vera walked away with a face that could not be read. "Has my Darling's rut begun?"

"Yes, Your Highness," replied Selene, still keeping her head down.

Vera had dark, impatient, pained eyes. It was no secret that King Rafael was a rut; she had seen it with her own eyes. In contrast to her sort, the Lycans lost themselves when they waited too long to get their mate. They became free, primitive ancient people like him.

Hundreds of years of trying to find an appointed fit had reduced him to insanity. His rut was a killer, something that could not be controlled and something that had to be satisfied. Though he had selected Vera as his future Luna, he had still not decided to do away with her. She seethed at her exclusion.

"And the other slaves?" Vera questioned, and then there was a low murmur of inquiry.

"They are prepared, my lady. But the most vigorous will fail. Every full moon, he has to sink deeper into his rut," Selene replied.

Vera touched the cold stone of the window ledge with her fingers. Month after month, she had been bound to Rafael, but she had not been taken possession of yet. It was she herself who wanted to ride him, to put the tiger within him into placid submission, and she waited.

With a dangerous satisfaction, every scream that resounded in the castle was of enslaved people who had replaced her. Their suffering would serve as a poignant reminder of her value in Rafael's life.

She opened the window and approached the massive doors leading to the King's chamber in a slow, deliberate manner. She felt her heart beating with anxiety that each step would lead her to the centre of confusion and passion.

But as she got closer, her chest tightened. She did not hear the sounds that were generated inside. Nor were there any wailings of opposition, no grieved shouts of submission.

This time, the sounds were different. Urgent. Hungry. Wanting more.

Her pulse quickened. Just outside the chamber, she stood still with caution. Something had gone wrong — or everything was going to change.

Her hand against the door caught her breath as she listened.

The enslaved person within was screaming, not in pain. There was an oddness of despair and of desire in the voice. Something was alarming in the rhythm of it, intimate, and the skin on Vera prickled with it.

Was this... acceptable? Was this possible?

Her eyes darted upwards, to the ceiling, to some direction, seeking some explanation. Nothing came.

The noises were insistent, intermittent, and could not be ignored.

And then the question struck her like a tempest, whether the rut of the King had absorbed his moderation, and what it implied to her when he at length turned to her?

Vera's eyes widened. Her chest pounded against her ribs.

Would she live the day her King had decided to take possession of what had already been vowed?