The Fated Cused

“Pardon me, Sir, but would you… help me? I'm sorry but… I want you to make love to me?” A heavy sigh escaped his lips, sharp with irritation, as he felt a small, delicate hand tugging timidly at his sleeve. ‘What in the world is going on? Why would a woman of the night bother me in a place like this?’ The Howling Wolf was notorious for being a den of shadows, so grim, rough, and disreputable that typically even those who sold their affection for coin avoided its dangerous threshold. The men surrounding him were not there for pleasure; they drank heavily to drown their regrets and wash away their pain, possessing no softness in their hearts and no patience or gentleness to spare for the fairer s*x. The man behind the counter was nothing short of a brute, with a heavy, furrowed brow and a permanent scowl that suggested he was perpetually ready for a fight. In the far corner, a shape-shifter sat muttering to himself, seemingly intoxicated by some potent, otherworldly substance—Cain could only assume it was moon-dust, given how the fellow giggled uncontrollably and snapped his jaws at things that were not there. Near the bar stood a wolf-blood who was clearly a veteran of many battles, missing one ear entirely, while directly opposite him sat a mountain of a man who looked capable of tearing a stranger’s throat out simply for looking at him the wrong way. It was exactly the kind of rough crowd that would terrify even the most experienced and hardened streetwalkers. Determined to be left in peace, Cain chose to ignore the interruption and lifted his tankard for another drink. The ale was as dark and bitter as the establishment’s reputation, famously known around these parts as “Black as Wolf’s Heart.” However, just as the liquid touched his lips, he felt the same insistent tugging once more. That soft, trembling voice spoke again, carrying with it a note of desperation. “Please, mister—I truly need… I need you to take me. To… to make love to me. To claim me…” The final words came out in a choked, breathless sob that he found he simply could not ignore any longer. He spun around on his worn, wooden stool, ready to dismiss her firmly. “Damn it, there is no way I-—” The sentence died instantly in his throat. Standing before him was not a prostitute at all, but something far more unexpected and extraordinary. She was clearly a Witch, and judging by the aura surrounding her and the garments she wore, she was no simple practitioner—she was a Priestess of high standing. It was a striking appearance; the shade of her wild, curly ginger hair was unusual for her kind. She possessed a soft, voluptuous figure with generous curves, wide hips, and full thighs—a stark contrast to the lean, wiry build that most maidens of magic possessed. Yet it was her gaze that told him everything he needed to know. Her eyes were a pale, clear shade of emerald. Among their kind, the hair shifted color only once; at that moment, they lost their innocence. That perfect ginger hair was undeniable proof: she was a virgin. Even without that telltale sign, her clothing gave her away instantly. She wore the pristine white robes dedicated to the Goddess of the Moon, garments worn only by her most devout and powerful followers. It was widely known that priestesses were granted great blessings and special power, but only so long as they remained pure and swore strict oaths of celibacy to earn trust. This left him utterly confused. Why would a Priestess, obviously a virgin and bound to remain one if she wished to keep her standing and her abilities, approach a stranger in such a vile hole and beg to be taken? Perhaps he had misheard her earlier. “What is it you are asking of me?” he demanded, his voice direct and hard. “I told you,” she replied, her voice shaking but resolute. “I want… I need… I am begging you to… to take me.” The words spilled from her trembling lips in a delicate, breathless whisper, and he watched as those luminous emerald eyes glistened suspiciously, swimming with unshed tears she fought desperately to hold back. It was written all over her face; she did not truly crave the act she was begging for, not deep down in her soul—even though Cain found himself acknowledging that if she came to him freely, he would be more than willing to oblige. She was exactly his preference, blessed with soft, abundant curves that filled out her frame beautifully and marked with those adorable freckles that lent her such an air of sweet innocence. “Please, I'm begging you, Sir,” she tried again, her voice shaking but laced with a strange urgency. “Is there no way… cannot you be the one to… to claim me?” A heavy weariness settled deep into his bones, mixed with a lingering, aching sadness that had become his constant shadow. It had been barely a month since his beloved mentor, Leandro, had drawn his final breath, leaving a void that felt impossible to fill. That was the sole reason he was sitting in this wretched den called the Wolf, seeking solitude in a place so rough and forbidding that he had been certain nobody would dare intrude upon his grief. Or at least, he had been certain of it—until this girl had appeared out of the gloom to disturb him. “f**k No! I certainly will not,” he stated bluntly, his voice sharp and clipped as he fixed her with a hard, unyielding glare. She immediately recoiled, under the weight of his fierce expression, clearly intimidated by the storm in his eyes. “Now, get out of here. Do not linger here.” He flicked his hand in a dismissive gesture, fully expecting her to turn and flee as any sensible person would. For a fleeting moment, it seemed she would obey; she lowered her head submissively and began to turn her body away from him. But then, much to his utter astonishment, she spun back to face him, lifting her chin high and meeting his gaze with a sudden flash of defiance that burned like fire in her pale irises. “Tell me,” she challenged him boldly. “Is it… is it merely because I am not fashioned like the willowy girls you are used to?” “What the- That's not it!” he shot back immediately, his brows drawing together in a deep frown of confusion. Did he really have to stand here justifying himself and explaining his motives to a stranger?