CHAPTER 004
1202 Words
CHAPTER 004
Charlotte stood motionless, her heart jumping in her chest, Elon breathing on her neck. His finger followed her, caressing her flesh like a brand she could not get rid of.
She hated it. She disliked the heat crawling through her body and how it tingled her skin. Her mind screamed warnings. She had heard of ruts—the mad, uncontrollable passion that could devour even the most self-restrained.
Elon moved nearer, crouching his nose into the bend of her neck. He drew a long breath, groaning with contentment, as though her smell was intoxicating.
“Take your clothes off. Get on the bed. "Down on your hands and knees," he said, with a voice hard and commanding. Charlotte’s stomach twisted.
P."...please," she said in a broken voice, nearly pleading. He growled warningly, a low angry growl, which caused her to shrink.
She had no choice. With weak legs, she fell back a few steps. She could not forget his golden-red eyes, and her knees buckled.
Her shaking fingers touched the fastening of her dress. Slowly, painfully, she slackened it. The cloth dropped to the floor, and she was exposed.
She had the bed to their knees, bending the back. A bitter sigh left her lips. This was her life now.
The bed moved under her, and she knew that Elon had come to her side. Her whimpers were mingled with the dull sound of the sweat streaming down her body. She attempted to brace herself, attempted to brace her mind for what was to come, but failed with every second.
It was her first day as a member of the Ravenwood Pack, which was supposed to be today. Rather, she was here, at the mercy of Elon, in the toils of a strong rut.
His big hands touched her thighs, separating them and raising them a little. Charlotte’s breath caught. His muscles twisted and worked with fearful power under the dim light. He was great, savage, and perilous.
His hands were off her thighs and on her hands, and he pinned them behind her back and pushed her chest into the bed. Her back was sore with the impact; her body was strained and prepared.
She could feel him against her thigh—hard, firm, insistent. Her eyes widened in shock. He was bigger than she had thought.
Suddenly, he moved. Pain shot through her body. She cried out and endeavoured to draw away, but his hold was too strong.
With a growl of lowness, he stirred once more, rough and implacable. The place brimmed with Charlotte screaming under the heap of sheets. She was afraid to be swallowed by her fear.
“Stop! It is painful! she said, with a collapsing voice.
His pace did not slow. Her hands were in his, and he was holding her, dominating her every action. Pain and fear ran in her blood. Her eyes brimmed, and the sweat dribbled off her face.
Hate was burning in her towards all who had betrayed her, towards the turns of fate that had led her here. She would not die like this. And not without causing them all to pay.
He withdrew and struck again, more strongly, more violently. Charlotte took a breath, and her body obeyed her mind in ways that her mind could not understand. Her fear fought with the heat of her body, an ambiguous, unpleasant feeling.
She did not want this. She did not want him. And still her body betrayed her in every shudder, every squeezing hand, and every gentle sigh.
Her thoughts tumbled. This could not be happening. Her thoughts were denial, yet her body responded. She could feel herself getting hot, wetness coming up, a warning she could not resist.
Her hair was caught in Elon’s hand, and he drew her back, and brought her nearer. His breath was hot against her neck. The hand that had grasped her was now on her neck, strong and proprietary. Every movement was conscious, restrained, and savage.
Into the plump room came Selene, and the candle lamp shone on polished gold fittings. Her eyes were upon the Lady Valkyrie, who stood before the large window and peeped downward into the city.
Valkyrie was a powerful and beautiful woman wearing a dark velvet dress with exquisite embroidery on it. Each step was a statement of authority; each look was a statement of authority.
Selene prostrated himself in the presence of your Highness and spoke humbly.
Valkyrie turned her head, face inscrutable. “Has my darling’s rut begun?”
"Yes, Your Highness," said Selene, with head still downcast.
Although she was selected as the Luna, Valkyrie had failed to control Elon in his ruts. There were tales of his insanity in these days, when passion became murderous and animal.
Lycans, in contrast to regular werewolves, were unable to live long without their fated mate. The old ones, such as Elon, were nearly unidentifiable—crazed by the absence of a proper attachment.
His want was primitive and overwhelming; his rut was breaking him after centuries of searching. And still Lady Valkyrie thought she would soon be his Luna, his fiancée, and he had not claimed her yet.
The fingers of Valkyrie touched the cold stone of the window, and she talked to herself. “I should be with him, not them.”
Every scream of the slaves caused her a perverse feeling of relief. Their suffering was a reminder that she was the one who was supposed to soothe his tempers, the one who was selected.
Her heart leapt to the heavy doors of the chambers. The cries made her keener.
But when she approached the doors, she was arrested by confusion. The sounds—those screams—were not of pain. They were hedonistic, desperate, and insistent.
There was something that tightened in her chest. Her eyes widened. The Lycan King had a new victim screaming... to get more.
Valkyrie’s mind raced. How could this be? The slave in front of Elon was not fighting back. She was not pleading. She was… wanting.
Selene stood before the room trembling as the air of the room was filled with wild primal energy.
The mouth of Valkyrie opened, and no words were said. Her scheme, her stand, her power—everything was weak now.
The moan of breathless agony and the gasp of desperation were punctuated by the sound of the bed creaking. Never had she heard anything so loud in the Citadel.
Selene swallowed and made a tentative step. The smell of love and domination was thick, almost suffocating.
Her heart throbbed, and a question tore at her mind: if the slave was screaming because he wanted more and not because he was in pain, then what did Elon intend to do to Charlotte?
Was she ready? Or had destiny put her in the single room whence no one ever came forth unhurt?
And when the door stood in her way, she knew that the answer was yet to be found and that it was dreadful...
Would Charlotte continue to live on the mercies of the King or become another broken sacrifice, at the mercy of a Lycan over whom she has no control?
- Writer
