The Alpha's Contract Mate

Terms of Binding

The flickering candlelight dances across the page, casting each elegantly scribed word in a soft, wavering glow. I lean over the parchment, trying to slow my breathing as I read. The formal language blurs in places, forcing me to blink hard and refocus. But no matter how meticulously I parse the contract, every clause seems designed to trap me in ways I never imagined.

The silence in this candlelit room, some kind of study off the grand corridor, feels absolute, broken only by the occasional crackle of the flame and my uneven heartbeat. Far in the distance, I can still faintly hear the wolves’ howls echoing through the manor’s halls, a constant reminder that this isn’t an ordinary place and these aren’t ordinary people.

-

With a trembling finger, I trace a passage that makes my stomach clench: “The intended bride shall submit fully to the Alpha’s will, including all physical, mental, and spiritual rites.” Beneath it, in more archaic language, the text elaborates on the nature of said submission, how it’s not merely symbolic but literal in every sense.

A bitter taste rises in my throat. I recall Damien’s voice, low and uncompromising, giving me an ultimatum. I was naive to think that vow had any flexibility. This contract underscores what he warned: once I’m bound, I’m his in every sense.

I choke on a harsh breath, scanning further. The clauses go on about joint property, alliance responsibilities, even childbearing. My cheeks burn at the clinical mention of “ensuring lineage.” But it’s the subtext that strikes deeper, an implication of carnal demands, a tension of the flesh. I struggle to keep my hands steady.

Another line: “Resistance to consummation will be met with corrective measures as deemed necessary by the Alpha.”

My skin crawls. I can’t deny the stirring in my abdomen, some wretched mix of fear and that treacherous flicker of arousal I’ve been battling since I first learned of this union. I detest it, but I can’t escape the gravitational pull of Damien’s aura. God, what is wrong with me?

Raven had hinted the bond wasn’t just paperwork. It’s an ancient rite, involving primal power and raw desire. Looking at these words etched into centuries-old parchment, I’m beginning to understand just how deeply that desire is embedded in the Blackthorn world.

-



My shoulders tense as I scan yet another clause. This one references loyalty and obedience, framed as an eternal vow, binding even after death. The poetic language grates on my nerves: “Her body, heart, and spirit shall remain beholden to the Alpha until the bond is dissolved by death or by the Pack’s decree.”

I recall the portraits in the hall, those painted eyes that seemed to judge and claim me before I could claim myself. The sense of inevitability thickens in my throat, nearly suffocating. There’s no safety net here, no modern legal system to protest, no easy way to tear up the contract and walk away. This is real.

And if I needed more proof, I find it in the final lines describing consequences for violations. The words are a tangle of archaic phrases, but the meaning is brutally clear: I either fulfill my role or face punishment beyond what I care to imagine.

-

My gaze drifts down the final paragraph, and stops cold. One last clause stands out: “No escape, even if you beg for mercy.”

It’s as though the text itself just threatened me with a whisper. My heart hammers against my ribs, a punishing rhythm that resonates with the dread pooling in my gut. The flicker of candlelight dances across those words, embedding them into my mind.

I jerk my head up, breath ragged, mind racing. Could there really be no loophole? Is there no respite? The raw, unbridled passion hinted at in every page, contrasted with the grim reality of forced submission, folds into a whirlwind of confusion, fear, and something undeniably dark that throbs in the depths of my being.

Hugging the contract to my chest, I blow out the candle with trembling lips. Darkness envelops the room. In that suffocating blackness, I feel the weight of those final words sink deep: No escape, even if you beg for mercy.

There’s a moment where I think I hear footsteps outside the door, perhaps someone coming to confirm I’ve absorbed the contract’s terms. My heart leaps, imagining Damien or Vex or Raven standing there, ready to usher me into the next phase of this twisted ritual.

But the steps fade away, leaving me alone with the oppressive silence. I close my eyes, inhaling a shaky breath. My future has never felt more uncertain, and yet, a small, traitorous part of me tingles at the idea of surrendering to this savage, erotic world.

Because if I can’t escape… maybe part of me doesn’t want to.