The alpha’s gilded cage

The Tether of Desire

Arielle practically ran back to the infirmary. The pressure was suffocating. She had until dawn to wake a man whose soul was lost in the dark wilderness of the Primal State.

When she entered the room, it was empty. The healers had fled, sensing the rising tension of the Moot. Girard was still on the bed, but he wasn't still anymore. His body was twitching, his fingernails digging into the mattress, a low, constant growl vibrating in his chest.

"Girard," she whispered, sitting on the edge of the bed. She placed her hand on his forehead. He was burning up. "Girard, listen to me. You have to come back. They’re going to kill you if you don't."

He didn't respond to her voice. His eyes stayed shut, but his breathing grew more erratic. He was locked in a mental cage, reliving the violence of the tower.

Arielle remembered what the blood rite had felt like—the surge of lightning, the sharing of thoughts. She realized that words wouldn't be enough. She had to use the bond. She had to go into the dark with him.

She kicked off her shoes and climbed onto the bed, straddling his hips. She leaned down, pressing her chest against his, her skin meeting his fevered warmth.

"Girard," she murmured against his ear. "Don't leave me alone with them. I can't be a Luna without my Alpha."

She began to kiss him—not soft, comforting kisses, but deep, demanding ones. she bit his lower lip, drawing a tiny bead of blood, and the moment the copper taste hit her tongue, the link exploded.

She was in a forest. It was dark, and the trees were made of bone. A massive black wolf was pacing in circles, its eyes glowing with a terrifying madness. It saw her and snarled, its fur standing on end.

“Girard!” she screamed in the mental landscape. “Look at me!”

The wolf lunged, pinning her to the ground. She felt the weight of him, the sheer, crushing pressure of the beast. But she didn't fight. she reached up and buried her hands in the thick black fur. “I am the bait, remember?” she whispered. “But I’m not for the Syndicate. I’m for you. Come and get me.”

The mental image shifted. The wolf began to shrink, the fur melting away to reveal Girard. He looked broken, his face covered in blood, his eyes wide with horror at what he had done.

“I’ll hurt you,” he gasped in the vision. “Arielle, I can’t stop the hunger.”

“Then feed on me,” she replied. “Take my strength. Take my heat. Just come home.”

In the real world, Girard’s eyes snapped open. They were pure gold, the pupils dilated until there was almost no amber left. He surged upward, his arms wrapping around Arielle with a strength that nearly cracked her ribs. He flipped her over, pinning her to the mattress, his breath hot and wild against her skin.

The "spice" of the bond was no longer a flicker; it was a conflagration. The trauma and the near-death experience had stripped away every inhibition. Girard didn't speak; he claimed. His hands were everywhere, stripping away her dress, his touch leaving trails of fire on her skin.

It was a desperate, primal encounter. Every touch was infused with the relief of survival and the intensity of the supernatural bond. Arielle felt his power flowing into her—the raw, animalistic energy of the Alpha—and in return, she gave him her calm, her human logic, her unwavering choice to be his.

When he finally collapsed against her, his heartbeat slowing to a human rhythm, he whispered her name.

"Arielle."

"I'm here," she sobbed, holding his head to her breast. "I'm here."

"I heard you," he whispered, his eyes finally fading back to a clear, calm amber. "In the dark. I heard you calling me a monster."

"I called you my monster," she corrected, smiling through her tears. "Now get up. We have a Moot to crash."