Kidnapped by the Alpha king

CHAPTER FIVE

The deep, hollow toll of a bell announces the midnight hour. In the round courtyard below, pack members file into the sacred circle. They wear ceremonial robes of silver silk, easy to remove once the transformation takes hold.

Humans imagine scenes in movies where werewolves scream in agony and tear out of their clothes, which I’ve never understood. We know when the full moon is. It doesn’t take us by surprise.

And we know how to dress for it.

Or undress.

My breath freezes in my lungs as Owen walks into the circle. He stops in front of the monolith to Lycaon and drops his robe.

I shamelessly look him over, the way he did to me, from his broad shoulders, down his chest dusted with dark hair that thins to a line on his shockingly sculpted abs. I wasn’t expecting him to look as good as he does.

I wasn’t expecting that my mouth would water at the sight of his c**k, that my thighs would clench together at the thought of how huge it must be hard. I hope he feels me, smells me.

And I hope that the strange attraction between us is making him as crazed with need as I feel.

An acolyte—a thrall trained in our ceremonies and rituals—steps forward with a shallow silver bowl bearing a glistening human heart. It’s required for the transformation; Lycaon himself was transformed into a wolf after he angered Zeus by feeding the God-human flesh. Owen grabs the heart with his bare hand and bites into it.

That’s when he lifts his gaze and finds me, seconds before the transformation starts.

It begins with his eyes. They flash silver, then red. His face shifts, nose and jaw elongating into a muzzle.

We don’t turn into wolves. That’s a myth. We turn into a creature that stands upright; body covered with short, silky hair from our clawed feet to our canine-like heads.

The fur flows over every contour of Owen’s body and his spine curves, drawing him into a hunched posture. His ears elongate, pointing straight back, a shape humans would consider more elfin than dog-like, with tufts of fur accentuating the points.

His arms grow longer, as well; in this predatory manifestation, a wide reach is an advantage.

In his animalistic form, he waits for the others but stares up at me. Like this, I’m vulnerable. Far too human. I would be no match for him, should he want me.

And he does want me, but even this way, he has self-control, as well as some common sense.

He knows he can’t reach me, and so do I, but being the target of all that concentrated power and bestial drive is still heady and frightening.

The good kind of frightening. The kind that makes me wonder what could happen if I only push a little further.

The rest of the pack remove their robes as acolytes walk the circle offering bites of hearts, enough to go around. The communal nudity isn’t arousing in the way Owen’s was to me; it’s just a fact of the transformation.

They take bites and sand change their shapes, and when a ring of fearsome werewolves stands in the circle, He throws back his head and releases an unearthly howl that reverberates through my entire body.

The rest of the pack joins Owen in howling, the cries of not-quite wwolfnot-quite-voices piercing the sky in a primeval prayer, and I run from the building.

The valet thrall can see my urgency and hurries to retrieve my car—driving separately from my parents means I don’t have to wait for them to return at dawn.

I get into the driver’s seat and peel off, trying to shake my own primal need to fulfill my true potential, to feel my body shift and change under the moonlight.

I’ve been putting it off, and now, with the howls of my pack ringing in my ears, I wish I made my decision tonight, that I joined them. The thought of waiting another month is agony, even if my transformation means shackling myself to Ashton Daniels for the rest of our lives.

I speed down the twisting private lane away from the ceremony site, trying desperately to control my breathing. I’m overcome with images of Owen’s broad back, the muscles rippling in his thighs, the veins bulging on his arms, his—

My blood is on fire. My skin is a prison. I want to rip my clothes open and bare and my body to the night sky.

I want to howl.

The tires crunch on the gravel as I guide the car onto the shoulder. I slam the shifter in the o park and recline the seat, gripping the headrest in one hand and frantically yanking my skirt up. I slide my hand beneath my panties and gasp with relief as my fingers encounter my slippery, swollen c**t.

I conjured up an impossible scenario. There I am, defenseless, vulnerable in my moment of reckless passion, when Owen finds me. Not Owen the polished, powerful king, but Owen the fully transformed werewolf, all hunger and exhilaration and lack of inhibition.

And I’m caught, hand in my panties, the air thick with my scent, vulnerable and ready for him to take me.

I know there’s no escape, even as I hit the door lock. He easily rips the door off its hinges, growling in frustration at the irritating delay. That’s all I’ve done; delayed the inevitable.

I scramble backward into the passenger seat. It’s a mistake; he’s on me in a moment, his sleek body between my thighs. I can thrash all I want, but I’m pinned painfully over the center console, hips raised, and legs splayed wide.

My dress disintegrates in his claws and he drags the scraps down my body as he lowers his head to my p***y and sniffs deeply.

His hot breath teases my c**t and I want him to taste me, but instead, ad he drags me from the car entirely, his grip strong around my calves.

Somehow, I don’t hit my head as my body crumples to the pavement and he drags me to the side of the road. The shoulder is muddy and broken and he pins me down in the slush, gr, it and salt from the dirty snow digging into my skin.

The more I struggle, the filthier and wetter I get. He’s sitting between my legs, that huge c**k ready to spear into me, his teeth sink into my throat and there’s no escape.

I curl up from the seat, mouth open in a groan of relief that doesn’t make a sound. My thighs tremble and tense, and I come so hard my hand and my panties get soaked. The fantasy is so fresh and vivid in my mind, that I’m surprised to find myself still dressed and safe behind the wheel of my car, though I’m panting and sweating. I grab some tissue from the glove compartment and clean up the mess on my hand, my thighs, and the leather seat between them.

How am I supposed to be with Owen, alone, without climbing on him? I’m starting to hope I am just hard up and imagining our attraction. I’m in a mating pact with someone. f*****g someone else is not allowed.

But I will never feel for Ashton the things I feel for Owen. I can barely tolerate Ashton’s touch, while I long for Owen’s.

The idea of letting Ashton inside my body disgusts me, and I’m certain it’s going to take more than duty to get me into our wedding bed. If Owen were here, right now, I would beg him to f**k me. I wouldn’t care how ridiculous the request sounded, given that we’ve barely spoken to each other. I would crawl on my hands and knees and beg.

That’s dangerous, considering his invitation.

Does he think I’ll show up eager to please him, ready to do whatever he commands because he’s the king? Because I would do anything he commanded and more, and not because he’s the king and has that power over me. I want to give myself to him. I want him to hold me down and wring every last ounce of strength from me with his hands and his tongue and his c**k. So, it’s decided, then: I’m not going to go to the royal residence. I’ll have to send my regrets because I can’t possibly behave.

When my heart rate is reasonably under control and my vision clears, I raise the seat again and put the car into drive. I’m not satisfied. I’m not sure I ever can be if I’m never going to know what it feels like to give Owen Frost all of myself.

I wonder if he’s out there in the forest right now, relieving his lust for me with some other member of the pack. With someone else’s mate. Though I hate the thought of it now, it might be the only way I’ll ever be able to be with him. Things happen at the full moon, or so I’ve heard, that aren’t acceptable for the rest of the month.

By the time I get home, the adrenaline has worn off. I shuffle up the wide staircase and into my room, where I barely get my shoes off before I collapse on the bed. But deeply instilled discipline dies hard, and Mother always stressed the importance of a nighttime skincare routine. By the time I get my face scrubbed clean and I’ve changed into my pajamas, I’m beyond exhausted. It will be a miracle if I can get up in time for brunch.

I’ve only been asleep for a few hours when I jerk awake to the sound of my Mother’s outraged voice shouting, “What the hell is this?”

I rub my eyes.

Mother stands beside my bed, holding the note from Owen.