Chapter 5 — What He Takes
1309 Words
The corridor outside Morgan’s chamber was unnaturally still.
Linda stood guard beneath the dim torchlight, arms folded behind her back, shoulders squared. The stone beneath her boots held the night’s chill. Every sound echoed—her breath, the distant crackle of embers, the muted shift of movement from within the room.
She had guarded traitors.
She had guarded visiting Alphas.
She had guarded wounded warriors.
But never him.
Inside, something heavy struck wood.
A chair dragged.
A low growl vibrated through the door.
Morgan did not accept humiliation well.
The door swung open abruptly.
He filled the frame—jaw tight, eyes still lit with the residue of dominance challenged.
“You’re guarding me?” he asked.
“It was Alpha Damien’s order.”
His lips curved faintly, but there was no humor in it.
“My father believes I need protection.”
“He believes you need discipline.”
The faintest flash of irritation crossed his eyes.
“And do you?”
“I believe tonight required control.”
He studied her a long moment.
Then stepped aside.
“Come in.”
The room smelled of fire and frustration.
She stepped inside.
The door shut behind her with deliberate finality.
He moved toward her slowly.
“You stood between me and them,” he said.
“I stood between instability.”
“You stepped for me.”
“I stepped for the throne.”
He stopped inches away.
“You always say the right thing.”
“And you rarely do.”
His fingers lifted, brushing along her jaw, tracing the line of her cheekbone as though committing it to memory.
“You think I didn’t see it tonight?” he murmured.
“See what?”
“How they watch you.”
She frowned faintly.
“They know you are mine.”
Her spine stiffened.
“I am not owned.”
He moved closer, breath brushing her lips.
“You come when I call.”
“That doesn’t mean I belong to you.”
His mouth captured hers before the sentence fully ended.
This time the kiss was slower.
More deliberate.
His hand slid into her hair, tilting her head to deepen the contact. His other hand rested firmly at her waist, thumb pressing against the curve of her hip.
Her resistance lasted a single heartbeat.
Then she kissed him back.
Hungry.
Frustrated.
Needing.
His mouth moved over hers like a claim he intended to seal.
He backed her toward the wall.
Her shoulder blades touched cold stone.
His body pressed against hers.
The contrast—heat against cold—made her breath hitch.
“You doubt me,” he whispered against her mouth.
“I question you.”
“That’s not the same.”
“It feels similar.”
His hand slid beneath the edge of her tunic, fingers brushing bare skin at her waist.
She inhaled sharply.
He noticed.
His lips curved slightly.
“You feel that?” he murmured.
She didn’t answer.
His mouth traced down her neck.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Every touch measured to draw reaction.
Her fingers gripped his shoulders, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away.
She hated that about herself.
Hated that he could dissolve her discipline with a touch.
He lifted her suddenly, carrying her effortlessly toward the bed.
The movement was smooth, controlled.
He laid her down, hovering above her for a breath.
His eyes studied her face.
As if searching for hesitation.
“You can still leave,” he said quietly.
Her chest rose and fell rapidly.
“If I wanted to leave,” she replied, “I wouldn’t be here.”
That was all he needed.
The restraint shattered.
His mouth claimed hers again—harder, deeper.
His hands moved over her with certainty—removing barriers, unraveling control, memorizing every reaction she gave him.
She arched into him without meaning to.
A low sound escaped her throat.
He responded instantly, his own breath turning rougher.
“You’re fire,” he murmured against her skin.
“You’re reckless.”
“Reckless wins wars.”
“Reckless starts them.”
He silenced her with another kiss.
More urgent.
More consuming.
His weight settled between her thighs, heat building rapidly.
She wrapped her legs around his waist before she could think.
He exhaled sharply at that.
His fingers dug into her hips.
For a moment, everything else ceased to exist.
No council.
No rival brothers.
No mate mark.
Just skin and heat and the dangerous comfort of being chosen in secret.
When he finally slowed, his forehead rested against hers.
Breathing uneven.
“You calm the noise,” he said quietly.
That struck her deeper than his touch.
“You shouldn’t need calming,” she replied softly.
“I shouldn’t need many things.”
His hand traced down her spine.
She felt the faint scar along his ribs.
Her eyes dropped there involuntarily.
The pale crescent.
The mate mark.
Not hers.
Never hers.
He noticed the shift in her gaze.
His hand tightened at her waist.
“That means nothing,” he said.
“It means something.”
“It means fate misfired.”
She met his eyes.
“Fate doesn’t misfire.”
His expression hardened slightly.
“Don’t romanticize it.”
“You can’t erase it.”
His jaw flexed.
“I choose what matters.”
“And what matters?”
He looked at her.
For a moment, vulnerability flickered there.
“You.”
Her breath caught.
But even as he said it—
She knew the truth.
He chose power first.
He always would.
Later, as dawn light began creeping through the curtains, he slept with his arm draped heavily over her waist.
Possessive even in unconsciousness.
She stared at the ceiling.
Her body still warm from him.
Her mind colder than ever.
He murmured something in his sleep.
Her name.
That hurt more than the mark.
She slipped out carefully.
He stirred.
“Stay,” he muttered.
“I can’t.”
“After the engagement, nothing changes.”
Everything changes.
She dressed in silence.
At the door, she looked back.
He looked younger in sleep.
Less calculating.
Less dangerous.
But even then, the crescent mark glinted faintly in the growing light.
She left.
Bailey was waiting at the end of the corridor.
Arms crossed.
Expression tight.
“You were assigned to guard.”
“I did.”
Bailey’s gaze flicked to the closed door.
“From inside?”
Silence.
Bailey stepped closer.
“You think I don’t see it?”
“It’s none of your concern.”
“It’s exactly my concern.”
Linda held her gaze.
“He uses you,” Bailey said bluntly.
Linda’s jaw tightened slightly.
“He trusts me.”
“That’s not the same as choosing you.”
“He—”
“He has a fiancée,” Bailey cut in.
Linda didn’t react.
“And he has a mate mark.”
That made her look up.
Bailey’s eyes softened.
“You know that mark isn’t ceremonial.”
“Yes.”
“He never rejected it publicly.”
“No.”
“He never claimed you publicly either.”
The words settled heavy.
Bailey lowered her voice.
“You guard him like he’s your war.”
A pause.
“But wars don’t love back.”
Linda said nothing.
Bailey stepped back slowly.
“Ask yourself something.”
Silence stretched.
“Is the game worth the burn?”
Bailey turned and walked away.
Linda remained where she stood.
Dawn spread across the stone floor.
She didn’t look back at Morgan’s chamber.
But she felt it.
The pull.
The hunger.
The fracture in her loyalty.
The mark that was never hers.
And for the first time—
She wasn’t sure whether she was burning for love.
She wasn’t certain whether she was protecting the clan.
Or feeding the fire that would destroy it.
- Writer
