Mate To The Tyrants

our mate

“f**k you!”

Kaela spat. The glob of saliva struck Blaise’s cheek before he could turn away. For one brief, vicious second she felt satisfaction.

It died the moment he went still.

Blaise wiped the spit from his face with two fingers, then deliberately smeared it back across her cheek. The gentle mask he had worn melted away completely.

He hauled her upright until she was forced to kneel on the mattress, knees spread, arms wrenched behind her back by the chains. The position stretched every muscle in her shoulders and spine. Worse, it forced her to lean forward for balance, leaving the open neckline of her thin shift gaping. His gaze dropped and stayed there without apology.

A slow, cold smile curved his mouth.

“I’ll remember this,” he said, fingers digging hard into her jaw. “Naughty girls get punished. You’ll stay exactly like this until I decide otherwise.”

His eyes flashed molten silver.

To her horror, her body obeyed. Limbs locked. Muscles refused every command to move. She remained frozen in the degrading pose as Blaise turned and walked out. The door slammed. The lock clicked. Footsteps faded.

She was alone—yet completely trapped.

Mate bonds did not work this way. They were not even marked. Whatever power Blaise had used, it was something older and far more dangerous.

“Fucker,” she whispered.

Lydia was gone. No body. No grave. And the ceremony Blaise had mentioned still hung over her like a blade. Pretty face. No need to speak. The pack would handle the hard work. Her mind supplied the possibilities one after another—public humiliation, ritual beating, sacrifice. Living as their prisoner felt worse than dying.

“You don’t have to look so defeated.”

The voice came from the doorway.

Ronan stood there, the scar along his cheek making him unmistakable even in the low light. His scent hit her harder than Blaise’s ever had—thicker, darker, impossible to ignore. Her stomach clenched. Her knees threatened to give, held upright only by the lingering force of Blaise’s command.

“Blaise and his games,” Ronan muttered.

The invisible hold shattered. Kaela collapsed forward. The chains jerked her wrists with brutal force, tearing fresh blisters into already raw skin. She hissed through her teeth.

“You say that like you’re any better,” she managed between ragged breaths.

His hand closed around her throat in the next heartbeat. He shoved her down until her back hit the mattress. One knee forced her thighs apart. His free hand pinned her while the other controlled her air.

She clawed at his wrist. The burn in her lungs outpaced the pain in her wrists.

“Blaise told you about the ceremony.” His voice was almost conversational. Her eyes widened, but only a broken wheeze escaped. “There’s something else you should know.”

The pressure on her throat eased just enough for her to drag in desperate lungfuls of air. He remained above her—one hand braced on the bed, the other still loosely circling her neck like a living collar. His eyes glowed with a bloodlust she had never seen, even on the worst nights in Ashclaw.

“You may be our mate,” Ronan said, “but there are still rules you will follow.”

He leaned down until his lips hovered a breath from the side of her neck. Warm air ghosted across her skin. Her traitorous body reacted instantly—a soft whimper, a rush of heat low in her belly, the mate bond singing despite every rational part of her screaming.

He felt it. Of course he did.

“Perhaps,” he murmured against her pulse, “you need to be taught a lesson.”

“I don’t need to be taught anything by you,” Kaela said, forcing as much contempt as she could into the words.

Ronan’s breath brushed her ear. “I beg to differ. You are in desperate need of a firm hand to show you how things work here.”

“What am I, a dog?”

A low, amused sound left him. “Are you calling yourself a b***h now?”

The urge to strike him burned hotter than anything Vivienne had ever inspired. Before the curse could leave her lips, Ronan caught her face between his hands and crushed his mouth to hers.

The mate bond detonated.

Sparks raced under her skin. Heat flooded every nerve. The silver cuffs, the aching lungs, the fear—all of it vanished beneath the pure, scorching pull of him. She had always believed the stories about mate bonds were exaggerated. One look could not rewrite a soul. One touch could not set a body on fire.

She had been wrong.

His mouth moved against hers with ruthless hunger, stealing every thought until she existed only as sensation—his breath, the slide of his tongue, the rough stroke of his hands. Anger and distrust dissolved. She was soft and open and aching for more.

When he was certain she had gone pliable, his hands left her face and drifted downward. Fingers toyed with the thin fabric of her shift, then tugged hard. Cool air kissed her skin as one breast was bared. She gasped.

Even through the thin barrier of her bra, his palms were scorching. He traced slow, deliberate circles over the soft curves, down the line of her ribs, across the narrow dip of her waist, until his hands settled heavily on her hips. Her back arched without permission, chasing the contact.

His mouth left hers. A soft, involuntary sound of protest escaped her throat—only to turn into a broken sigh when his lips found her cheek, her jaw, the sensitive column of her neck. Teeth grazed the place where a mating mark should go. He pressed just hard enough to make her moan, but not hard enough to break the skin.

When he finally drew back, she was still lost—eyes half-lidded, lips swollen, breath coming in shallow pants.

“Nice and obedient,” Ronan murmured, voice dark with satisfaction. “Exactly how you should have been from the start.”

The words shattered the haze.

Fury flooded back in a hot rush. She tried to sit up; his hand pressed her firmly down by the chest.

“Bastard. You tricked me.”

“I did nothing,” he said calmly. “You underestimate the bond, little rabbit.”

“We are not mated.”

“Yet.” His eyes gleamed. “If I had my way, I would have marked you in the ruins of Ashclaw.”

Understanding struck. The ceremony. The reason she still remained unmarked despite two mates.

“It is against the Moon Goddess’s design for anyone to have two mates,” she said tightly.

“And yet here we are.” He tapped her cheek lightly with the back of his fingers, amusement flickering through the cold. “My brother and I are both very much looking forward to having you.”

Her gaze dropped without meaning to—landing on the unmistakable hard length straining against his trousers. Ronan’s eyes followed hers. A humorless laugh left him.

“Pun unintended. But you seem rather eager yourself.”

She could feel it too: the slick heat between her thighs, the way her body had responded against every wish of her mind. The scent of her own arousal hung in the air, impossible to hide from a werewolf’s senses. Shame burned across her cheeks.

“It’s only the bond,” she forced out. “A bond I refuse to keep.”

“You have no choice in that, darling.”

Ronan straightened, adjusting his clothes with deliberate calm. He walked to the door, then paused with his hand on the handle and looked back at her.

A slow, dark smile curved his mouth.

“Rest well, little rabbit. You have a long night ahead of you.”

He opened the door.

“And welcome to Nightreign.”