11 | I won't be gentle
1010 Words
Darcy
The drive back to the Elite House is different this time.
Before, it was silent. Now, the air is thick enough to choke on. The scent of aroused, aggressive Alphas fills the confined space of the SUV. It smells like dark musk, ozone, and danger.
I’m squeezed in the back seat between Ronan and Damon. Their thighs press against mine. Hard. Warm. Impossible to ignore.
Every time the car turns, my body brushes against theirs. And every time it happens, a jolt of electricity zaps through my veins, settling heavily between my legs.
Traitor, I scream internally at my own body. They are monsters. Hate them.
But my biology doesn't care about my morals. My wolf is purring, drunk on the proximity of her mates.
Ronan’s hand rests on his knee, inches from mine. His fingers are twitching, tapping a restless rhythm against his expensive suit trousers.
Suddenly, his hand moves.
He doesn't grab me. He simply slides his large, warm palm over my knee. Then, slowly, maddeningly slowly, he drags it up my thigh.
I gasp, my back arching off the leather seat involuntarily.
"Ronan," I whisper, a warning and a plea.
He doesn't look at me. He keeps his golden eyes fixed on the road ahead, but his thumb digs into the soft flesh of my inner thigh, just above the hem of my skirt. He traces circles there, dangerously close to where I am aching.
"Quiet," he murmurs.
His touch is possessive. Claiming. He isn't doing this for me. He is doing it to send a message.
To Damon.
Sitting on my other side, Damon growls low in his throat. The sound vibrates through the seat and into my spine. He’s watching Ronan’s hand with predatory focus. His blue eyes are almost black.
"You’re playing a dangerous game, brother," Damon mutters, his voice rough. "If you touch her there, you better be prepared to finish it."
Ronan’s hand stops, but he doesn't remove it. He finally turns to look at me. His pupils are blown wide, swallowing the gold iris.
"Who says I won't?" Ronan whispers.
The car screeches to a halt in front of the mansion. The gravel crunches loudly, breaking the spell.
Ronan withdraws his hand, leaving my skin cold and aching for more. I hate the loss of contact. I hate myself for hating it.
"Out," he commands. "Everyone out."
My heart hammers against my ribs. Amos and Alastair exit quickly, sensing the volatility in the air. Damon lingers, glaring at Ronan one last time, before slamming the door shut with enough force to shake the vehicle.
We are alone in the backseat.
Ronan unbuckles his seatbelt. He turns his entire body toward me, trapping me in the corner. He looms over me, stealing the oxygen from the air.
"You liked it," he accuses softly. "In the cafeteria. When I called you ours."
"I was terrified," I lie, my breath hitching as he leans closer.
"Liar."
Ronan leans in, his nose brushing against the sensitive skin of my neck. He inhales deeply, his hot breath dampening my skin. I shiver, my hands gripping the leather seat to stop myself from reaching for him.
"Your scent changed, Darcy. It spiked with pride. And arousal."
He pulls back, his eyes gleaming with a dark, predatory satisfaction.
"You hate us," he says, his voice silky and cruel. "But your wolf? She wants to be bred by us."
I open my mouth to argue, to scream, but he reaches into his pocket.
He pulls out something that glitters in the dim light.
A thin, gold chain.
It looks delicate, beautiful even. But as he holds it up, I see the clasp. It’s heavy. Industrial.
"I knew you were feisty," he says, his tone devoid of humor now. "That’s why I bought this."
My eyes widen. I press myself further against the door. "I am not wearing that. I am not a dog."
"No," Ronan agrees. He wraps the chain around his fist, testing its strength. "Dogs are loyal. You are a flight risk."
He moves faster than I can react.
He pins my wrists with one hand, pushing them down into the seat. With the other, he brings the cold metal to my throat.
I struggle, twisting my head, but he is an Alpha Prime. He is immovable.
Click.
The sound is final.
The gold chain settles around my neck. It fits perfectly. Tight enough to be felt constantly, a cold weight against my pulse, but loose enough to breathe.
A constant reminder of who holds the leash.
"There," Ronan whispers, admiring his handiwork. His fingers trace the gold chain against my pale skin. "Now everyone will know exactly who you belong to."
He releases my hands and opens the car door, stepping out into the cool evening air. He offers me a hand, acting perfectly polite, as if he didn't just brand me like cattle.
"Come inside, Pet," he says. "Or do I have to carry you?"
I touch the cold metal at my throat. I should rip it off. I should scream. I should run into the woods.
But as I step out of the car and follow him toward the massive, silent house, a treacherous part of my brain—the part controlled by the bond—feels safe.
He claimed us, my wolf purrs in the back of my mind. He won't let anyone else take us.
I shake my head to clear the thought. This is psychological warfare.
"Go to your room," Ronan orders when we reach the foyer. "Stay there until dinner. And Darcy?"
I turn on the stairs, looking down at him. He stands in the shadows, looking like a dark king.
"Don't try to take it off," he warns, his eyes glowing gold.
He taps his own phone.
"It has a tracker. If you remove it, I’ll know. And if I have to come hunt you down in the woods..."
He pauses, letting the threat hang in the air.
"I won't be gentle when I catch you."
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