The Alpha’s Last Bride

Still Standing

Damien

They were whispering again.

I could hear them the moment I stepped into the hall—murmurs clipped short, backs straightened, eyes fixed firmly on the floor. As if I hadn’t caught the scent of judgment in the air the second I rounded the corridor.

Inside the study, Garrick was already waiting, arms crossed, jaw set tight. He didn’t bother to sit. Neither did I.

“She’s causing problems,” he said without preamble.

I didn’t answer. Instead, I stalked to the decanter in the corner and poured myself a drink. Brandy. Too sweet for this hour, but it burned all the same.

“She’s been arguing with the chambermaids. Refuses to stay in her rooms. And earlier today she—” Garrick broke off, visibly agitated. “She snuck into the western tower.”

I sipped. Slowly.

“She claimed she was looking for a library,” he added with a bitter laugh. “A f*****g library.”

“She’s new,” I said flatly.

“She’s insolent,” Garrick snapped. “And the staff are talking. Some of them are refusing to serve her.”

Good. Let them stew. Let them see the Luna’s presence as a disruption. It meant they were paying attention.

“I don’t care what they’re saying,” I said, setting the glass down with a sharp clink. “They’ll serve who I tell them to serve.”

Garrick scowled. “She’s not even marked.”

“Neither were the others,” I muttered.

He flinched at that—and for good reason. I turned my back to him, pressing my palm flat against the cold stone mantle. Outside, the snow was falling again. A thin, drifting veil, like ash.

“She’s not the threat,” I said, more to the flames than to Garrick. “And if the servants have a problem, they can take it up with me.”

“You’re protecting her?” he asked.

I looked over my shoulder, voice a quiet growl. “I’m protecting this house.”

A beat of silence. Then I reached out across the bond that tied me to every wolf sworn to Stormwatch and found the steward’s mind.

Keep two guards near the Luna’s suite at all times. Quietly. No questions. No rumors. No mistakes.

His answer was immediate. Yes, Alpha.

I cut the link and turned back to Garrick. “Anything else?”

He hesitated, then finally shook his head. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Damien.”

“I’ve been playing one for fourteen years,” I replied. “And I’m still standing.”

I didn’t say what haunted me most—that I didn’t want her dead. That her scent lingered in my lungs longer than any of the others. That her defiance didn’t feel like a threat. It felt like a challenge.

I didn’t intend to go to her, not tonight.

I told myself I had better things to do—correspondence to finalize, scouts to brief, alliances to mend. But none of it held. The ink ran dry in my hand sometime after dusk, and I hadn’t moved from my desk since. I sat in silence as the fire burned low, the flames licking against shadowed stone, until the ache in my jaw reminded me I’d been clenching my teeth for hours.

Still, I waited.

Waited until the halls emptied.

Waited until the silence stretched taut and private. Only then did I rise.

The corridor to the Luna wing was colder than I remembered, as if the walls were holding their breath. I passed the night guards without a word. My steps were measured, unhurried. But the closer I came to her chambers, the more strained my composure became. The scent was already there—sharp, maddening, earthy-sweet and far too potent. I slowed at her door, drawing in a shallow breath that betrayed me with the faintest tremble.

I opened it without knocking.

The warmth hit me first. Then the scent—thick, overwhelming. It was her. Not quite a blaze, not yet. But rising. Like kindling catching in a dry forest. It coiled through the room like smoke, dragging something feral up from inside me.

She was curled beneath the blankets, half-asleep, hair a tangle across the pillows. Her gown had slipped from one shoulder, and my gaze caught on the curve of her neck, the pale stretch of collarbone, the sheen of sweat on her skin.

She stirred when I stepped in.

“You’re late,” she said, not even looking at me.

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. Because for the first time in weeks, my body was no longer mine. It moved on instinct—shoulders tense, hands flexing at my sides. I reached the bed in three long strides, eyes locked on her and only her. My vision tunneled. My pulse throbbed behind my teeth.

She sat up, slow and defiant, meeting my gaze with the same unbearable courage she always wore like armor.

“I’m not in the mood to be used tonight,” she said, voice hoarse.

But her scent betrayed her. Her body betrayed her.

So did mine.

I yanked the covers off and grabbed her by the hips, dragging her to the edge of the bed. She struggled, but weakly. Tired. Fevered. The gown caught at her thighs, and I shoved it higher without care. Her breath caught as I turned her onto her stomach and pulled her to her knees. No words passed between us.

She didn’t stop me.

I pushed up her shift and gripped her waist like it was the only thing anchoring me to this world. The moment I sank into her, I stifled the growl that clawed its way up my throat.

It wasn’t slow.

It wasn’t gentle.

It wasn’t meant to be.

She clutched the sheets, panting. Her hair stuck to the sweat on her spine. I held her there, rutting like some beast let loose, ashamed and thrilled and half-insane with it. I hated that she was so warm. That her body knew mine. That she didn’t beg or cry or ask for anything at all.

Because it meant I didn’t have to stop.

My hands tightened on her hips, and I caught myself leaning over her, nose in the crook of her neck, inhaling. She reeked of heat and anger and defiance. And it soothed me.

It lasted longer this time. I made it last. I shouldn’t have. And when I finally let go, when I emptied myself into her and pressed my forehead to her damp shoulder, I didn’t say a word.

I stepped back. Straightened my trousers. Fixed my shirt.

She stayed on her hands and knees, shaking with something I didn’t want to look at. I left the room in silence, chest heaving like I’d just survived a war.

But I hadn’t. Not yet.

I didn’t go back to the men. Couldn’t stomach their stares. Their jests. The stink of ale on their breath.

Instead, I shut myself in.

The door slammed with a thud that echoed too loud. Too hollow. The kind of silence that fed a man’s worst instincts. I yanked my shirt open, buttons scattering across the stone. It still wasn’t enough. Her scent clung to me. Not perfume. Not soap. Her. Rich and wild and maddeningly sweet. The wolf in me roared under my skin, as if her scent alone was enough to undo me.

I could still feel her. On my fingers. On my tongue. In the way my jaw ached from how hard I’d gritted my teeth not to let the hunger show. The way she’d taken it… Gods. No fight. No plea. Just heat and silence and that broken little sound she made when I drove into her like it meant something.

It hadn’t meant a damn thing. It couldn’t.

But my body didn’t know that. My c**k was still hard. Still throbbing with unfinished need. She’d ruined me without even looking at me. I paced, jaw tight, forcing breath into lungs that refused to settle. Every blink brought another memory—her legs trembling, her shift bunched at her waist, my hands gripping her hips like she’d disappear if I let go.

She should’ve screamed. Cried. Bitten. Something.

Instead, she’d taken it like she expected nothing better. Like she already knew I wouldn’t give her tenderness.

And I hated that she was right.

I should’ve torn that damn shift off. Should’ve seen every inch of what was mine by law, by blood, by necessity. I should’ve made her look at me while I took her. Instead, I’d left like a f*****g coward. The fireplace flickered, low and unimpressed. I braced both hands on the stone mantel, staring into the flames, heart pounding like I was still in the fight.

What was it about her?

She wasn’t the first. Wouldn’t be the last, if the gods had their way.

But none of the others had felt like this. None of them haunted me the moment I stepped away. None of them made me regret walking out. Before I’d seen her face. Her eyes. Before I’d broken her enough to make her mine.

I gritted my teeth, shoving the thought down. She wasn’t mine. She never would be. We had a deal. A contract. A purpose.

But my blood burned for her all the same.

I should’ve stayed. I should’ve kept her there, on her knees, until I was too drunk on her scent to think of anything else.

Instead, I stood alone in the dark. Fists clenched. Still starving.

It was in my lungs, under my skin, soaked into the fabric of my trousers where I was still f*****g hard. Still aching from the way she trembled beneath me. From the way her breath hitched when I pushed inside her. From the sound she made—barely a whimper, like she hated that I could pull it from her.

She was supposed to be a task. A duty. A name on parchment and a body to fill with heirs.

Instead, she was all I could think about.

The shift she wore had ridden up around her waist. I’d taken her from behind and still hadn’t seen her. That drove me insane. I could imagine it now—how she’d look spread out beneath me. Those long legs shaking, that mouth bitten red. Her breasts flushed and heaving, body slick with need. If I’d just flipped her over. If I’d just—

“Fuck.”

I dragged my trousers down and gripped myself, hard.

It didn’t take long. My mind was already full of her—her scent, her heat, the furious way she’d stared at me like she wanted to kill me and beg for more all at once. The shift. The way she clenched. I jerked myself to the rhythm of memory, letting the image take me. Imagining how she’d cry out if I made her come on my tongue.

I came with a growl, spilling across my hand, chest heaving like I’d fought a f*****g war.

And still, the edge wasn’t gone.

Still, it wasn’t enough.

I looked down at the mess in my palm and bit back another curse. She was going to ruin me.