Caught Between Two Alphas

Hannah I kneel on the heavy rug, bare knees pressed into the plush wolfskin, and close my eyes so I can sink into the familiar dark. If I focus on the tickle of candle smoke in my nose and the hot press of my thighs against each other, maybe I won’t notice the tremor in my own hands. Maybe I can pretend I’m any omega in any century, answering the ancient call of her Alpha. But the whiskey in the air is a sharp, modern thing. It burns in my sinuses, gets tangled up with the scent of Anson’s skin—citrusy, salt-tinged, masculine. I breathe deep, fill my chest with him. I could pick out his smell blindfolded in a stadium, even after three years of marriage and however many more of slow, exquisite pursuit. If I breathe deep enough, I almost forget why my heart is jackhammering in my chest. There are a dozen candles burning on every surface, pooling gold across the ceiling and painting his broad silhouette in red-orange glow. The window is cracked just enough to let the mountain air in, cool and pine-laced, and if I strain my ears I can still hear the owls hunting outside the walls. But inside this bedroom, nothing stirs but me. And Anson. He hasn’t said a word since he led me in by the collar—hand-knotted from rawhide, the kind that leaves welts and doesn’t loosen when I twist against it. He used to sweet-talk me during scenes. Now it’s just his breathing: slow, purposeful, like he’s rationing out every molecule of oxygen. He stands over me, shirt unbuttoned down to his sternum, the shadow of his belly hair a dark line down to his jeans. His fists flex and unflex at his sides. He’s trying to wait me out. But I’m nothing if not stubborn. When he gives the first command—“Wrists”—my own voice startles me in the stillness: “Yes, sir.” The word tastes sweet and dangerous on my tongue. I extend my arms, wrists parallel and dainty in the moonlight, hands limp. He’s already cut the rope. White jute, soft but strong. It’s his favorite, and I know why: it’s thick enough to bite but not enough to scar, and it looks damn good against my skin. He kneels down in front of me and begins the winding, slow and sure, looping the rope around and around until my blood pulses hot beneath the surface. The friction alone is enough to set my nerves on fire. His hands are big, the knuckles cracked from training, and he works the rope with a careful reverence that makes my breath go shallow. When he leans in, his lips brush the inside of my elbow, just a whisper of contact, but it’s enough to make my spine curve. He ties off the knots with a little flourish, then tugs once to make sure I’m not getting out. I never do. He takes my chin between his thumb and finger, tilts my head up so I’m looking right into his eyes. That’s when I see it: not the steel or ice most people notice, but the hint of blue-silver shining behind the storm. His wolf is close to the surface tonight. “You ready to behave?” he says, voice low and gruff. I think it’s supposed to scare me. “Only if you make me,” I answer, and watch his jaw tense. It’s our little game. I’m all silk and sir, but I live for the moment he makes me mean it. He smiles—not the warm, neighborly Alpha smile he uses at the compound, but something hungrier. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I always do.” He moves behind me and I feel the press of denim at my lower back, the nudge of his c**k hard through his jeans. I arch into it. His hands grip my bound wrists, maneuvering them above my head, making my chest rise and stretch. The air is cold on my n*****s. I can feel him admiring the effect, drawing it out, never hurrying. He brings his mouth to my shoulder, teeth scraping. His breath is hot and smells like the good bourbon—double proof, double price, and it burns as much as his touch. He bites down, hard enough to make my eyes water, then soothes the spot with his tongue. “Count for me,” he says, already reaching for the paddle. I don’t need to look. I know the weight and width by sound alone. Leather, polished to a high shine, with my initials burned into the handle. He always said he wanted to make sure I never forgot I belonged to him. The first smack lands sharp, sending a line of heat straight through my core. I count, voice trembling only a little: “One.” Two, three, four—each hit leaves a fresh stripe of fire. By six, my eyes are stinging. By eight, I’m panting. By ten, the space behind my eyes is hazy, the world reduced to the sting, the count, the ache building between my thighs. He drops the paddle and presses his lips to my ear. “Good girl.” Then, softer: “My perfect little Luna.” If I had hands free, I’d grab his hair and drag his mouth to mine. But tonight I’m all patience and pretty posture, waiting for my reward. He licks a stripe up my neck, then sinks his teeth in right below my jaw, right where everyone can see in the morning. Marking me as his. As if there were anyone in this territory who didn’t already know. He unfastens the rope from my wrists with a single sharp jerk, and suddenly I’m in his lap, straddling his thighs. He pins my arms behind my back with one fist and threads the other through my hair, yanking my head back so I have no choice but to meet his gaze. He’s flushed, pupils blown wide, hairline damp with sweat. “You want it?” he says, grinding against me. “God, yes,” I gasp, surprised at how desperate I sound. He gives me a slow, smug smile. “Beg for it.” And I do. I beg like a woman starving. “Please, Alpha. Please f**k me. Please—” He grins, then clamps his hand over my mouth, cutting me off mid-sob. His other hand is already between my legs, fingers hooking into my panties, tearing them in half with one sharp yank. Cool air hits my slick thighs, and he doesn’t hesitate—just slides two thick fingers into me, curling them until I choke on my own moan. He works me like that, merciless, until my hips are bucking, until I’m sobbing into his palm, the orgasm cresting hot and violent in my core. I’m still shaking when he finally lets go, hands me over to gravity, and stands. I almost collapse without his arms to catch me. “On your knees,” he says, and I drop instantly, rope burns stinging and thighs slick. He unzips his jeans with one hand, the other still gripping my hair. I want to watch him, want to memorize every twitch of muscle under that perfect skin, but he keeps my head bowed. When he presses the tip against my mouth, I open gladly, tongue curling around him. He tastes of sweat and whiskey and some ineffable wildness, some old-moon flavor that is his alone. He thrusts deep, not bothering to go slow, choking me until my lips burn and my mascara starts to run. I look up, eyes glassy, and he grins down at me, pure Alpha in the candlelight. He lets go of my hair and cradles my jaw, gentling at the last second. His thumb strokes my cheek as he f***s my mouth, and for a moment, I almost believe I am cherished as much as I am owned. When he pulls out, spit and c*m smear my lips, hot on my skin. He lets me breathe, stroking my hair back, planting a kiss on my forehead. “Look at you,” he whispers, as if I’m some fragile, precious thing and not the wild little animal he’s just wrung out. Then he hoists me up and bends me over the bed, one knee up on the mattress. The sheets are scratchy against my cheek, but I barely feel it. His hands roam down my spine, then wrap a fresh coil of rope around my throat, loose but not too loose. Just enough for me to feel it with every breath. He f***s me from behind, the way he knows I like it—hard and unrelenting, his hand fisted in the rope, the other clamped around my hip so tight I’ll bruise for days. Each thrust drives me higher, until I’m keening, until the world is just heat and pressure and the candlelight spinning overhead. He doesn’t finish until he’s sure I’m spent. When he does, it’s with a final, shuddering groan, collapsing on top of me, his chest pinning me to the mattress. The rope bites into my skin, leaves perfect red lines. I love the sight of them, love the way they linger, proof that I was owned, if only for a night. We lie there for a moment, catching our breath. He’s still inside me, still holding the rope. I close my eyes and savor the weight, the ache, the knowledge that for this little stretch of night, I was exactly what he needed. His lips find the shell of my ear. “Still my good girl?” he murmurs. “Always,” I answer. And I almost believe it. But even as I drift, high on pain and praise, I can feel something tight and off in him tonight. Like a hairline crack in the glass, invisible unless you know where to look. ~•~ I don’t notice how long his hands linger on my throat. Not yet. The candles have burned lower, most of them puddling into their own wax, flames jittering on the drafts. I can’t tell how long I drift, but at some point Anson’s weight shifts. He’s still inside me, but his body is a mountain on my back, arms caging me on either side. I am warm and loose and dreamy, the old sweet afterglow settling like a fever in my bones. Then I feel it: the rope, no longer a necklace but a noose, cinching in tiny increments. At first, it’s just pressure—almost comforting, the way I like it. But Anson is quiet. Too quiet. He pulls up on the line, and my head tips back, mouth opening in a ragged gasp. The air thins around me. My thighs tremble, but I don’t fight. This is new, but not unwelcome. I’ve trusted him with worse. But he doesn’t let up. The rope bites deeper. My pulse stutters in my ears, then speeds, then goes distant and echoey. I try to turn, to look at him, but my vision is going starry at the edges. My hands—why are they still tied?—scrabble at the cord, nails scratching skin and jute. I try to say his name, but it comes out thin and silly, nothing like a real word. “Anson?” It’s supposed to be a protest, but there’s no force behind it. I don’t even hear myself. He’s rutting into me with a desperation I don’t recognize. I feel him shaking, feel the hot wet drip of tears on my bare shoulder. His hand clamps down on the rope, fist tight and merciless, and with every thrust, the world gets smaller. I try again, try the safe word we agreed on the very first time: “Blueberry.” My tongue fumbles it, lips numb. He doesn’t stop. He just keeps going, hips slamming me into the sheets, face buried in my hair, breath sobbing out of him. I can’t breathe. I can’t see. My brain fires off old training, wolf instincts for crisis: Go limp, play dead, wait for the teeth to ease off. But Anson doesn’t ease. He tightens. I feel my heart banging against the bone of my chest, loud and frantic. My legs kick, not on purpose. My hands paw at the bed, the rope, anything. The room spins and shivers, candles melting into comets. He is saying something, the same two words over and over: “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Voice breaking with every repetition. But he doesn’t let go. The taste in my mouth is blood and copper, my gums throbbing. There is pressure in my eyes, behind my face, and a weird sense of floating, like when I get high off pain and endorphins. But this isn’t high; it’s drowning. I want to scream, but the rope swallows the sound. A moment of lucidity: I realize I am going to die. I am not sure whether this is a nightmare or a fantasy gone wrong. I think of my mother. I think of the Moon, of the way the light always found me, no matter how dense the woods. I think of Anson, crying and crushing me, and I wish I could comfort him, tell him I forgive him, but I can’t form words. I can’t even move. The cold sweat breaks across my chest and back, slick and clammy. I try to focus on the candles. There are only three left, guttering wildly. It is so dark. Everything tunnels down to a pinpoint. My hands go numb, my tongue thick and useless. “I’m sorry,” he sobs, voice shredded, and in the last shreds of consciousness I wonder if he means it for me or himself. My heart beats once, twice, then skips. I think of the full moon rising over the North Georgia hills, and then— Nothing. Death is supposed to be gentle—a soft slip into dreamless dark, a flicker of memory, maybe the mercy of forgetting. But I am a Durand. I am Luna-blood. The world does not let me go so easily. The first thing I notice is that I am still inside my body, pinned to the bed by my own limp weight, Anson still moving inside me, slower now, his tears soaking my neck. For a moment I am sure I must be alive, that this is just the low-oxygen haze before the world comes rushing back. But I can’t feel my hands, can’t turn my head. My skin is tingling and my legs won’t answer. The only sensation is the rope, tight as ever, and the hollow in my chest where the next breath should be. I want to scream. I want to rage and snarl and bite, but I have no voice. My mind splits into a thousand Hannahs: one cursing the rope, one cursing Anson, one still stupidly hoping for rescue, for him to realize and stop and fix it. He doesn’t. His hands shake as he unties the knot, but he’s too late. I hear a keening sound, almost animal, and realize it’s coming from his own mouth. His body goes slack and heavy on mine. He is sobbing, rocking, still deep inside, as if he can pour life back into me through sheer desperation. It’s almost funny, in a sick way. I want to tell him, You i***t, you were always going to ruin us. You can’t fix what’s broken by breaking it harder. But I can’t speak. I can’t even think straight. My brain is skipping like a scratched record. Random memories bubble up—my sister’s laughter, my mother’s cinnamon rolls, the first time Anson called me Luna and meant it. Then, like a slap, the night my father told me never to trust an Alpha who was too good with words. “They’ll use your need for peace against you,” he’d said. “They’ll teach you to thank them for the wounds.” The world around me flickers, grows cold. My wolf stirs, howling inside a cage of muscle and bone, but she cannot break free. I reach out, not with hands but with the old, primal magic. The one that calls to the Moon. I do not pray for mercy. Not for myself, not for him. I do not want forgiveness. I want vengeance. Let me return, I whisper into the dark between worlds. Let me come back. Let me make him pay. As my vision collapses inward, the last thing I feel is Anson’s face pressed to mine, his hot tears leaving tracks on my cooling skin. The last thing I hear is his voice, whispering, “Hannah, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m—” I am gone. The room is silent but for the guttering of candles and the broken breathing of the man who loved me to death.