The Prisoned Alpha

Chapter 5

The door to Xander’s cell clanged shut with a sound of finality, a familiar, brutal note in the gray symphony of his imprisonment. The guards, their faces still grim with the silent warning of his power, had returned him to his box, and for the first time in ten years, the solitude was not a comfort, but a suffocating burden.

He sank onto his cot, the stale air of the cell a profound silence after the intoxicating scent of strawberries and mint.

He ran a calloused hand down his face, the muscles in his jaw so tight they ached. The wolfsbane was already doing its work, a slow, icy poison that was draining the heat from his veins. But the drug could not touch the fire that now raged in his mind, a primal, all-consuming flame lit by a pair of bright hazel eyes and a single, intoxicating scent.

Bane, the beast that had been a seething, silent rage for a decade, was now strangely quiet, his presence a low, rumbling hum of profound satisfaction. The rage had been replaced with something far more dangerous: a predatory contentment, a hunger that had finally found its target.

"Our mate," Bane finally said, the words a low, guttural growl of pure, possessive triumph. "She is so small. So soft. And that smell… I have never smelled anything so delicious."

Xander, his heart still hammering against his ribs, finally let out a shaky breath he didn’t know he was holding. He had found her. His second chance. A human mate, a thing of impossible rarity, a miracle he had long given up hope of ever finding. He closed his eyes, the image of her face, her sweet, innocent smile, a brand on the inside of his eyelids.

She’s a human, Bane. This is dangerous, Xander thought, the words a desperate plea for reason against the overwhelming tide of the wolf’s desire.

"Human… yes. But ours," Bane countered, the word a possessive claim. "I want to mark her, Alexander. I want to claim her. Now."

The demand was a physical force, a deep-seated instinct that vibrated through every cell in his body. Xander’s stomach clenched. He knew the primal urge to mark and claim their mate was a powerful, biological imperative for a werewolf, a way of cementing the bond and protecting their mate from all others. But with a human, it was a death sentence.

We can’t, Bane. She wouldn’t survive the bite. It would kill her, Xander thought, the words a bitter truth that was a cold dagger in his heart.

Bane’s contentment vanished, replaced by a low, mournful growl. "But… we will die if we do not. The bond… it will kill us."

No, Xander corrected, his mind a steel trap of logic and hard-won knowledge. The bond will not kill us until it is started. The bond starts when we… mate with her. That’s when the clock starts. We have to… possess her, for the bond to begin. But we have to find a way to mate with her without killing her.

Bane’s mournful growl transformed into a low, predatory hum of pleasure. The wolf had a one-track mind, and the idea of "possessing" her, of claiming her in the most primal, intimate way, was a thought of unbridled, animalistic joy.

"Take her," Bane rumbled, the word a dark, seductive thought in Xander's mind. "I will claim her, I will take her in every way. I want to hear what sounds that pretty little mouth could make when she is beneath me."

The image that Bane painted was a dark, erotic fantasy that sent a rush of heat and shame through Xander’s body. He shook his head violently, a silent, desperate prayer for control.

Stop it, Bane! he commanded, the thought a loud, angry shout in his mind. We can’t. It’s too risky. She’s a human. She’s fragile. We have to protect her. From them… and from us.

"Protect her?" Bane growled, the word a guttural sound of pure contempt. "She is our mate. She is our property. We take her, we breed her, and we protect her. She is ours, Alexander. She is ours."

She is not a thing to be claimed! Xander roared, a deep, silent anger rising in his chest. She is a person. And we will not hurt her. Not ever.

Bane went silent for a long moment, the shift a profound, unnerving change. When he spoke again, his voice was a low, chilling whisper, a dark prophecy.

"You can try, Alexander," Bane said, the words a venomous threat. "You can try to resist me. But now that we have found her, it will get harder and harder to ignore the bond. Every day, every hour, every moment that we are apart, the primal need will grow. And when the full moons rise… you will not be able to control me. Not even the wolfsbane. You will have to choose, Alexander. Her… or your control. And when you choose her, I will be the one to claim her. And I will not be gentle. She is ours."

Xander ran a hand down his face, the cold stone of his cell walls a stark, brutal reality. Bane was right. He knew the wolf was right. The bond of a mate, once the scent was found, was a powerful, all-consuming force. The full moons, which had been a difficult but manageable battle for a decade, would now be a raging war. He had to protect her, but he also had to protect her from the most dangerous enemy of all: himself. He was a king in a cage, and the only thing that could set him free was also the one thing that could destroy the woman he was destined to love.

The door to her small office clicked shut, and Olivia sank into the worn leather chair behind her desk, the cold steel of the chair a stark contrast to the warmth that still tingled on her hand. She stared at her hand, the one that had rested on his arm, and a shiver, both of fear and of a strange, unfamiliar thrill, ran down her spine. The sterile silence of the infirmary was a far cry from the chaotic noise of her mind, a maelstrom of conflicting thoughts and emotions.

Her first impression of Alexander Mahon had been nothing short of staggering. The file had been clinical, grim, and utterly devoid of anything that could have prepared her for the reality of the man. The mugshot had hinted at a quiet intensity, but it hadn't captured the sheer scale of him. He was massive, a living, breathing monument of pure muscle and bone, his presence a physical force that seemed to fill the entire room. His body, a canvas of intricate tribal tattoos, spoke of a primal, untamed nature, but his demeanor was one of utter, rigid control. He was a paradox, a walking contradiction of raw power and silent stillness.

And he was, in a very clinical and professional sense, devastatingly sexy. The thought was a jarring, unprofessional whisper in her mind, and she mentally slapped herself for it. But she couldn't deny the immediate, visceral reaction her body had had to him. The shaggy black hair and beard, the hard lines of his jaw, the deep, dark intensity of his bright blue eyes—it was all an aesthetic of a different, more dangerous kind of man. A man who, in a place like this, shouldn't have appealed to her in the slightest.

He was a man who, according to his file, was a monster. A murderer. But as she sat there, replaying the scene, she couldn't reconcile the man in the flesh with the monster in the report. His presence had screamed power, dominance, and a raw, untamed force of nature, but it had also, in a strange and terrifying way, felt… safe. She knew, with all her professional training and her common sense, that this was the most dangerous kind of thinking a professional could have. She was romanticizing a killer. But she couldn't shake the feeling. He was dangerous, for sure, a living weapon of immense power, but there was a quiet, almost gentle sadness in his eyes that made her feel a profound sense of sympathy.

Then there was the medicine. She pulled his file from her desk, the thin piece of paper with the single, shocking word CLASSIFIED a physical testament to the unsettling questions in her mind. The vial had been unlabeled, brought in by the guards, and whisked away just as quickly. The medicine itself had been a pale, cloudy liquid, and his reaction to it… it had been one of pure pain. His body had tensed, his breathing had become ragged, and his knuckles had been white as he clenched his fists. It wasn't the reaction of a man receiving a standard psychiatric medication; it was the reaction of a man being poisoned. It was hurting him.

And his eyes. The memory of it was a sharp, vivid image in her mind, a moment so surreal she almost convinced herself she had imagined it. She had looked into those piercing blue eyes, and for a fleeting, terrifying moment, they had turned into a swirling abyss of complete, pitch black. It was impossible, of course. A trick of the light, a momentary hallucination brought on by the stress of her new job. But the memory was so clear, so sharp, that a cold, icy dread, a fear born of the supernatural, settled in the pit of her stomach.

Whatever was going on with Alexander Mahon, it was not what the prison wanted her to believe. The classified medication, the absurdly high dosage, the reaction of a man in pain, the warden’s pointed warnings, and that fleeting, impossible shift in his eyes—all of it pointed to a profound secret, a conspiracy that went far beyond a simple case of mental illness. She had come to Black River Prison hoping to do some good, hoping to find a way to help the lost and the broken. She knew, with a certainty that was both thrilling and terrifying, that she had just found her first and most important patient. She was curious, she was fascinated, and above all else, she was highly interested in Alexander Mahon. She would not be giving up on this case.