His Mate, His Prey

The Claiming Chase [Pt. I]

[Violet]

The stench of pheromones and liquor permeated the night air. There were all wealthy wolfmen with high positions in society, their sharp eyes prowling over the women lined up before them like cattle at the slaughter. Their voices were raised in amusement as they tossed wagers back and forth like it was all a game.

"She's a little scrawny, but those eyes are fierce. I'll wager for her."

"I doubt she's worth that much. Look at the thick redhead over there—now that's a female worth wagering on."

"Haha! I’m betting on my new car that you won’t catch her! But you see that blonde—from the way she’s shaking, I bet she would be the first to get caught. Poor thing."

And so the noise went on.

I kept my head down, shoulders curled inward, pressing myself into the shadows at the farthest edge of the platform upon which the men gazed. Fear only made them more eager. So I stayed still, forcing my breathing—my rage, to stay even, resisting the urge to meet anyone's eyes with annoyance.

I needed to disappear, and thankfully, my small frame helped me blend into the shadows.

'Wastrels. How dare they treat us females like livestock?' I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood, feeling the burn of the metal cuff on my ankle. Aside from its weight, I could tell that it had to be what was keeping me from shifting.

"Tsk."

Of course, they would make sure their 'prizes' couldn't fight back.

I should have expected it. Killing females was forbidden—especially now, when our numbers were dwindling. But that didn't mean we were safe. No, it just meant they had found more creative ways to use us.

And this?

To them, this was sport.

The Claiming Chase.

A twisted game played by the elite, where powerful wolves bid on captive women and let them loose into the wild, only to hunt them down themselves. The first to catch a woman, owned her for the night, free to do whatever they pleased. The only rule? No outright killing. A waste of good stock, after all.

'Or so the slaver had said.'

Tonight was my first time hearing of such a vile sport. And to think that my pack had sold me off just days after my trial.

"Everyone, please place your bets. We are about to begin." Someone announced and I couldn't help but wonder how they would feel if it were their mothers or daughters in our stead.

But it wasn't always like this. There was a time when both genders cherished their mates and bonds—a time when rejection could turn one into an outcast. A time when females were sacred and worshipped. Although I'd only heard about that bygone era from books and stories.

Mates were once treasured and the Goddess created bonds to bring love and continuity to our species. But even then, things weren't perfect.

In that era, Females held dominance over the males they were bonded to. A female mate's command, once spoken, could bend even the strongest Alpha to his knees. To say the least, it was a woman's world.

But instead of honouring it, instead of embracing the bond their own Goddess had gifted them, men feared it. They hated it.

And so, they avoided their mates like the plague.

In today's society, rejection was a norm and females had become scarce commodities due to constant maltreatment and abuse.

Most males chose breeders instead—women without the mate bond, easy to control, easy to discard once they served their purpose. No one wished to have daughters and birthing sons elevated one's status in a pack.

As for the females, belonging to a strong pack was the only way to live. In the unfortunate case that one's pack was raided, the women captured were often used as breeders or for sport. Like now.

I glanced at the woman beside me. Some trembled. Some still tried to hold on to their dignity. A few bore bruises, looking resigned to their fates.

How sad. So many of them must have grown accustomed to living this way.

"May I have your attention!"

The announcer, a wiry middle-aged man with a croaky voice, stepped forward onto the raised platform, a mask shielding half of his face, but compared to the guests, his was far more flamboyant. "Tonight, gentlemen, we have a special batch for you. Unspoiled, spirited, and worth every bill you dare to gamble. Some of you will leave with new playthings. Others? Well, better luck next time."

Chuckles followed his comment.

"As always, there is only one rule," he continued, his voice carrying easily over the restless murmur of men eager to begin. "Do not kill the females."

The moment the words left his mouth, someone let out a snort and others laughed.

"Everything else?" The announcer spread his arms with an exaggerated shrug. "Up to you. And If any woman catches your fancy," the announcer went on, "privately discuss the purchase with me after the event. The highest bidder wins."

"Enough talk—let the bitches out already!" A voice from the group of men called out, and a few others chorused in agreement.

The announcer chuckled, shaking his head like a patient teacher humouring unruly students. "Impatience, impatience! Very well. Ladies, listen closely."

He turned toward us, his masked face unreadable even under the moonlight.

"At the sound of the whistle, you will be given a head start. I urge you all to run as fast as you can! Try to escape. The least you can do is make them work for their prize." Then he lowered his voice. "Try to make a good impression so I can make a goddamn fortune off the lot of you. And if I don't meet my quota for the month, no food for two days!"

Some women flinched. Others, despite their fear, looked eager—perhaps hoping that if they ran fast enough, they could somehow find freedom beyond the trees. Though it would never be that easy.

Suddenly, a strange sensation shot through my skull.

Then I felt it.

A weighty stare.

Someone in the crowd was watching me, and not with the casual, assessing gaze of a bidder. This was different—sharper. Heavier.

'Who?'

I swept my gaze over the masked figures, searching for the source. Was it someone I knew? A face from the Moonfall pack, perhaps? But no—when my gaze landed on him, I knew immediately.

He was unfamiliar. And yet—

My blood heated, my instincts roaring in response. Even through the sea of different scents—the sweat, the liquor, the filthy—I could pick his out. It dulled out everything else.

Behind his mask, his blood-red eyes burned into mine—cold, predatory. If I were to describe the feeling of his gaze: I was staring at death itself, and he was staring back.

'What... the hell.' My heart stuttered and my body froze.

Surely, he felt it too.

My mate? Here?

In this vile place?

'How ironic.' I almost laughed at the thought and in my daze, the whistle blew.

Women scattered in all directions, their silhouettes vanishing into the moonlit forest.

Yet I stood frozen, my breath caught in my throat, staring at the man fate had cruelly chosen for me. He was one of them. A man who found entertainment in this disgusting sport.

He was no better than that vermin, Theodore.

"Disgusting," I spat, both fists clenched at my sides as I dived off the stage.

The ground was rough and cold beneath my bare feet as I charged toward the forest, my pulse hammering.

I had to run.

I couldn't die here. Not until I paid the Moonfall pack in kind. Not until I got my sister out of there.

Still, I found myself looking back.

That stare.

That presence.

He was still watching me.

And for some reason, I knew he would come for me.