The rhythmic scrubbing of the servants' brushes was a brutal metronome to Arion's humiliation. He crouched in the dark wardrobe, a prisoner of both his shame and his body's treacherous desires. The sucking sensation on his belly mark was a constant, tormenting presence, a phantom pull that left him breathless and weak. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the sounds of the servants' mundane conversation, but their words pierced him like a thousand needles.
"Oh, look here," the second servant chirped, her voice too cheerful for the intimacy of the topic. "He must have been really worked up." She giggled.
Arion's face burned. He knew exactly what she was seeing. The scent of a royal rut, and the fluids left in its wake, were impossible to hide. He remembered Kyon's unbridled need, his ferocious, animalistic passion. He remembered his own desperate pleas, his surrender, his body's complete and utter obedience to his Alpha. The shame was a living, breathing thing, a suffocating presence that was far more painful than any physical blow.
He wanted to scream. He wanted to burst out of the closet and roar at them, to show them that he was the Black Tiger of the North, a powerful alpha who would not be humiliated. But he couldn't. He was a prisoner of his own making, a slave to a lie.
He felt a sudden, sharp jolt on his mark, a searing burn that made a sharp hiss escape his lips. He clamped his hand over his mouth, biting down on his knuckles to keep from crying out. The pain was unbearable, but his body, a traitor to his mind, was already responding. A low, guttural purr rumbled in his chest, a sound of deep, primal pleasure. He was an alpha, a man who had faced down a bear, and he was purring like a kitten.
He felt a wetness between his legs, a sign of his body's complete, humiliating surrender. His blood ran hot, and a wave of raw, unadulterated desire crashed over him. He was a man who had been taken, a man who had been claimed, and a man who, in his heart, was glad of it. But his body, a traitor to his mind, was still trying to reject it. A sharp, agonizing pain, a sucking and pulling sensation, flared up from the mark on his belly. He let out a low, pained groan, a sound that was quickly swallowed by the darkness.
He fell to his knees, his body trembling, and a wave of dizziness washed over him. The pain was so intense he thought he might pass out. It was a searing, burning sensation, a primal, overwhelming pain that was a direct result of the bond they shared. Kyon, a master of deception, was a master of pain, too.
Arion, a warrior who had faced down bears and rival clans without so much as a flinch, now trembled in the suffocating darkness of a royal wardrobe. His body, still reeling from the events of the night, was a battlefield of conflicting emotions. He was a man who was no longer in control of his own body, a man who was a prisoner of his own desire.