CHAPTER 4: THE ALPHA'S PREY
KRUL
The journey toward the Fortress of Fangs is marked by heavy rain, a biting cold, and the intoxicating scent of the human woman slung over my shoulder. I know she is trying to maintain her dignity by remaining still, but the raw strength of every step I take must remind her of her total vulnerability. She must be realizing that I do not walk like one of her men; she must notice that I move with predatory efficiency, ignoring the torrential rain and the branches lashing against my black bearskin cloak.
When we finally cross the threshold of the fortress, the shift in atmosphere is immediate. Vargheim's frigid air is replaced by a dry, stifling heat emanating from massive iron brazers flanking the Great Hall. I feel the moment the princess lifts her head, her damp hair brushing against my skin. A desire to know how my home would look through her eyes settles in my chest. I feel her gasp.
The Fortress of Fangs is no filthy cave, as I know they claim in Arandhia. It is an imposing structure of volcanic stone and dark cedar wood. Enormous tapestries recounting ancestral battles hang from the walls, and the floor is covered in the pelts of beasts whose existence she cannot even imagine. I feel her tense atop me as the gazes of my pack fix upon us. Dozens of my warriors, and some women given to us over the years, watched us with that same wild spark, pausing to observe my prize. I do not stop for anyone; she is mine, and I have to make that clear to everyone. I cross the main hall with firm strides, ignoring the whispers.
"Put me down!" the princess demands, her voice finally reclaiming a bit of that fire I found back in the carriage. "I can walk on my own, in case you haven't noticed!"
"In my kingdom, you walk when I allow it, human," I growl. My voice, deep and resonant, vibrates against her abdomen, and I can feel the energy coursing through her.
I begin to climb the spiral stairs, carved directly into the rock. The air up here is denser, heavy with my personal scent: a blend of storm and burnt wood. Finally, we enter my private chamber. I lower the princess from my shoulder abruptly, causing her to stagger slightly before regaining her balance on a bearskin rug. She turns quickly, searching for an exit, but there is none. I have closed the heavy wooden door behind me with an iron latch that echoes like a death sentence... for her.
"This is my private chamber, princess," I tell her as I remove my soaked cloak and hang it on a wooden peg on the wall. I am left only in my sleeveless leather tunic, which leaves my arms exposed. Her eyes dart to them immediately, tracing the scars from claws and fangs. She gasps discreetly and recoils until her calves hit the edge of my bed, made of rustic wood and covered in wool and silk blankets.
"Why have you brought me here?" she asks, and I see her making a great effort to control the trembling in her voice. "You should have taken me to the dungeons if you intend to use me as a bargaining chip with the elves."
I approach slowly. Every step I take invades her personal space. I enjoy seeing her pupils dilate and her breathing grow erratic. The temperature in the room seems to rise, but it's not from the brazier; it's from the violent chemistry my wolf projects toward her.
"Dungeons are for enemies with no value," I respond, stopping just inches away. I hadn't noticed how small she was until I see her tilt her head back to meet my eyes. "You are different. You are the first of the royal bloodline to set foot in Vargheim in a century. But there is something more to you, Princess of Arandhia."
I lift a hand and, before she can dodge, I caress her cheek with the back of my fingers. Her skin is burning. The contact feels like a jolt running through every nerve in my body. She lets out a hitched gasp, lips parted, and I know she felt it too.
"You have a scent that calls to me," I whisper, fixing my gaze on her lips. "A scent that says your blood is sweet, but your spirit is fire. The elves would have extinguished you, little princess. They would have turned you into an ice statue. I... I prefer to see you burn."
"I am... I am the tribute of King Cirdan," she manages to stammer. Her body is already giving me a different answer than her words. I notice her pulse racing in a way that means only one thing: desire. "He will come for me. There will be war."
I let out a dry laugh and lean in, trapping her against the bedpost.
"Let him come. I've been waiting for a reason to rip the pointed ears off that porcelain prince. But in the meantime, you belong to me. Not as a prisoner of the kingdom, but as my personal prey. You will eat what I eat, you will sleep where I sleep, and you will learn that the heat of a wolf is preferable to the coldness of an elf."
"I... I would have no way of knowing about the heat."
"And you never will," I growl. "You will only know mine."
I slide my hand from her cheek down to her neck, encircling it with my powerful fingers. I squeeze, not to hurt her, but to demonstrate my power. I run my thumb over her jugular, feeling the frantic rhythm of her heart.
"Your heart is racing," I murmur, bringing my face so close our breaths mingle. "Is it fear, princess? Or is it that your body finally recognizes a real man?"
Leyla closes her eyes. I know she is fighting the impulse to expose her neck. I take advantage of her vulnerability and press my nose against the space behind her ear, inhaling deeply. She lets out a low moan that doesn't sound like a protest.
"Damn you," she whispers, her hands involuntarily moving up to grip my forearms. Her skin feels hot.
"Curse me all you want," I respond against her skin, my voice turning more animalistic. "You cannot deny what is happening. Your blood claims me as much as mine claims you. It is the law of nature."
I pull away suddenly, leaving her trembling. I walk toward a stone table where there is a silver carafe and two cups.
"Take off those wet clothes," I order without looking back. "There are dry tunics in that chest. If you don't do it yourself in five minutes, I will do it for you. And I assure you, princess, I won't be delicate."
I see her hesitate in front of the chest through the reflection on the carafe. Her shoulders shake, and I am certain it is not just from the cold, but from a suppressed fury that I find exciting. I keep my back turned while I drink the bitter wine, giving her the privacy her human pride demands, though my instinct begs me to turn around.
I hear the hiss of wet silk hitting the floor. Then, silence. I know she is putting on the black tunic I chose for her myself. When I deem her ready, I turn just in time to see her crawl into the massive bed, wrapping herself in the furs until she is a ball. She looks so small... Her scent fills my chamber, claiming my space as hers.
I settle on the other side of the bed, listening as her breathing shifts from panic to the heaviness of sleep. Tonight, I will not touch her. My victory will not be taking her by force, but letting the weight of my presence seep into her bones.
Before Vargheim's grey sun peeks out, I rise. I have borders to watch and an instinct to tame. I leave her there, marked by my scent and surrounded by my walls, knowing that when she wakes, she will no longer be the same princess who left Arandhia.