C3

Briallen Wintermere lay paralyzed on the mattress inside the Alpha's Moon Chamber, her core throbbing as Alpha Caelor Dreadmoor loomed over her.

"Alpha Caelor, please, you have to tell me what you did with the pack documents my father signed," Briallen gasped, her voice trembling as she pressed her body back into the headboard.

"Your father sold the Wintermere territory rights to the Dreadmoor Pack the second he realized his debt was bottomless," Caelor growled, his muscular frame blocking out the dim light of the chamber. He reached up, taking off his clear-lens glasses—folding them closed, one temple at a time—before tossing them onto the nightstand. The harmless executive mask was gone, replaced by the lethal, possessive authority of a supreme Alpha.

"No, Torsten wouldn't do that to our family line," Briallen whispered, tears pricking her eyes as she looked up at him. At four-foot-five, her plus-size body felt entirely consumed by his massive presence. "Nerys told me the contracts were just a formality for the Moon Ascension Celebration!"

"Nerys Ashgrove lied to you, little Luna," Caelor purred, leaning down to trap her wrists against the mattress, his thumb tracing the swollen line of her bottom lip. "She and Garran Hollowclaw have been plotting to drain the Wintermere Ancestral Lodge dry for months. But they didn't count on me claiming you first."

Briallen's breath hitched as his heavy hand slid down her ribcage, his broad palm clamping possessively over the curve of her hip. The intense mate-bond heat surged between them, making her pussy ache with a desperate, heavy wetness despite her panic. "Garran... Garran said he was going to take me to the lower pack houses tonight."

"Garran Hollowclaw won't ever lay a hand on what belongs to the Dreadmoor Alpha," Caelor dark-talked against her neck, his sharp teeth grazing her sensitive skin right over her pulse point. "I brought you to the Dreadmoor Alpha Fortress because your body, your heat, and your sacred Luna title are mine. You're going to carry my heir, Briallen."

"Caelor... it's too much," she moaned, her body betraying her as her thighs spread open beneath his weight, her wet core frictioning against the heavy bulge in his trousers. "Elswyth said you only wanted me to secure the regional power."

"Elswyth Thornfield is a bitter mistress who thinks she still has a place in this den," Caelor growled into her mouth before capturing her lips in a bruising, possessive kiss. He tasted like expensive whiskey and raw dominance, his tongue invading her mouth while his free hand slid down between her legs, finding her dripping center.

Briallen gasped into the kiss as his fingers began to stroke her swollen clit with relentless, commanding rhythm. Her mind reeled from the betrayal of her own family and pack allies, but the intoxicating heat of his touch was driving her out of her mind. "Caelor... please!"

"Say it, Briallen. Tell me you belong to your Alpha," Caelor demanded, pulling back just enough to stare into her dark, blown-out pupils.

"I belong to you, Alpha Caelor," she cried out, her back arching off the bed as a violent, explosive orgasm racked her entire body, her inner walls clamping hard against his intrusive fingers.

Caelor let out a low, predatory chuckle as he felt her slick juices coat his hand. He unbuckled his belt with one swift motion, freeing his thick, throbbing cock, and positioned the crown right at her tight, unblemished entrance.

Before she could speak, the secure comms line on the bedstand shattered the silence with a sharp chime, displaying a high-priority message from the Wintermere council.

Caelor glanced at the screen, his jaw clenching as he read the incoming alert aloud: "Torsten Wintermere has just declared the Dreadmoor mate bond void under ancient pack law."