Chapter 9 - The Bond's Hunger

Eli

They don't give me time to wash the blood from my throat.

Jace hauls me upright by the arm, face carved from stone, and drags me through the camp like carrion.

Wolves pause their conversations to watch us pass. Some smirking, some pitying, all knowing exactly what they're seeing.

I keep my eyes on the ground, dirt still caked to my bare skin, the night air biting at every fresh bruise.

Ronan's mark burns like a coal pressed to my neck. My wolf whimpers deep in my chest, needy, restless and cowering even in human form.

Get out of my head. Get out of my skin. Get out.

Jace shoves me through the lodge door. Heavy wood slams shut behind us, sealing out the cold and trapping me in air thick as syrup.

Smoke. Iron. His scent is everywhere, soaked into the timber walls, the rugs, the very oxygen I'm forced to breathe.

"Sit," Jace says, nodding toward a bench carved from raw wood.

I sit. Not because he told me to, because my legs are about to buckle.

He studies me with clinical detachment, gaze lingering on the bite marking my throat before he shakes his head.

"You're lucky," he mutters.

Laughter tears from my throat, sharp and broken. "Yeah. Totally living the dream."

"You don't understand him yet," Jace says, crouching in front of me.

His voice drops to something careful and considered.

"Ronan doesn't negotiate. He doesn't compromise. He takes what he wants and holds it until it breaks or bends. It's how he survived becoming Alpha."

"Good for him." My throat feels like I've swallowed glass. "Good for him. It’s not my problem."

Jace's jaw works. "It is your problem. You belong to him now. You better choose whether you’re breaking or bending."

He leaves me there. Alone with the fire crackling in the hearth, throwing dancing shadows that make the walls seem to breathe.

I stare at the floorboards, at my split knuckles, at the half-moon crescents my nails carved into my palms.

I try not to think about the way Ronan's mouth felt against my skin. I try not to think about the part of me that wanted him to bite deeper, claim me more thoroughly.

No. I slam the thought shut like a trap.

The bond thrums beneath my ribs, a low, insistent pulse that makes my body ache with unwanted need. I hate him. I hate that it isn't simple anymore.

The door opens again, and the air shifts like a storm rolling in. I know it's him without needing to lift my head.

Ronan steps inside, silent as death.

His shirt is back on. Black cotton hanging loose over his broad frame, but his hair is still damp from the shift, dark strands plastered to his forehead.

He closes the door behind him with a quiet click that makes the room shrink around us.

I stand on pure instinct, fists clenching. "Stay away from me."

He doesn't. He prowls closer with predatory patience, each step measured, golden eyes fixed on me like I'm the only thing in his world.

"You did well," he says softly. "Most wouldn’t have the balls to even try and fight back against me."

"Most don't have a choice."

His mouth curves into that lazy, dangerous smile that makes my pulse stutter.

"You always have a choice, little pet. You chose to run. You chose to hit me. And you chose to bare your throat when I pinned you."

My jaw locks. "I didn't-"

"You did." His voice is a dark lullaby threaded with iron. "Your wolf knows who leads. Your wolf knows who owns you now."

Rage flares white-hot, cutting through the bond's heat. "You don't own me. I’m not some object."

He moves like lightning. One hand at my throat, pressing me back against the wall.

His grip is firm enough to hurt and there's no mistaking the power coiled in his fingers.

He leans close enough that I taste his breath, smell the faint copper of my blood still staining his lips.

"I do," he says softly, each word a nail in my coffin. "And the sooner you stop pretending otherwise, the easier this will be for both of us."

The bond roars to life and heat pours through me, liquid and heavy, until my legs can barely hold me.

My breath comes in shallow gasps. I want to spit in his face. I want to drag him closer and lose myself in his darkness.

I hate myself for both impulses.

His thumb strokes the hollow of my throat. Slow and almost tender, a terrifying contrast to the iron in his grip.

"Sleep," he murmurs against my ear. "I'll come for you when I'm ready. And you’ll need your stamina."

He releases me and steps back, leaving me shaking against the wall as he turns and walks out. The lock clicks home with finality.

When he's gone, the silence is suffocating. I slide down to the floor, head in my hands, the bite on my neck throbbing in time with my fractured heartbeat.

I want out. I want him. I don't know which terrifies me more.