The clang of practice steel echoed across the sanctuary's main training yard, a rhythmic counterpoint to the crisp morning air. Althea moved through a defensive form, her movements fluid but hesitant. She sparred with Lysander, one of Donnall's most respected warriors, a handsome wolf whose patient focus was a stark contrast to the usual desperation of the battlefield.
"You're overextending on your parry," Lysander said, easily deflecting her practice blade. "Keep your center. Let the blow come to you."
From the edge of the yard, Connall watched, his arms crossed over his chest. His stated purpose was assessing the pack's combat readiness, a necessary duty for their fragile alliance. But his eyes were fixed on Althea. Lysander patiently coached her, his expression a mask of professional focus. A low, unfamiliar growl of irritation rumbled deep in Connall's chest, a dissonant chord in the quiet symphony of the morning, an emotion he couldn't place and didn't welcome.
"Like this," Lysander said, stepping closer. To correct her footing, he placed a hand on her lower back, a brief, entirely practical touch meant to guide her posture.
It was nothing. A teacher correcting a student.
For Connall, it was a lit fuse. The touch detonated something primal within him. The low irritation ignited into a hot, possessive rage that burned away all logic. This wasn't tactical. This wasn't about pack security. It was a territorial imperative that screamed from the depths of his soul.
His control shattered. He didn't move. He didn't speak. But the fated bond, once a channel for shared agony, erupted from him. It wasn't pain. It was a silent, psychic shockwave of pure Alpha dominance, a ripple of raw power that washed over the entire training yard. It carried a single, undeniable thought, a broadcast that slammed into the senses of every wolf present.
*Mine.*
Althea faltered, her breath catching as the raw claim hit her. It was overwhelming, a possessive force that wrapped around her like a shield of iron, staking a territory she hadn't known was in dispute.
Lysander froze, his hand flying from her back as if burned. He took a hasty step away, his eyes wide with shock and dawning understanding. He had just trespassed, and his every instinct screamed it.
A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the yard. The sounds of sparring died. Every head turned, eyes darting between the furious, stone-faced prince at the edge of the field and the shaken she-wolf at its center.
Connall's face was a mask of cold fury, his own confusion warring with the savage instinct he had just unleashed. Without a word, he turned on his heel and stalked away, leaving a wake of crackling, unanswered tension.
***
He paced the narrow confines of his lookout post like a caged wolf, the granite walls doing nothing to contain the storm inside him. An emotion he refused to name gnawed at him. He tried to frame it in logic, to dress it in the cold language of strategy. *A potential breach of security. A lack of discipline around the pack's future Luna.* The words were hollow, pathetic shields against the truth. It was too personal, too visceral.
The image of Lysander's hand on her back replayed in his mind, a relentless loop that coiled the rage tighter in his gut. It was jealousy, raw and uncut, and it drove him toward a confrontation he couldn't win with reason alone.
***
In her small quarters across the sanctuary, Althea sat on the edge of her cot, her hands trembling slightly. The public nature of his claim had been humiliating, a raw exposure of the bond that tied them together. Yet the power behind it had been breathtaking. A low, constant thrum of his possessiveness still hummed through their connection. It was unsettling. It was dangerously thrilling. This was a new facet of the bond, a dark and demanding side that had nothing to do with soothing pain and everything to do with a primal, undeniable claim.
***
The door to her quarters opened without a knock.
Connall stood there, his large frame filling the doorway, his shoulders blocking out the lamplight from the hall. His eyes burned with a dark fire, the same possessive energy from the training yard crackling around him like a physical force.
"What was that?" she demanded, rising to her feet, her own anger a welcome shield against the power rolling off him. "What right did you have to humiliate me in front of them all?"
He stalked into the room, the door swinging shut behind him. "Reckless," he rasped, his voice low and strained. "You were being reckless. You forget the danger we're in."
"I was training," she shot back, taking a step backward as he advanced. "Something you and Donnall insist I need more of. Or am I only allowed to learn if you're the one teaching me?"
He flinched as if struck. He kept coming, backing her up until her spine hit the cold stone of the wall. He caged her in, his hands slamming against the stone on either side of her head. The sound was a thunderclap in the sudden silence.
"You have no idea," he snarled, the words raw with an emotion he could no longer contain.
The verbal fight died, starved of air. It was replaced by the overwhelming force of their bond, a current of pure possession. This wasn't about seeking relief from mutual pain. This was about enforcing the claim he had made on her soul.
He crushed his mouth to hers.
It wasn't gentle. It was a kiss of ownership, a bruising, desperate confirmation of the declaration he'd made to the world. It was teeth and tongue, and a low growl vibrated through her bones. A hot, possessive energy poured from him into her, a brand against her spirit.
He broke the kiss only to sweep her into his arms. Two powerful strides and he didn't so much lay her on the cot as possess the space, following her down without breaking contact, his weight a crushing, welcome reality.
He parted her legs with his knee, his gaze pinning her, a silent question of challenge, not permission. Her hips lifted in a defiant arch, a shameless answer to the unspoken dare. This wasn't seduction; it was the inferno he had ignited in the training yard, and now they were both burning in it.
He drove into her with a single, brutal thrust, staking his claim with an authority that left no room for doubt. Her back arched off the cot, a sharp cry torn from her lips—a sound of pain, pleasure, and shocked surrender all at once.
His rhythm wasn't about finding a shared pleasure, but about possession. Each deliberate, punishing thrust was a hammer blow, driving his claim deeper into her very soul. He was branding her as his not by fate, but by choice and raw power. Swept up in the storm, she met every forceful thrust with an arch of her own, her body not just accepting the brand but searing it into place.
Her release was a sharp, splintering cry, the sound of the final tumbler clicking into place in a lock. His own guttural roar followed, the sound of the key turning, sealing the bond not as a promise, but as an undeniable fact.
As the storm finally broke, his ragged breathing was a hot whisper against her ear.
"You. Are. Mine."
In the echoing silence, the bond settled, no longer a curse to be soothed, but a cage whose bars she had just willingly helped to lock.
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🌕 **[End of Episode]**
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