The Feral Alpha's Captive Chapter 15: His Claim

🦋ALTHEA

The world seed to stand still, his question hung in the air like I would if I didn’t figure out an answer to his question.

I swallowed, my throat working past the lump. Past the borders of the werewolf races’ territory were other races.

But I was neither witch nor fae.

He had caught on to one lie already. I would not dare another.

"I don’t know why—" I began, only to be cut short by the Hell Hound’s curt command.

"Strip."

My eyes widened, the tendrils returning, creeping over my skin.

Not here too—

"Please, I—"

"I have no trust in your kind, cur," he said, his voice flat and cold. "You survived sothing that should have killed you. Which ans you are hiding sothing. A marking. A spell. So trick your mother taught you."

His shadows coiled around tighter, forcing to stay upright despite my trembling legs.

"So strip," he continued, his tone leaving no room for argunt. "Or I will have my shadows do it for you."

The Vargans watched, their expressions hard and unforgiving. So looked curious. Others looked disgusted. None looked away.

My hands shook as I reached for the torn fabric of my clothes. My fingers fumbled with the edges, and I hated how weak I looked, how small, how broken.

"I’m not—" I choked out, my voice barely a whisper. "There’s nothing—"

"Then you have nothing to hide," he said simply.

I closed my eyes, tears burning behind my lids. This was worse than Draven. At least with him, it had been behind closed doors, in the dark, where no one could see my sha.

Here, it was a spectacle.

Again.

My fingers moved on their own, pulling at the fabric, tearing it away piece by piece. The cold air bit at my skin, and I felt every eye on —judging, calculating, stripping down to nothing.

I covered myself best as I could, humiliation coloured red.

The Hell Hound stepped closer, and I flinched, but the shadows held still.

He circled slowly, looking without his eyes. sothingAnything.

His hand reached out, and I tensed, but he didn’t touch . Just gestured to the shadows, and they turned , rotating like an object on display.

"No markings," he said finally, his tone almost... disappointed.

"No spells," one of the Vargans called out.

"Nothing," another confird.

The Hell Hound stopped in front of , tilting his head. "Then what are you?"

I didn’t have an answer.

Because I didn’t know.

"Put her in the cells," he said finally, turning away. "And keep her under watch. If she’s hiding sothing, we’ll find it."

The shadows released , and I collapsed, my hands scrambling to cover myself as the Vargans moved forward with chains.

"Wait—" I gasped, but no one listened.

They hauled to my feet, wrapping iron around my wrists, my ankles, and dragged away.

The iron stung, burning against my skin, and I bit back a scream from the searing agony. Silver. The chains were laced with silver. My skin blistered where the tal touched, and I gasped, choking on the pain.

The Vargans didn’t care. They pulled forward, and I stumbled, my naked body trembling from cold and shock and humiliation. I tried to cover myself, but the chains made it impossible. Every step was agony, every breath a reminder of how exposed I was.

And then—

A voice.

"Wait."

The Vargans stopped.

I lifted my head, my vision swimming, and saw her.

An old woman, stepping out from the shadows at the edge of the hall. Silver markings covered her face, more intricate than any I’d seen, winding across her skin like living vines. One eye was missing, the socket dark and hollow, but the other eye—sharp, piercing, ancient—locked onto .

She moved slowly, her steps deliberate, her presence commanding despite her frail appearance. The Vargans stepped aside without a word, and she ca closer, leaning on a gnarled staff.

Her gaze swept over , lingering on my shoulder, and her remaining eye widened.

"The mark," she said, her voice cracked and rough, like dry leaves. "The mate mark on the trespasser—"

She turned, her eye finding the Hell Hound.

"—is the sa one on the Alpha."

The hall fell silent.

Deathly.

Abysmal.

The kind of silence that felt like the world had stopped breathing.

I didn’t understand. Couldn’t process what she’d just said.

Mate mark?

What mate mark?

I didn’t have—

But the Vargans understood. Their faces shifted from confusion to shock to sothing that looked almost like horror. Murmurs erupted, rising like a wave, voices overlapping in disbelief.

"No—"

"That’s impossible—"

"She’s his mate?"

"The Alpha’s mate—"

"Morgana’s daughter—"

The Hell Hound didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Just stood there, his shoulders tense, his hands clenched into fists.

And then, slowly, he turned.

His masked face locked onto , and even though I couldn’t see his eyes, I felt the weight of his gaze—heavy, suffocating, furious.

"Show ," he said, his voice low and deadly.

The old woman gestured to my shoulder, and the shadows coiled around , forcing to turn, to expose the mark I didn’t even know I had.

I felt his presence behind , cold and oppressive, and then—

His hand.

Not rough. Not gentle.

Just there.

His fingers traced over my shoulder blade, and I flinched, gasping at the touch. It burned. Not from pain, but from sothing else. Sothing that made my chest tighten and my breath hitch.

"It’s the sa," the old woman confird.

The murmurs grew louder, more frantic.

"How—"

"When—"

"She’s been marked—"

"The bond—"

The Hell Hound’s hand dropped, and he stepped back.

"No," he said, his voice flat and final. "No."

The old woman tilted her head. "You cannot deny what the Moon has—"

"I can," he interrupted, his voice sharp. "And I will."

He turned away, his shadows surging around him like a storm.

"Take her to the cells," he ordered, his tone cold and absolute. "And chain her with silver. I don’t care if it burns. I don’t care if she screams."

His voice dropped, venomous and final.

"She is not my mate."

And then he was moving, shoulders strung high with tension, jaw clenched in disgust.

Leaving standing there.

Naked.

Chained.

With a new mate mark etched onto my skin.

And a bond to the man who hated more than anyone in the world.

"Wait!" I scread, the word tearing out of , raw and desperate.

He stopped.

Didn’t turn.

Just stopped.

"Please—" I choked out, my voice breaking. "Please, I can be of use. I know things. About Hollowhowl. About the pack. Secrets. I—"

"Secrets?" one of the Vargans scoffed. "What would a wolfless oga know about—"

"Listen to her," the crone said, her voice cutting through the hall like a blade.

The Hell Hound’s shoulders tensed further, but he didn’t move. Didn’t turn.

The old woman stepped closer to him, her staff tapping against the stone floor. "This could be the opportunity," she said quietly, but her voice carried. "To unmask him."

My brow furrowed. Unmask who?

The Hell Hound turned, just slightly, enough that I could see the edge of his masked profile.

"The Silvermoth operates in Hollowhowl," the crone continued, her tone deliberate as if she did not want to trigger . "If she knows the pack’s secrets—"

"She knows nothing," the Hell Hound said flatly.

"Then what have you lost by asking?" the crone pressed.

Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy.

And then, slowly, reluctantly, the Hell Hound turned to face .

His masked face was still unnerving, the silver glinting in the torchlight, the emptiness where his eyes should be making my stomach twist.

"The only reason," he said, his voice low and venomous, "I will let you live is if you are of use to ."

I swallowed hard, my throat dry.

"Tell ," he continued, taking a step closer. "The identity of the Silvermoth."

The room went still.

The Silvermoth.

The na hung in the air like a curse.

I’d heard whispers of him—no, stories. Legends. A ghost that moved through Hollowhowl like smoke, leaving bodies in his wake. Gammas, mostly. The High Alpha’s enforcers. Found drained of blood, their throats torn, their faces frozen in terror.

No one knew who he was.

No one had ever seen him.

He was a myth.

A nightmare.

The one who left silver moths after every assault on the pack, hence, his na.

And the Hell Hound expected to know his identity?

I almost laughed.

Almost.

But then I saw it—the expectation in the way he stood, the dismissal already forming in the set of his shoulders. He didn’t think I knew. Didn’t think I could possibly know.

He was asking because the crone had told him to.

Not because he believed .

And sothing inside —sothing reckless, sothing desperate, sothing that had been caged for far too long—snapped.

"I know who it is," I said, my voice steady despite the trembling in my hands.

The Hell Hound tilted his head. "Do you?"

His tone was mocking. Dismissive.

I lifted my chin, my eyes locking onto the empty silver where his eyes should be.

"Yes," I said. "I know who the Silvermoth is."

He waited.

The Vargans leaned in.

The crone watched with her single, piercing eye.

I took a breath.

And then I said it.

"It’s ."