Lorraine’s POV
Pain has a sound.
It’s not screaming. It’s not sobbing. It’s the absence of breath. The stuttering gasp that gets caught sowhere between your lungs and your throat as you realize your body has beco your cage. That was . Trapped.
I touched my chest, slowly, terrified of what I’d feel, and what I wouldn’t. My fingertips t skin that wasn’t torn open anymore, but it wasn’t whole either. The wound had closed in so places, rough scar tissue forming like a rushed patch job. But it still throbbed violently underneath, numb and burning at once, as though my body wasn’t sure what to do with itself. I couldn’t breathe right. Every inhale felt like my ribs were cracking.
And then Kieran turned to .
"I have to mark you."
I blinked at him. "What?"
He moved closer, his expression serious, unreadable. There was sothing simring behind his eyes, sothing he didn’t want to see.
"To put it simply," he said, his voice rough, "if you want to be healed completely.... I need to claim you. Fully. With my mark. I must fill you up with my seed."
I let out a bitter, breathless laugh. "Are you seriously suggesting that the way to heal this...." I gestured to my barely closed chest wound, "....is to fuck ?"
His lips didn’t twitch. His expression didn’t change. That scared more than if he’d laughed it off.
"You’re not joking," I whispered.
"No."
I was already shaking my head. "That’s not healing. That’s..... taking advantage. It doesn’t make sense, how is you fucking supposed to heal ?"
His jaw flexed slightly, but still, he kept calm. Too calm.
"You don’t understand what it ans when a Lycan marks soone" he said, voice low, careful. "During sex, a Lycan’s release is charged with healing hormones ant to repair, restore, and strengthen a mate. It’s not fantasy. It’s survival."
I stared at him, blood pounding in my ears. "So let get this straight. You’re telling that Lycan.... cum is a magical healing redy?"
For a mont, a corner of his mouth twitched like he wanted to laugh, but he didn’t. He just nodded once, solemn.
I snorted, even though it hurt. "Well, fuck the healers then. Who needs dicine when you’ve got a dick full of miracles?"
That ti, he did smirk. Just a little.
But it faded quickly.
"I’m not trying to joke, Lorraine. I’m telling you the truth. Your wolf tried to save you, she woke up for a second and gave everything she had to keep you alive. But it wasn’t enough. That wound is opening again. You don’t have much ti."
I hated that his voice sounded so steady. So logical. Like he wasn’t standing in front of talking about marking as so kind of solution.
"No."
He arched a brow. "No?"
"I’m not giving you my body just because you think it’s convenient."
"Convenient?" His eyes narrowed. "Lorraine, I’ve fought every instinct I have to not claim you from the mont I saw you. This isn’t about convenience."
"Then what is it?" I snapped.
He was quiet.
And then he said, almost too softly, "It’s about survival."
I couldn’t listen anymore. I couldn’t sit there, bleeding and aching and confused out of my mind while the Lycan prince offered to sleep with like it was so noble sacrifice.
"I need the bathroom," I muttered, trying to push myself up. My arms trembled. My body scread.
He didn’t stop . He only pointed. "It’s through there. Don’t lock the door. If you collapse, I’m coming in."
I didn’t answer. I shuffled to the bathroom like a corpse and locked the door the second I got in.
The mont it clicked shut, I slumped against the sink and turned the faucet. Water burst forth, loud and chaotic, like my thoughts. I cupped my hands and splashed it on my face again and again until my skin stung from the cold.
Then I looked in the mirror.
And I saw her.
Not the strong, sharp-tongued girl I used to be. Not the wolf who stood her ground even when she had none. No. The reflection was soone else.
Pale. Hollow. Weak.
My shirt clung to , damp with sweat and....
No. No.
I looked closer.
The fabric at my chest was turning red.
My heart plumted.
With trembling fingers, I unbuttoned the top of my shirt and pulled it aside.
The gaping wound on my chest was reopening....
************
BloodFang Pack Grounds; Alpha’s Training Arena
The clang of fists eting flesh echoed across the BloodFang Pack’s private training arena, an open, brutal stretch behind the Alpha’s mansion where rcy was a forgotten concept. In the center stood a man, bare-chested and soaked in sweat, his movents swift and lethal. He was middle-aged, but age had done nothing to soften him. If anything, it had carved power and violence deeper into his bones. His fra was solid, his muscles coiled like a beast in constant motion.
Five warriors surrounded him, younger and strong, but they were nothing more than prey circling a seasoned predator. He moved among them like a phantom, striking with frightening precision. A growl escaped him as he elbowed one across the temple, sending him crashing to the ground. Another lunged, but he ducked low, swept his legs, and drove a clawed fist into his gut. The others barely had ti to react before he pivoted, grabbed one by the neck, and slashed his throat open with a flick of his claws.
Blood sprayed in a high arc, splattering across his face and chest. He paused for a mont, eyes glinting with a primal gleam. Then tgen slowly, deliberately, he ran his tongue across his arm, tasting the blood as though it were wine. A dark, satisfied grin stretched across his lips.
Just then, the crunch of hesitant footsteps echoed behind him. A young pack ssenger approached, eyes downcast, head bowed in deference.
"Alpha Ashthorne," he said, voice trembling.
He didn’t look at him at first. He knelt beside one of the downed warriors, dragging a claw along the man’s jaw. "What is it?" he asked coldly, still toying with his prey.
"We’ve.... just received a letter," the ssenger said, voice tight. "From Sir Alistair."
That made him pause. He turned, finally eting the ssenger’s eyes. "Alistair sends letters now?" he sneered. "I thought that was Selene’s job." He stood to his full height, towering over the smaller man. "What does the letter say?"
The ssenger hesitated. Just for a second. But that second stretched too long, and the Alpha’s gaze sharpened into sothing deadly.
"Well?" he barked.
"I.... I’m sorry, Alpha...." the ssenger stamred. "The letter says..... Selene Ashthorne is dead."
Silence fell over the training ground. The wind seed to still.
The ssenger swallowed hard. "It says.... the Lycan prince ripped your daughter’s heart out."
The breath that left Alpha Desmond Ashthorne was slow, asured, too asured. His expression did not change. No fury. No grief. Only a stillness that was far more terrifying. Then, ever so slightly, his nostrils flared, and his claws curled into fists.
His voice, when it ca, was low and laced with sothing ancient and murderous.
"Bring the letter."
The ssenger nodded and fled.
Desmond Ashthorne turned back to the bloodied field, his gaze distant now, though his body was still a weapon coiled tight.
"My daughter....." he murmured, voice barely audible. "Ripped apart by the Lycan Prince."
A breath. Then a cold smile.
"So it’s war then."
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