Chapter 13: Scars and Submission
The phone buzzed again, a persistent, angry insect on the marble. Elias didn’t move. The weight of him, the solid reality of his skin against hers, was the only anchor in the spinning room. The bond hummed, a low, satiated frequency that vibrated in her bones.
“Ignore it,” she murmured into his shoulder, her voice hoarse.
He let out a long, controlled breath, his nose buried in her hair. “I can’t. It’s Marcus. The pattern is… insistent.” He slowly peeled his body from hers, the separation feeling physically painful, a tearing of warmth. The cool air hit her damp skin, raising goosebumps.
He stood, a towering silhouette against the dawn-filled windows, and walked naked to where his phone glowed on the floor near a shattered vase. He scooped it up, thumb swiping. She watched the muscles in his back flex, the deep, red scratches she’d left there standing out in lurid relief. A possessive thrill, quiet and deep, curled in her stomach.
“Talk.” His voice was all Alpha again, flat and commanding. A short pause. “Understood. Give us twenty minutes.” He ended the call, his thumb rubbing at his temple. When he turned back, his silver eyes were clear, calculating, the vulnerability of moments ago locked away behind a practical mask. “Council is assembled. My head of security is also here. Apparently, the power surge tripped silent alarms on three floors. They’re concerned.”
“About the lights, or about you killing me?” Sera asked, pushing herself up to sit. Every muscle protested.
A faint, grim smirk touched his lips. “The latter, I expect. My reputation has its uses.” He extended a hand to her. “Up. We reek of sweat, sex, and blood. We can’t go down there like this.”
She took his hand, letting him pull her to her feet. Her legs were wobbly. He held her steady for a second, his gaze dropping to the faded bruise on her ribcage, the older marks, then the fresh, vivid evidence of their coupling. His jaw tightened. Without a word, he bent and scooped her into his arms, cradling her against his chest.
“Elias, I can walk.”
“Humor me.”
He carried her through the battlefield of the living room, stepping over debris with a predator’s grace, and into the vast, opulent bathroom. It was a temple of cool grey marble and polished chrome. He set her down gently on a wide, upholstered bench and turned to the glass-walled shower, twisting knobs. Steam began to billow, clouding the mirrors.
The water was a blessing. It hit her skin, hot and needle-sharp, washing away the dried blood from her neck, the dust of glass, the sticky evidence of him. She tipped her head back, letting it stream through her hair. He stepped in behind her, his body a solid wall of heat.
For a moment, they just stood under the torrent, breathing in the steam. The bond, muted by the water’s white noise, still thrummed. His hands came up, heavy and sure, and began to work shampoo into her hair. The act was so startlingly mundane, so unexpectedly tender, that her throat closed up. His fingers massaged her scalp, methodical, thorough. No one had taken care of her like this in years.
She leaned back into his touch, a soft sigh escaping her. This quiet intimacy was more disarming than the frenzy on the rug. This felt like belonging.
He rinsed her hair, the suds swirling at their feet. Then he took a bar of expensive, sandalwood-scented soap and began to wash her body. His movements were clinical at first, but as his palms slid over the curve of her shoulders, the slope of her back, the swell of her hips, they slowed. Became something else.
Her own hands came up, sliding over his chest, feeling the network of scars beneath her fingertips—thin silver lines, a thicker, rougher patch near his ribs. History written in flesh. She traced one long, faded mark that ran diagonally across his pectoral.
His breath hitched. The clinical rhythm of his hands stalled.
She turned under the water to face him, her gaze following her fingers. “Who gave you this one?”
“A jealous Beta, years ago. A challenge for pack position. He’s now one of my most loyal lieutenants.” His voice was rough.
“And this?” Her thumb brushed the rough patch.
“That,” he said, catching her wrist, his eyes darkening, “is from the sister of the omega I told you about. A silver dagger. A parting gift.”
The cold space in him yawned open through the bond, a brief, frigid draft. She didn’t flinch away this time. She moved into him, pressing her lips to the marred skin. A kiss of acceptance, not pity.
A shudder ripped through him. The soap slipped from his grasp, clattering on the tile.
When she looked up, water streaming down his face, his expression was shattered. The Alpha mask was gone. In its place was a raw, hungry yearning so profound it stole her breath.
He didn’t kiss her. He dropped to his knees on the shower floor.
The sight of him there, Elias Varga, on his knees before her, sent a jolt of pure, electric power through her core. It wasn’t the borrowed Alpha instinct this time. This was hers. A dizzying, feminine authority that blossomed from the very center of her being.
His hands gripped her hips, holding her steady as his mouth found the sensitive skin of her lower belly. He wasn’t gentle. He was devouring. His lips, his tongue, his teeth traced a scorching path downwards, worshipping the curves that led to the heart of her.
“Elias…” His name was a gasp, lost in the steam.
He didn’t listen. He lifted one of her legs over his shoulder, opening her completely to the hot spray and the hotter attention of his mouth. The first touch of his tongue was a lightning strike.
Her knees buckled. His arms locked around her thighs, holding her up, forcing her to accept the relentless, skilled assault. It was different from before. This wasn’t about mutual conquest. This was pure giving. Pure servitude. An Alpha surrendering to his Luna.
The bond exploded into brilliant, blinding color. She could feel his own pleasure, not as a physical sensation, but as a deep, resonant satisfaction—the pleasure of providing, of tasting, of driving her to the edge with nothing but his mouth and his will.
Her hands fisted in his wet hair, not to pull him away, but to anchor herself as the world dissolved into sensation. The water, his tongue, the graze of his teeth, the overwhelming, soul-deep connection fracturing her into a million shining pieces. She cried out, a sound that echoed off the marble, her body convulsing in his unwavering hold.
He rode her through it, until her tremors subsided into weak shudders, only then easing his hold, lowering her leg, pressing his forehead against her stomach. His breath came in ragged bursts, misting on her skin.
Slowly, he rose, water sluicing down the powerful lines of his body. He looked wrecked, triumphant, and utterly hers. He cradled her face, his thumbs stroking her cheeks. “Now,” he said, his voice gravel, “we are clean.”
They toweled off in silence, the air thick with unsaid things. He produced clothes from a walk-in closet that was bigger than her first apartment. For her, sleek black trousers and a cream silk blouse that felt like liquid against her skin. Simple, elegant, expensive. For him, a charcoal suit, a white shirt, no tie. The armor reassembled.
He stood before the fogged mirror, knotting his watch around his wrist. She stood behind him, meeting his gaze in the glass. Two different people from the ones who had shattered the room hours ago.
“The rules have changed,” he said, his reflection’s eyes holding hers. “You are my mate. My Luna. In there,” he jerked his head towards the living room, “you will be by my side. You will speak when you choose. Your authority is inherent, but it is untested. They will probe for weakness. For hysteria. For the obedient omega they assume you are.”
“I’m not an omega anymore,” she said, the statement feeling true for the first time.
“No. You’re something they’ve never seen. Use it.” He turned, facing her directly. “But understand this, Sera. The moment we walk out that door, the games begin. Everything we just did in here? That’s ammunition for them. Your past, whatever it is you’re running from? They will unearth it. My past? They will weaponize it against you. This,” he gestured between them, “will be called a liability. A tragic flaw in their flawless Alpha.”
She stepped forward, straightening the lapel of his jacket, a simple, possessive gesture. “Let them try.”
A real smile, sharp and approving, touched his mouth. He caught her hand, brought it to his lips. “Good.”
He led her out of the bathroom, through the wrecked penthouse. They didn’t pause at the destruction. At the door, he stopped, his hand on the knob. “One last thing. Marcus, my head of security. He’s more than that. He’s my Beta. My brother in everything but blood. He has my complete trust. If I am… compromised, you listen to him.”
She nodded, filing the information away.
Elias opened the door.
Marcus was waiting in the private hallway, leaning against the opposite wall. He was tall, though not as tall as Elias, with a runner’s build, close-cropped brown hair, and eyes the color of weathered oak. They took in the scene—Elias, impeccable in his suit, Sera beside him, wearing clothes he knew came from Elias’s personal closet, the faint, fresh mark on her neck stark against her skin, the lingering, intertwined scent of them that no shower could fully erase.
His expression didn’t flicker. He pushed off the wall. “Sir. Madam.” His voice was calm, neutral. “The council is in the conference room. They’re… agitated.”
“Aren’t they always,” Elias said, starting down the hall. His stride was all command, but his hand found the small of Sera’s back, a subtle, guiding pressure. “Any specific concerns beyond the light show?”
Marcus fell into step beside them, his gaze ahead. “Concern for your well-being. Speculation about the Omega’s status. Questions about succession, given the… permanent nature of the bond they can all smell.”
Sera felt a chill that had nothing to do with the air conditioning. Succession. Heirs. The future of the pack. It was a chessboard, and she was a new, unknown piece.
“We’ll address it all,” Elias said, his tone leaving no room for debate.
They reached the elevator. Marcus pressed the call button. As the doors slid open, he finally looked directly at Sera, his oak-colored eyes assessing, but not unkind. “A word of advice, from one who has seen many wolves try and fail to stand beside him?”
She met his gaze. “Go ahead.”
“Don’t try to stand beside him,” Marcus said quietly, stepping into the elevator after them. The doors closed, sealing them in. “Stand where you are. The ground will shift to meet you.”
The elevator began its descent, plunging them towards the waiting wolves.