Chapter 5: Free Use Begins
The confirmation had come at dawn, in the healer’s smoke-filled den. A gnarled old woman with milky eyes had pressed cold hands to Elara’s bare belly, sniffed at her urine, and tasted a drop of her blood. She’d grinned, showing worn yellow teeth. “The seed has taken. The Alpha’s line grows.”
The words had sealed her fate more completely than any treaty.
Now, in the great hall, Elara moved like a ghost through the cacophony. The smell of greasy meat and ale was suffocating. Laughter boomed off the stone. She found her designated place at the head table, the chair beside Drest’s massive empty throne. She sat, her body a tender, hollow vessel. Her hand drifted to her stomach, where nothing felt different, but everything was.
She had just reached for a hunk of bread when she felt hands on her knees beneath the long table.
Elara jumped, but the hands were firm, parting her legs. Lyra’s face appeared from under the tablecloth, a flash of green eyes in the dim space. She put a finger to her lips, then pushed Elara’s simple woolen dress up around her waist. The cool air of the hall whispered against her bare thighs.
“What are you—” Elara hissed, her voice lost in the din of a bard strumming a lute nearby.
“For the pup’s health,” Lyra murmured, her voice practical, as if discussing a poultice. “The Alpha’s order. Circulation. Vitality.” Her breath was warm against Elara’s inner thigh. Then her mouth was there.
Elara gasped, her fingers curling into the rough wood of the bench. Lyra’s tongue was flat and firm, licking a broad stripe through her folds. She was not gentle. This was not lovemaking. It was maintenance. Lyra’s mouth worked with clinical efficiency, her tongue circling Elara’s clit with a precise, relentless pressure. A bolt of sharp pleasure, unwanted and undeniable, shot up Elara’s spine. She bit down on her lip, tasting copper. Her hips gave a minute, traitorous twitch.
“Fuck,” she breathed, the curse swallowed by a sudden roar of laughter from the next table over. Two warriors were arm-wrestling, muscles corded.
Lyra hummed against her, the vibration making Elara’s toes curl in her boots. One of Lyra’s hands came up, fingers sliding inside her without ceremony, stretching her, pumping in time with the licks. The dual sensation was overwhelming. Elara’s head fell back, her eyes squeezed shut. She was ascending a tight, hot coil, the public humiliation fueling a dark, shameful kind of arousal.
Just as the coil was about to snap, a shadow fell over the table.
Elara’s eyes flew open. Fenris, a beta with a shaved head and a network of old scars across his knuckles, stood there, a tankard in his hand. He glanced at Lyra, unseen beneath the table, then back at Elara’s flushed face.
“Alpha’s orders,” he said, his voice flat. He set the tankard down.
Before Elara could process the words, his hands were on her, hauling her up from the bench. Her dress fell back down, but the wetness between her legs was a glaring secret. He turned her, bending her over the rough-hewn table. Plates and cups scattered. The bard didn’t miss a note.
Fenris yanked her dress up again, exposing her ass to the hall. He spat into his palm, slicked his cock—already thick and erect—and shoved into her from behind.
The invasion was brutal, a stretch that burned after Lyra’s fingers. Elara cried out, her forehead pressed to the wood. Fenris set a pounding, monotonous rhythm, his hips hammering against her ass. Below, Lyra’s mouth returned, her tongue now licking where Fenris’s cock stretched Elara’s entrance, then flicking up to her clit.
The stimulation was too much, from too many angles. Elara shattered.
Her orgasm ripped through her with silent, convulsive violence. Her cunt clamped around Fenris’s driving length, milking him, and a gush of her own release splattered onto the floor between Lyra and the table leg. Fenris grunted, his pace faltering for a second before he resumed, his own finish a hot, spurting flood inside her a few thrusts later. He pulled out with a wet pop, slapped her ass once—a stinging claim—and walked away, adjusting his trousers.
Elara slid to her knees, her legs unable to hold her. Lyra emerged from under the table, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She helped Elara stand, smoothed her dress down. “Breathe,” she instructed quietly. “The hall air is fresh. Go to the garden courtyard. It’s expected.”
Stumbling, her thighs sticky, Elara pushed through a side archway, desperate for the cold, for silence. The corridor was narrower, quieter, lit by flickering torches. She leaned against the cold stone, sucking in deep breaths that did nothing to clean the smell of sex from her nose.
A hand clamped over her mouth from behind.
She was spun, pressed face-first into the wall. Rough wool scratched her cheek. It was Rourk, another beta, his breath sour with ale. He hiked her dress up with one jerk, forced a thick thigh between her legs to spread them, and drove into her weeping cunt in one brutal thrust.
“Needed that,” he grunted into her ear, his body a cage of muscle and heat. “Saw you take Fenris. Little human slut’s cunt is magic.” He fucked her in short, deep punches, his pelvis grinding against her ass. There was no pleasure for her this time, only a raw, scraping fullness. He came quickly, with a shudder and a bitten-off curse, his seed adding to the mess inside her. He let her go, and she slumped against the wall as his footsteps receded.
The garden courtyard was a myth. She never reached it.
The day dissolved into a procession of hands, cocks, and bodies. In the weaving room, an elder named Goran, his face a map of wrinkles, pressed her over a loom. “Tradition,” he wheezed, his fingers trembling as they parted her. “The life-bearer must be blessed by the old blood.” His penetration was slow, dry, agonizing. She cried real tears into the unfinished cloth.
In the armory, a blacksmith named Kael, covered in soot and sweat, took her against an anvil, his hands leaving grimy prints on her breasts. In a storage closet, Lyra found her again, this time using a polished stone phallus, cold and unyielding, while she sucked on Elara’s nipples, whispering, “Good. So good for the pack.”
By the time the torches were lit for evening, Elara was a shell. She walked slowly, painfully, through the main hall again, now empty save for a few cleaners. Her cunt was swollen, throbbing with a deep, pervasive ache. Her thighs were crusted with drying spend. Her soul felt scoured out.
She didn’t hear him approach. She only felt his presence, a shift in the air, a wave of latent power. Drest stood in the doorway to their chamber, blocking the flickering firelight from within. His molten eyes traveled over her—her disheveled hair, her ripped dress, the unmistakable evidence on her skin.
A low growl started in his chest, a sound of pure possession.
He crossed the distance in two strides, scooped her into his arms as if she weighed nothing, and carried her into the chamber. He didn’t speak. He laid her on the furs, his movements unnervingly deliberate. With a damp cloth, he began to clean her. He washed the sweat from her brow, the grime from her arms, the crusted semen from her inner thighs. The cloth was warm, his touch surprisingly meticulous. He parted her legs and cleaned her there too, the soft cloth a shocking contrast to the day’s brutality. He was erasing the marks of others.
When she was clean, he stripped off his own clothes. His cock was fully erect, thick and heavy, the base already swelling with the promise of his knot.
He covered her body with his, his weight a familiar anchor. He kissed her then, for the first time since the claiming moon. It was a deep, consuming kiss, his tongue claiming her mouth as thoroughly as his cock would claim her body. It felt more intimate than anything that had happened all day.
“Mine,” he growled against her lips.
He entered her slowly, a monstrous, stretching fill that made her whimper. He stilled, buried to the hilt, letting her body adjust to him, to only him. “All day, they used what is mine,” he whispered, his voice a raw vibration against her throat. “But they only touched the surface. This…” He pulled back and thrust deep, “…this is where I live.”
He began to move. It was not the frantic pace of the betas. It was a slow, devastating, methodical possession. Each thrust was deep, measured, and aimed. He was rebuilding the feeling of him inside her, overwriting every other memory. His hands roamed her body, not groping, but mapping—her hips, her waist, the gentle curve of her belly.
“You took them all,” he murmured, his lips at her ear. “You let them use your perfect cunt for the pack. My strong, brave mate.” His words were praise, but they twisted inside her, binding her to the horror.
Her body, exhausted and oversensitized, began to respond. The slow, deep friction was stirring something beneath the ache. A helpless, building warmth. She didn’t want it. She fought it. A tear leaked from the corner of her eye.
He licked it away. “Come for me,” he commanded, his voice gentle and iron-strong. “Come for your Alpha. This one is mine.”
His hand slid between them, his thumb finding her clit. The touch was expert, perfect. The coil, ruined and rewound all day, tightened anew. She sobbed as it broke, her orgasm a deep, rolling wave of sensation that seemed to pull from the very marrow of her bones. Her cunt convulsed around him, a rhythmic, pulsing clamp.
With a satisfied snarl, Drest drove into her one final time, hilted himself, and released. His knot swelled, locking them together, a bulb of intense, stretching fullness that triggered another, smaller peak in her. His seed pumped into her, hot and copious, a claiming that went deeper than skin, deeper than womb.
He collapsed atop her, his weight pinning her to the furs, his knot ensuring she could not escape. He nuzzled into the crook of her neck, his breathing gradually slowing. One large hand splayed over her lower stomach, a possessive, protective shield.
“You are the perfect vessel,” he whispered into her skin, his voice thick with something that sounded like reverence. “My perfect, resilient vessel.”
Elara stared up at the shadowed ceiling, his weight and his seed inside her, his praise in her ears. The hollow feeling was gone. In its place was a terrible, full realization. Her body was no longer her own. It was a communal resource, a sacred object. And he was its chief priest and primary beneficiary. The pleasure he wrung from her was just another form of worship. As his knot slowly softened and his breathing evened into sleep, she understood that today was not an exception.
It was the new pattern of her life. The thought should have broken her. Instead, a cold, clear numbness settled in, as deep and irrevocable as the seed now taking root in her belly. She did not sleep. She simply existed, pinned beneath her Alpha, waiting for dawn to begin the cycle again.
She simply existed, pinned beneath her Alpha, waiting for dawn to begin the cycle again.
The knot deflated. He rolled off her with a sigh, his hand remaining on her belly as he fell into a deep, silent sleep. Elara lay staring at the beams overhead, the numbness a shield against the ache between her legs and the deeper one in her chest. The first grey light had not yet touched the high windows when she finally slept, a shallow and dreamless escape.
She woke to an empty bed and the scent of smoked meat. Drest stood by the hearth, pulling on a tunic. He glanced at her as she stirred. “Eat,” he said, nodding to a plate on the chest. “You need your strength.”
The memory of the previous day—the table, the corridor, the loom—crashed over her. A visceral panic, cold and clean, cut through the numbness. She sat up, the furs pooling at her waist. “Drest.”
He turned, his golden eyes assessing.
“Is there… a way?” The words felt fragile, breaking in her throat. “For the pregnancy. Must I be used by the pack… the entire time?”
He blinked. The question seemed to genuinely confuse him. He finished lacing his tunic and walked to the bed, looming over her. “Used? They pleasure you. I felt you come for Fenris, for the others. Your cunt dripped for them. Why would you not want that?”
“It’s not about want,” she said, scrambling for the right words in a language that felt too small for her feeling. “Where I was raised… sex was for spouses. Only. A vow. To be with others… it feels like a betrayal. Of you.”
A loud, rich laugh boomed from his chest, startling her. He shook his head, a faint smile on his scarred face. “Betrayal? Little mate. I watched Kael take you against the anvil. I smelt Goran on you. I felt Rourk’s seed leak out of you when I cleaned you. If I felt betrayed, his guts would be seasoning my fields.” He cupped her face, his thumb rough on her cheek. “I am happy. The pack does its duty. They keep my mate pleasured, her blood hot for the pup. They honor us.”
“I don’t want their honor!” The words burst out, louder than she intended. She gripped the fur, her knuckles white. “I wish to belong to you. Only you. This,” she gestured weakly at the room, at her own body, “it feels like I belong to everyone.”
His smile faded. His gaze turned analytical, as if she were a puzzling tactical problem. The silence stretched. He let go of her face and straightened. “You ask for a possession I did not think a human could crave.” He paused, considering. “I will think on it. I am a considerate mate, am I not?”
A fragile, impossible hope fluttered in her ribcage.
“But today,” he continued, his voice resuming its normal, indisputable tone, “everything remains as it is. The patterns are set. The pack expects it.” He walked to the door. “Lyra will attend you shortly.”
The hope shattered, leaving something brittle and sharp in its place. The cycle was not just unbroken; it was endorsed. She was a consideration to be pondered, not a plea to be answered.
Lyra arrived as the sun cleared the windowsill. Her expression was unreadable. “The Alpha says you are to be prepared for the day.”
“Prepared,” Elara echoed, the word hollow.
“Cleaned. Dressed. Seen to.” Lyra’s tone held no malice, only fact. She helped Elara bathe in the tepid water from the basin. She dressed her in a softer, darker dress that clung to her hips. Then, without preamble, she pressed Elara back onto the bed, now stripped of its furs.
“This is preparation,” Lyra said, her hands pushing Elara’s knees apart.
“No, please. Drest said he’d think—”
“He said today remains as it is. This is as it is.”
Lyra’s mouth was relentless. Her tongue and fingers worked with the same clinical efficiency as the day before, orchestrating a swift, brutal orgasm that left Elara gasping and wet. Lyra rose, wiping her chin. “See? Circulation. Now you are ready.”
The great hall was a nightmare of familiar sounds and smells. Elara took her seat, her body already humming from Lyra’s attentions. She saw Fenris watching her from a table of warriors. She saw Goran nodding off by the fire. The pattern was a wheel, and she was tied to the rim.
She had barely touched her food when a shadow fell across her. It was not Fenris. It was a younger beta, one with a crooked nose and eager eyes. “Alpha’s orders,” he said, the now-familiar phrase a death knell.
He wasn’t as rough as Fenris, but he was hurried. He bent her over the bench, shoved her dress up, and fucked her with quick, shallow thrusts, as if checking a task from a list. He came with a sigh, patted her hip, and left. Elara stared at the wood grain, her breakfast churning in her stomach. The pleasure was a ghost, a physiological echo with no soul behind it.
The day unspooled in a numb parody of the last. In the herb-drying shed, a gardener she didn’t know pressed her against sacks of lavender. His cock was thin, his thrusts anxious. He apologized when he came, which was worse. In a secluded corner of the battlement, a sentry on a break took her standing up, her face against the cold stone of a merlon, his grunts lost in the wind. Each time, the phrase hung in the air, spoken or implied: Alpha’s orders. For the pup. For the pack.
By late afternoon, she was hollowed out. She found herself in the nursery, drawn by some forgotten instinct. The caretaker from before smiled warmly and handed her the same dark-eyed baby. Its weight was a comfort. Its small fist closed around her finger.
The door opened. Drest entered, alone this time. He stood in the doorway, watching her. He had been gone all day, dealing with pack business. His eyes took in the scene—the baby in her arms, her pale face, the way she instinctively cradled the child closer. He walked over, his boots silent on the rushes. He didn’t touch her. He looked down at the infant, then at her.
“You ask to belong only to me,” he said, his voice low. “You hold that child, and you already belong to the pack more than you know. Its future is in your womb. Your body is its sovereign land.” He reached out and traced the back of the baby’s head with a single, calloused finger. “The others? They are just guardians walking the walls of that land. It is a honor for them. It should be an honor for you.”
He turned and left. His words settled into her, heavy and final. They were not the answer she wanted. They were the only answer he had. She was the land. The pack walked its borders. He was its king. The logic was airtight, a cage of cold reason.
That night, he fucked her with a renewed, contemplative intensity. He laid her out on the furs and entered her slowly, watching her face. “Do you feel this?” he asked, grinding deep.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“This is mine. Only mine.” He began to move, a steady, conquering rhythm. “Their cocks were visitors. This is the bedrock.” His hands gripped her hips, holding her still for his thrusts. “You can wish for only me, little mate. But your body has a greater purpose. You will learn to love the purpose.”
He slid a hand between them, his fingers finding her clit, rubbing tight, hard circles. “Come for your Alpha. Let me feel you squeeze what is mine.”
Her body, trained now to respond to his command, obeyed. The orgasm was sharp and left her breathless. He followed, his own release a hot, pulsing claim deep in her core. He did not knot her this time. He withdrew, rolled onto his back, and pulled her against him, her back to his chest. His arm was a heavy band across her, his hand once again splayed over her belly.
“I have thought,” he murmured into her hair, his voice sleepy. “The petition is noted. But the land must be patrolled. Sleep.”
Elara closed her eyes. The numbness was gone. In its place was a crystalline, and devastating, understanding. Her wish was a small, human thing. It had been heard, considered, and folded into the immense, inhuman machinery of the pack. She was the land. The patrols would continue. Dawn would come, and the cycle would begin again, not out of cruelty, but because it was the way the world, his world, worked. Her body was not her own. It never would be. The realization was not a storm. It was a settling, like dust in a tomb.