Chapter 6: The Beast's Mate
The wet, rough pressure against his denim-clad cock was a brand. It wasn’t a question anymore. The beast knew him. It recognized the man beneath the fear, the scent that meant safety, and now, something more. Possession. The low, continuous growl vibrating through its chest wasn’t a threat; it was a demand.
Mério’s hands, usually so sure with an axe, trembled as they went to his belt. The brass buckle clinked softly, a tiny sound against the creature’s heavy panting. He worked the button of his jeans, the coarse fur of the beast’s muzzle brushing against his knuckles. It was hot, alive. He pushed the rough fabric down his thighs, his erection springing free into the cool air of the tower, immediately met by the overwhelming heat of the werewolf’s breath.
“Scar,” he whispered, a plea and a confirmation.
The beast nudged his hardness with its nose, a blunt, powerful pressure that made him gasp. Its tongue, broad and abrasive like coarse-grit sandpaper, lashed out, a single, slow, thorough lick from the base of his shaft to the tip. It was unlike anything he’d ever felt—a shocking, brutal friction that was somehow exhilarating. It lapped at the bead of moisture that had already gathered there, the growl deepening into a sound of pure, urgent need.
It moved then, with a fluid, predatory grace that belied its size. It turned, presenting its hindquarters to him. The scent that hit him was musky, feral, utterly primal. He saw the slick, swollen flesh between its haunches, glistening in the firelight. An invitation. A command.
His mind, never a complex place, held only one clear thought: This is Scar. However she is.
He placed a shaking hand on the beast’s lower back, the fur surprisingly thick and soft over solid, rolling muscle. He guided himself, the head of his cock pressed against her opening. It was impossibly hot, a wet, tight heat that seemed to pull at him. The beast pushed back against him with a powerful thrust of its hips, taking him inside with a single, brutal, yielding movement.
“Fuck,” Mério grunted, his head falling back.
She was tight, a vise of living muscle clenching around him, but slick with a readiness that was entirely animal. He gripped her hips, his fingers sinking into the dense fur, and began to move. It was not love-making. It was fucking. Raw, pounding, instinctive. Each thrust was a desperate act of claiming and being claimed. The beast met him thrust for thrust, its powerful haunches driving back against him with a force that rattled his teeth. The sound was obscene—the wet slap of flesh, his own ragged breaths, and the beast’s guttural, snarling pants.
He fucked her like a man possessed, burying himself to the hilt with each drive of his hips. The creature’s inner muscles clenched and rippled around his length, milking him, pulling him deeper. He lost all sense of time, of the barred door, of the moon. There was only this: the heat, the friction, the overwhelming animal truth of it. His balls tightened, slapping against her furred skin. A roaring pressure built in his core, a tidal wave of sensation.
“Scar… I’m gonna… oh, god, Scar…” he choked out, his voice ragged.
As if hearing him, the beast let out a sharp, high-pitched yelp that melted into a prolonged, shuddering growl. Her whole body tensed, and a fresh gush of warmth flooded around his cock as her internal muscles convulsed in a powerful, rhythmic clenching. That was all it took.
Mério’s own release exploded from him with a force that buckled his knees. He cried out, a raw, wordless shout, as he emptied himself deep inside her, his thrusts becoming shallow, jerking pulses as he spilled his seed into the depths of the beast. He slumped forward, his forehead resting against the hot, furred back, clinging to her as the last tremors wracked both their bodies.
For a long time, the only sounds were the crackle of the fire and their ragged breathing. Mério, still buried inside her, felt the beast’s muscles gradually relax. It—she—twisted her head around, and her massive, tooth-filled muzzle nuzzled his cheek. The gesture was shockingly tender. A rough, dry tongue rasped across his skin once, then she turned back, content.
Exhaustion, deeper than any he’d known from a day felling trees, pulled at him. He withdrew slowly, a wave of spent weakness washing over him. He managed to pull up his jeans before collapsing onto the blanket he’d laid out, dragging part of it over himself. The beast, with a sigh that sounded almost human, curled its immense body around him, a living, breathing fortress of warmth. The last thing Mério saw before sleep took him was the silver light of the moon through the arrow slit, glinting in the creature’s watchful, protective eye.
He awoke to a thin, grey dawn light filtering into the tower. The fire was embers. And a woman was weeping softly beside him.
He shifted, his body aching in strange, deep ways. Scarlett was there, naked, curled into a ball, her short black hair tousled, her shoulders shaking. The air smelled of sex, smoke, and a faint, wild scent that was already fading.
“Scar?” he said, his voice hoarse.
She flinched, wrapping her arms tighter around herself. “Don’t look at me.”
He sat up, ignoring the command. He saw the faint scratch marks on his arms from her fur, the lingering tenderness in his groin. The memories of the night washed over him, not as a horror, but as a strange, fierce dream. “Why?”
“I’m a monster, Mério,” she sobbed, her voice thick with shame. “I… what did I do to you? What did I make you do?”
Mério thought about it. He remembered the feeling of her body, the powerful connection, the certainty. It was messy. It was brutal. But it wasn’t wrong.
“You didn’t make me do anything,” he said, his simple logic cutting through her complex guilt. He reached out a large hand and laid it on her bare shoulder. Her skin was cold. “You were hungry. I fed you.”
She turned to look at him then, her silver eyes red-rimmed and bewildered. “What?”
He shrugged, a massive movement. “The beast was hungry. I gave it what it wanted.” A pause. “It was still you.”
Before she could respond, a sound came from outside—the heavy, grating scrape of the timber bar being lifted from the brackets. The door creaked open, framing Elder Silas and the two hunters against the pale morning sky. They stood frozen, their faces a tableau of stunned disbelief.
They saw Mério, alive, sitting on the floor, scratches on his arms. They saw Scarlett, naked and weeping, but utterly human, curled next to him. The scene was not one of a bloody slaughter. It was something altogether more intimate, more confusing.
Silas’s triumphant expression crumpled into furious, bewildered defeat. His plan, his certain victory, had evaporated in the face of Mério’s impossible survival.
Mério looked right at him, his blue eyes clear and calm. He didn’t say a word. He just pulled the blanket over Scarlett’s shoulders, shielding her from their stares. The promise had been kept. He was alive. The silence from the doorway was louder than any accusation.
The silence stretched, thin and sharp as a blade. Elder Silas’s face, a mask of wrinkled parchment, contorted from triumph into pure, impotent rage. His knuckles, clenched white around the silver wolf’s head of his cane, trembled with the force of his disappointment.
Mério didn’t break the stare. He just pulled the rough wool blanket tighter around Scarlett’s shivering shoulders, his large hand resting there, a solid claim. “Told you I’d be here at dawn,” he said, his voice a low rumble that held no boast, only simple fact.
One of the hunters, a younger man named Jory, took a half-step forward, his eyes wide as they darted from the scratches on Mério’s arms to the naked woman huddled beside him. “But… how? The beast…”
“The beast is gone,” Mério stated, his gaze still locked on Silas. “It’s just Scar.”
Scarlett kept her face buried, the scent of her own shame and their mingled sex thick in her nostrils. The memories of the night were a brutal collage in her mind: the feel of coarse fur under her hands, the raw, animal sounds she’d made, the profound, shocking rightness of him moving inside her monstrous form. It wasn’t a dream. The ache between her thighs was a testament to that.
Silas finally found his voice, a dry, rustling sound. “This changes nothing. The law is clear.”
“The law said if I died, she was guilty,” Mério interrupted, the first flicker of heat in his words. “I’m breathing. Your law is done.” He moved then, rising to his full, imposing height with a slow, deliberate grace that made the hunters instinctively tense. He loomed over the old man, his shadow swallowing the light from the doorway. “We’re leaving.”
He didn’t wait for permission. He turned his back on them, a gesture of supreme dismissal, and knelt before Scarlett. “Can you walk?” he murmured, his voice dropping to a private register meant only for her.
She managed a tight, jerky nod, unable to meet his eyes. He gathered her discarded clothes, helping her into them with a practicality that steadied her. His hands were gentle, careful, as he guided her arms into the sleeves and fastened the buttons on her shirt, his touch a stark contrast to the remembered violence of their coupling. Each brush of his fingers against her skin felt like an absolution.
They walked out of the tower, past the silent, defeated councilmen, into the weak morning light. The air was clean and cold, washing away the stench of the tower. They didn’t speak until they were deep within the tree line, the path to Mério’s isolated cabin familiar underfoot.
“Mayo,” she finally whispered, her voice raw. “What I did… what I am…”
He stopped and turned to face her, his big hands framing her face. “Look at me, Scar.” His blue eyes were clear, unclouded by doubt or horror. “I know what you are. I’ve always known.” He leaned forward, his forehead resting against hers. “Last night, you were just… more.”
A broken sound escaped her, part sob, part laugh. The knot of self-loathing in her chest loosened, just a little. She kissed him then, a desperate, grateful press of her lips against his. It was a spark on dry tinder.
The simmering heat from the tower, the feral recognition that had passed between them, ignited instantly. He groaned into her mouth, his arms banding around her, crushing her against the solid wall of his chest. This was different from the night before. This was them, Scarlett and Mério, but the animal need was still there, stripped of fur but no less potent.
“Need you,” he growled against her neck, his hands already tearing at the clothes he’d so carefully buttoned moments ago. “Need to feel you, my Scar. Now.”
“Yes,” she hissed, her own fingers clawing at his belt, her nails scraping against the hard muscle of his stomach. The simplicity of his want was a drug. There was no curse here, no monster, only this frantic, overwhelming hunger. They stumbled off the path, into a small thicket of young pines where the ground was soft with fallen needles.
He pushed her down onto the moss, his weight a familiar anchor. He yanked her jeans and underwear down to her knees in one rough, urgent motion. He fumbled with his own belt, his cock springing free, already thick and leaking. The morning air was cool on her exposed skin, a sharp contrast to the burning heat of him as he settled between her thighs.
“Fuck, you’re so wet,” he breathed, his voice thick with awe. “Still wet for me.”
He didn’t wait. He drove into her with a single, deep, claiming thrust that stole the air from her lungs. She cried out, her back arching off the ground, her fingers digging into the dirt. It was a blinding, perfect fullness. He set a brutal, immediate pace, each powerful surge of his hips slamming her into the earth. The pine needles beneath her head released their sharp, clean scent, mingling with the sweat on their skin.
“Is this what you need, Scar?” he grunted, his breath hot on her ear. “This what that fucking wolf inside you needs?”
“Yes! God, yes, Mayo!” she screamed, her legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him deeper. Her hips rose to meet his, a frantic, matching rhythm. This was a claiming, a reaffirmation of the night’s wild truth. Every thrust was him saying I know you, and I am not afraid. She could feel the tension of the change, the leftover wildness in her blood, coiling and releasing with each piston-like stroke.
He shifted, hooking his arms under her knees, spreading her wider, plunging into a deeper, more devastating angle. The filthy, wet sound of their joining filled the small clearing. She was unraveling, the pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. Her climax ripped through her without warning, a silent, seizing wave that clenched around him, milking his length.
The sensation tore a guttural roar from him. “Scarlett!” He buried himself to the hilt, his body locking as he poured into her, a hot, pulsing flood that seemed to go on forever. He collapsed atop her, his full weight pressing her into the moss, both of them breathing in ragged, shattered gasps.
For a long time, they lay entangled in the quiet woods. The world began to return: the chirp of a bird, the rustle of a squirrel. He softened inside her but made no move to withdraw, nuzzling his face into the crook of her neck.
“We can’t go back to the village,” she whispered, the reality of their situation settling over her like a chill.
“I know,” he said, his voice muffled against her skin. “We’ll go to the high cabin. My old trapper’s place.”
“Silas won’t let this go. He saw. He knows you survived.”
Mério finally lifted his head, his expression grimly determined. “Let him try.” He pulled out of her gently and helped her dress, his touch once again reverent. As they continued up the path, hand in hand, Scarlett glanced back through the trees. For a fleeting second, she thought she saw a flash of movement, a shadow that didn’t belong. She squeezed Mério’s hand tighter, the fragile peace of the moment shattered. The hunt was not over; it had just changed shape.