Chapter 8: The Den of Questions
The world returned in pieces.
First, the scent—woodsmoke, male sweat, the deep, pine-and-stone musk that was Kael, and underlying it all, the coppery tang of blood and the thick, salty smell of spent seed. Then, the feeling—a profound, bone-deep ache that seemed to radiate from the center of Aelar’s body. His thighs, his lower back, the tender, bruised flesh between his legs. A sharp, persistent throb pulsed from the side of his neck.
He opened his eyes. He was on his back, buried in a mountain of furs in the dim, warm light of the den. The hearth glowed with low embers. The air was still, private, a stark contrast to the chaotic symphony of the clearing.
He was alone.
A flutter of panic, thin and swift, went through him. Had it been a dream? A vicious, glorious dream?
He shifted, and the ache bloomed brighter, wetness trickling from his sore cunt onto the fur beneath him. Not a dream. The bite on his neck pulled tight when he turned his head.
The hide door muffled outside sounds, but he could hear the pack now—distant chatter, the thump of work, a child’s laugh. Normal sounds. Daylight sounds. The moon was gone.
The door flap shifted. Kael ducked inside, and the space suddenly felt smaller, fuller. He carried a wooden basin of steaming water and a bundle of clean cloths. He was dressed in simple trousers, his chest bare, the painted ochre streaks from the night before faded to ghostly stains on his skin. He looked different in the plain light—no less powerful, but more solid. Real.
“Awake,” he said, his voice a low rumble that smoothed some of Aelar’s rough edges. He set the basin near the hearth and crouched beside the furs. His eyes scanned Aelar’s face, then dropped to his throat, to the bite. A satisfied, possessive gleam flickered in the gold depths. “How do you feel?”
Aelar’s mouth was dry. “Sore,” he whispered. Then, the questions that had swirled in the haze after the knot released, after he’d been carried back in a daze, came tumbling out in a rushed, anxious stream. “Do I… do I have to fuck people who aren’t you? Who am I allowed to sleep with? Who can’t I? And will you… will you knot me every night now?”
Kael stared at him for a second. Then a warm, deep laugh rolled out of him, filling the den. It wasn’t mocking. It was genuinely amused, surprised by the eager curiosity buried in the anxiety. He reached out, calloused fingers brushing a strand of silver hair from Aelar’s cheek.
“So many rules for a little elf who just had his world turned inside out,” he murmured, his thumb stroking Aelar’s jaw. “Alright. Listen. You are my mate. That bite marks you as mine. No other Alpha will touch you. To do so would be a challenge to me, to death. You understand?”
Aelar nodded, a shiver tracing his spine at the casual mention of death.
“Betas, omegas…” Kael shrugged a massive shoulder. “The pack shares warmth. Pleasure is a good thing. It strengthens bonds. If you want to share a bed with Lyra, or let Tobin suck your pretty cock, or have Mara eat that sweet cunt until you scream, that is your choice. It is never a requirement. But it is allowed.” He leaned closer, his scent enveloping Aelar. “Does that frighten you? Or… interest you?”
Aelar’s face flooded with heat. The images, crude and explicit, did not frighten him. Not exactly. They sent a confused, thrilling pulse to his already-aching groin. He looked away.
Kael’s laugh was softer this time. “We’ll see.” Then his expression turned predatory, a slow smile spreading. “As for your last question…” His hand slid down from Aelar’s jaw, over his chest, his stomach, dipping beneath the furs. His fingers found the sticky, tender mess between Aelar’s thighs. Aelar gasped. “Every night, little one? I intend to knot you as often as I please. Morning, afternoon, night. Whenever I look at you and see that flush on your cheeks. Whenever I smell your cunt getting wet for me. And yes,” he added, his fingers gently parting the swollen lips, pushing through the crusted slick and drying seed, “every fucking night, if you can take it.”
To demonstrate, he pulled the furs back. The cool air hit Aelar’s naked skin, raising goosebumps. Kael’s eyes darkened as he looked his fill—at the bite, the come smeared on his belly, the red, used look of his hole. With a firm hand, he rolled Aelar onto his stomach. The furs were soft and scratchy against his oversensitive skin.
Kael positioned him, lifting his hips, arranging him on his knees with his face pressed into the pelts. Aelar heard the rustle of clothing, the soft thud of Kael’s trousers hitting the floor. Then hands were on his ass, spreading him open. He felt the broad, blunt head of Kael’s cock nudge against his entrance, still loose and slick from the night’s use.
“You see,” Kael said, his voice a husky murmur as he pushed forward, not in a ruthless slam, but with a slow, inexorable pressure that made Aelar whine into the fur. “The rules are simple. You are mine. This,” he sheathed himself fully in one smooth, deep stroke, making Aelar cry out at the renewed fullness, “is mine. Everything else is just… play.”
He began to move, a deep, rolling rhythm that was less about claiming and more about possession. A languid, thorough fucking. Each slow withdrawal dragged exquisitely against sore, sensitized nerves. Each push back in was a reminder of the intrusion his body was already learning to accommodate. Kael leaned over him, his chest a hot weight on Aelar’s back, his mouth near his ear.
“You will learn our ways,” Kael breathed, punctuating each word with a deep thrust. “You will eat with us, hunt with us, share stories by the fire. You will see Lyra fuck a beta against a tree and not blink. You will see pups nursing without shame. This is your life now.” He nipped at Aelar’s ear. “Is that so bad?”
Aelar couldn’t form words. Pleasure, thick and molten, was coiling again in his gut, teased from his sore flesh by the relentless, knowing pace. He pushed back against Kael, a weak, instinctive motion. A silent plea for more.
Kael chuckled, the sound vibrating through both of them. He shifted his angle, and on the next thrust, the head of his cock rubbed directly over a deep, bright spot inside that made Aelar see stars. He screamed, a muffled, broken sound.
“There it is,” Kael growled, his rhythm becoming sharper, more focused. He hammered into that spot, over and over, his own breath growing ragged. “That’s your spot. I’ll find it every time. I’ll make you come on my cock until you’re so full of me you forget that quiet, starving village you came from.”
The words were a violation as profound as the fucking. They ripped away the last veil of his old life. He was here. This was him. The elf boy being used as a breeding hole for a werewolf Alpha, his body convulsing with a pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. He sobbed as he came, his cunt clenching in ragged, desperate pulses around the cock splitting him open, his own spend dribbling pathetically onto the furs beneath him.
Kael followed moments later, his thrusts losing their precision, becoming hard, frantic jerks as his knot began to swell. He forced it in, locking them together with a final, grunting shove, flooding Aelar’s depths with a fresh, scorching rush. He collapsed heavily atop him, both of them panting, joined, sweating in the morning light seeping through the smoke hole.
They stayed like that for long minutes, the only sound their breathing and the pop of the embers. The knot subsided. Kael slipped out, and a hot gush followed. He rolled off, pulling Aelar against his side, ignoring the mess. He reached for a damp cloth from the basin and began to clean Aelar’s stomach with a rough, surprisingly tender care.
“The elders will want to see you today,” Kael said, his voice now utterly pragmatic, as if he hadn’t just been fucking the soul out of him. “To bless the bonding. Then Lyra will show you the gardens. There is work to do. You are part of the pack. You pull your weight.”
Aelar looked up at him, his body humming, sore, utterly spent. The fear was a quiet thing now, a background note. The bite on his neck throbbed. The Alpha’s scent was on his skin, in his lungs, in his veins.
“Okay,” he whispered.
Kael looked down at him, his golden eyes crinkling at the corners. He dipped the cloth back in the water, wrung it out, and gently cleaned between Aelar’s thighs. “Okay,” he echoed.
Outside, the pack went about its day. The sound of a hammer on wood. A shouted joke. The smell of baking bread. Aelar closed his eyes, listening to the rhythm of it. It was not his rhythm. Not yet.
But the hand cleaning him with clumsy gentleness was his. The bite on his neck was his. The raw, tender ache in his core was his.
It was a start.
It was a start.
Kael left him to dress, handing him soft, worn trousers and a tunic that smelled faintly of woodsmoke and another omega—Lyra, perhaps. The fabric was coarse against his elven skin. The bite on his neck burned a clean, bright signal with every movement. Stepping outside the den was like entering a different world from the moon-drenched frenzy of the night before.
Sunlight dappled the clearing. Werewolves moved with purposeful energy, mending fishing nets, scraping hides, tossing axes at a scarred stump in a game of skill. No one stared outright, but Aelar felt the weight of sidelong glances, the subtle, animal acknowledgment of his changed scent. Lyra saw him from across the way, where she was grinding grain on a flat stone. She gave him a broad, uncomplicated grin and a thumbs-up gesture that made his ears burn.
“Elders’ tent is the one with the grey wolf skull over the door,” she called out, her voice carrying. “Don’t look so nervous. They’re just gonna poke and bless your bits. It’s tradition!”
Her casual proclamation drew a few chuckles from nearby pack members. Aelar nodded, his throat tight, and moved toward the indicated tent. The grey wolf skull was ancient, its teeth yellowed, the hollow eye sockets watching him approach. He took a steadying breath, the scent of dried herbs and old parchment leaking from the seams, and pushed the hide flap aside.
The interior was dim, lit by a single shaft of sunlight from a smoke hole. Three elderly werewolves—two females and one male—sat on low stools around a small, cold fire pit. Their faces were webs of deep lines, their eyes milky but sharp. They ceased their murmured conversation as he entered.
“The Alpha’s mate,” the male elder said, his voice like stones grinding together. “Come. The bonding must be sealed with the pack’s blessing. Lie there.”
He pointed a gnarled finger to a low cot piled with blankets. Aelar’s heart hammered against his ribs. He remembered Kael’s words—you will learn our ways—and he forced his legs to carry him forward. He did his best not to be phased as the eldest female, her hands skeletal but steady, gestured for him to remove his trousers and lay back.
“Spread your legs, child,” she said, her tone not unkind, but devoid of any hesitation. “Let us see the vessel that will carry the pack’s future.”
Swallowing hard, Aelar obeyed. The cool air of the tent touched his exposed cunt, which still felt swollen, tender, openly used. He stared at the smoke-stained hide ceiling, focusing on a crack in the leather, trying to divorce his mind from what was happening below his waist. He heard the rustle of cloth, the clink of something wooden.
To his shock, one of the elders produced a large, dark wooden dildo. It was slicked with some oily, herbal-smelling unguent. It was lined with deliberate, carved ridges along its length. They did not explain. They did not ask.
The male elder began a low, guttural chant, words from an old tongue that vibrated in the close space. The female elder positioned the rounded head at his entrance. There was no preparation beyond the oil. She pressed inward.
The stretch was immediate and familiar in its invasion, yet utterly alien in its context. The ridges caught against his inner walls as she pushed it deeper, a slow, relentless penetration. Aelar bit his lip, his hands fisting in the blankets. The elders rocked the device into him with a rhythmic, ritualistic motion, in time with their chant.
Despite the confusion, the clinical strangeness of it, his body responded treacherously. The ridges rubbed along sensitized, nerve-rich walls, a crude mimicry of a cock’s veins. Pleasure, unwanted and insistent, began to uncoil in his gut. His breath hitched. His own slickness mixed with the oil, easing the wooden shaft’s passage. He could hear the wet, rhythmic sound of it.
“The vessel accepts,” the other female elder observed, her fingers pressing down on his lower belly. “Good. The roots take hold.”
Aelar squeezed his eyes shut. Shame burned through him, but beneath it, the pleasure built, a rising tide fed by the relentless friction. He was panting now, his hips giving a tiny, involuntary jerk upwards to meet the thrust of the carved wood. The chanting grew more intense.
As the sensations pushed him closer to a crest he didn’t want to acknowledge, the first elder placed a small, smooth, egg-shaped item against his clit. It was cool stone or polished wood. He flinched at the contact.
“For the spark,” the elder murmured.
With the touch of her finger, the small item buzzed to life. A sharp, electric vibration shattered his remaining composure. It rattled against his oversensitive nub, a frantic, unbearable counterpoint to the deep, ridge-dragging fullness inside him. The dual assault was too much.
He threw his head back, a strangled cry tearing from his throat. His back arched clean off the cot, every muscle locking. The orgasm ripped through him with violent, uncontestable force. He squirted, a hot, clear gush that spilled over the wooden dildo and the elder’s hands, soaking the blankets beneath him with a scent that was purely, undeniably his.
The elders gently removed the toys. The buzzing stopped. The chants faded. Aelar lay spent, trembling, utterly hollowed out. The male elder wiped his hands on a cloth and leaned over him, those milky eyes seeing everything.
“Your womb is now blessed,” he intoned quietly, with finality. “Any child born from it will live a blessed and devoted life, a strength to the pack. The binding is complete.”
With that, the three elders stood, as one, and filed silently out of the tent, leaving him alone with the smell of sex and herbs and his own ragged breathing.
Aelar lay there for a long time, staring at the skull-shadowed ceiling. The bite on his neck throbbed. His cunt ached with a new, different emptiness. Slowly, he pulled his trousers on. The fabric was damp where his spend had seeped through. He dressed mechanically, the elders’ words echoing in the quiet.
Blessed. Devoted. Strength to the pack.
He touched the punctures on his throat, then let his hand fall. He pushed the tent flap open, stepping back into the sunlight, into the sound of axes hitting wood and Lyra’s laughter. She waved him over to the grinding stone, her smile easy, as if he hadn't just been ritually fucked by eldercraft. The normalcy of it was the most shocking thing of all.
The normalcy of it was the most shocking thing of all. Lyra’s grin held no pity, no secret knowledge of what had just transpired in the elders’ tent. She just scooped another handful of grain onto the flat grinding stone and nodded for him to join her. The coarse linen of his borrowed tutchitched against the still-sensitive bite on his neck.
“They bless your baby-maker?” Lyra asked, not looking up as she rolled the smooth stone in a practiced, circular crush.
“They… did something,” Aelar managed, his voice rough. He knelt opposite her, the simple physicality of the task a welcome anchor. The grain was golden and smelled of dry dust and sun. He mimicked her motion, the grind of stone on stone a steady, rhythmic sound.
“Feels weird, doesn’t it?” she said conversationally. “All the ceremony. The chanting. The fucking weird toys.” She winked at him. “Borvin nearly passed out when they used the buzz-rock on him. Squealed like a stuck pup.”
Aelar flushed, the memory of the vibrating stone against his clit a fresh brand on his nerves. He focused on the grain, pushing the stone harder. “It was… efficient.”
Lyra barked a laugh. “That’s one word for it. ‘Efficient.’ I’ll have to remember that.” She nudged his knee with hers. “Stop looking like you’re heading to a funeral. You’re part of the scenery now. Look.”
She gestured with her chin. Across the clearing, a young beta—Gareth, maybe—had an omega girl pressed against the side of the wood storage shed. Her trousers were around her ankles, his were pushed down just enough to free his cock. He was fucking her standing up, his hands gripping her hips, her face turned to the side, eyes closed in concentration.
It was midday. People walked past them carrying water or bundles of arrows. No one paused. No one stared. It was as mundane as the grinding.
Then Gareth shifted his grip, his thrusts becoming more enthusiastic. His cock, slick and shining, slipped out on a particularly vigorous push. It slapped wetly against his own thigh. The omega girl stumbled forward a step, her support gone, and let out a little “Oof!”
For a second, there was a pause. Gareth blinked, looking down at his errant dick. The omega girl straightened, hitched her trousers up, and without a word, simply walked away towards the gardens, her steps brisk and slightly embarrassed.
Lyra dissolved into snorting, helpless laughter. She pounded a fist on her thigh. “Gods, every time! His knot’s the size of a damn apple, but his aim is for shit!” She wiped a tear from her eye, gasping for breath.
Aelar watched the beta sheepishly tuck himself away and shuffle off. The tableau was so absurd, so utterly devoid of drama or shame, that a sound bubbled up in his own throat. It was a quiet hiccup at first, then a genuine, surprised chuckle. The laughter felt foreign, but good. It loosened something tight in his chest.
He was still laughing, breathlessly, when Kael’s shadow fell over them.
The Alpha’s presence was a sudden shift in atmospheric pressure. Lyra’s laughter quieted to a respectful smile. Kael looked from her to Aelar, his golden eyes taking in the flour dust on his hands, the trace of a real smile on his mate’s lips. Something unreadable moved behind his gaze.
“The elders are satisfied,” Kael stated, his deep voice cutting through the residual mirth. It wasn’t a question.
“They seemed to be,” Aelar said, finding his voice. He brushed his hands on his trousers.
“Good.” Kael’s eyes lingered on the fresh puncture marks visible above Aelar’s tunic collar. “Lyra. He’s yours for the afternoon. Put him to work. I want him tired.”
Lyra nodded. “Yes, Alpha.”
With a final, possessive glance that swept over Aelar like a physical touch, Kael turned and strode toward a group of hunters examining fletching on new arrows.
Aelar let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.
“Yours for the afternoon,” Lyra repeated, grinning. “Lucky me. Come on, princeling. Time to get your pretty hands dirty.”
The afternoon unfolded in a series of simple, brutal tasks. Lyra led him to a pen where several plump geese were kept. She handed him a basket and demonstrated, grabbing a furious, honking bird and swiftly plucking handfuls of soft down from its breast, tossing the feathers into the basket before releasing the indignant fowl.
“For pillows, for insulation in winter tunics,” she explained as Aelar tentatively grabbed his first goose. It nipped at his wrist. The feathers came away easily, leaving patches of bare, bumpy skin. The work was monotonous, his fingers growing stiff, tiny filaments floating in the air and sticking to his sweat-damp skin. It was nothing like the delicate silversmithing or parchment-mending of his village.
Next was net-mending. They sat in the dappled shade of a great oak, a huge, tangled fishing net spread between them. Lyra showed him how to wield the thick bone needle, how to splice the tough, fibrous cord. His slender elven fingers, used to fine work, fumbled with the coarse material. He pricked his thumb, drew a bead of blood, and sucked at it absently.
“You’ll toughen up,” Lyra said, not unkindly. Her own hands were a map of scars and calluses. “Skin soft as moonlight is pretty for fucking, but it’s shit for work.”
He learned the rhythm of it. The punch of the needle, the pull of the cord, the tying of the knot. His shoulders ached. The bite on his neck was a constant, throbbing reminder. But with every repaired section of net, every basket of feathers, the chaotic terror of the moon-night and the clinical strangeness of the blessing receded, replaced by a grounding exhaustion.
He was pulling feathers from a particularly vocal gander when he felt it. A familiar, heavy gaze. He looked up.
Kael was leaning against the doorframe of his den, fifty paces away, watching him. The Alpha had been in meetings with his scouts, but now he was utterly still. His arms were crossed over his broad, scarred chest. The sun caught the gold in his eyes, turning them into molten coins. He wasn’t smiling.
Aelar’s breath caught. The goose honked, struggling in his grip. He forced his attention back to the task, his fingers clumsier now. He could feel that stare like a sun-burn on the side of his face. It was a different kind of possession than the fucking, than the bite. This was a quiet, pervasive claim on his daily existence.
When he dared another glance, Kael was gone.
As the sun began to dip, bleeding orange and purple across the sky, Lyra declared them done. “Not bad for your first day,” she said, clapping him on the back so hard he staggered. “You didn’t cry once. Mostly.”
They washed their hands and faces in the chill water of the central trough. The pack was gathering again for the evening meal, the comforting scent of stew rising from the communal pots. Aelar’s stomach growled loudly. Lyra laughed. “See? You’re even hungry like one of us now.”
He was moving toward the food when Kael appeared at his side. The Alpha’s hand settled on the back of his neck, over the bite, fingers pressing gently into the bruised flesh. The claim was silent and absolute. He steered Aelar away from the growing queue, toward their den.
“You’ve worked,” Kael said, his voice low. “Now you eat with me.”
Inside the den, a simple meal of stew, bread, and cheese was laid out on a low table. They ate in silence for a while, the only sounds the scrape of wood on clay and the crackle of the fire Kael stirred to life. The stew was hearty, full of root vegetables and tender meat. Aelar realized he was ravenous, shoveling it in with a lack of etiquette that would have horrified his mother.
“Lyra says you did well,” Kael finally said, tearing a piece of bread with his teeth.
“It’s just feathers and knots,” Aelar mumbled around a mouthful.
“It’s contribution,” Kael corrected. “It’s trust. Letting you handle the nets means trusting you won’t cut them. Letting you near the geese means trusting you won’t strangle them in a fit of elven virtue.” He took a swallow of ale from a rough clay mug. “Your village’s first shipment of grain and iron came today. The tribute. It was… adequate.”
Aelar froze, a lump of potato halfway to his mouth. His village. The image of his mother’s pinched, worried face flashed behind his eyes. The grain in his bowl suddenly tasted like ash.
Kael watched him. “They sold you for this. For sacks of barley and a few ingots of poor-quality metal.” He stated it flatly, a fact of the world. “Do you miss it?”
The question hung in the firelit air. Aelar thought of the grinding stone, of Lyra’s laughter at the beta’s failed thrust, of the tedious, honest work of the net. He thought of the deep, secret thrum of pleasure beneath the shocking acts, of the solid weight of Kael’s hand on his neck.
“No,” he said. The word was quiet, but it felt true. He did not miss the constant, gnawing hunger, the stiff, judgmental silence, the fear of everything that lay beyond their frail wooden palisade. He looked directly at Kael. “I don’t.”
Something shifted in Kael’s eyes. The predatory intensity softened, just at the edges. He finished his ale and set the mug down. “Good.”
He stood and began clearing the dishes with a quiet efficiency. Aelar moved to help, but Kael shook his head. “Sit.”
When the space was clear, Kael didn’t return to his own stool. He came to Aelar’s, standing over him. The firelight played over the muscles of his torso, the faded paint, the trail of dark hair leading into his trousers. He placed a hand on Aelar’s head, fingers threading through the silver hair, not pulling, just holding.
“Tonight,” Kael said, his thumb stroking the point of one elven ear, making Aelar shiver, “there is no moon. No ceremony. No audience.” He applied gentle pressure, guiding Aelar to his knees on the hard-packed earth floor. “Just you. And your mouth. And my cock.”
Aelar’s heart stuttered, but a different kind of heat pooled in his gut. This was a direct order, yet it felt like an intimacy granted. He looked up at Kael’s face, at the hard line of his jaw, the full lower lip. He nodded, once.
Kael undid the laces of his trousers, freeing his already thickening erection. It was a formidable sight, heavy and uncut, the skin dark and the vein prominent along its length. The musky, clean scent of him filled Aelar’s senses. He’d never done this. In his village, such an act was a perversion spoken of only in horrified whispers.
“Open,” Kael commanded, his voice a dark velvet.
Aelar obeyed, parting his lips. Kael guided the broad head to his mouth. The taste was salty, skin, purely male. He instinctively flinched back at the first contact, the size daunting.
“Relax your jaw,” Kael murmured, his hand still in Aelar’s hair, not forcing. “Use your tongue. Don’t think about it being a cock. Think about it being mine.”
Aelar took a breath through his nose and leaned forward again. He let the head rest on his tongue, exploring the smooth cap with the tip. Kael groaned, a soft, encouraging sound. Emboldened, Aelar took more, feeling the ridge push past his lips. He hollowed his cheeks as he’d seen others do in the clearing, and sucked tentatively.
“Yes,” Kael hissed. His fingers tightened slightly. “Just like that. Now take it deeper. Slowly.”
Aelar relaxed his throat, a trick he’d learned to swallow rough village bread. He let the thick length slide further in. It hit the back of his throat, and he gagged, tears springing to his eyes. He pulled back, coughing.
“Easy,” Kael soothed, his thumb wiping a tear from Aelar’s cheek. “Again. You can take it. I know you can.”
The combination of praise and challenge ignited something in Aelar. He wanted to do this. He wanted to please him. He leaned in again, taking the head, then more, focusing on his breathing. When the tip nudged his throat, he swallowed around it.
The effect on Kael was instantaneous. A full-body shudder wracked the Alpha, and a raw, guttural curse fell from his lips. “Fuck. Your pretty elf throat is so fucking tight.”
He began to move, shallow thrusts at first, letting Aelar set the pace. Aelar found a rhythm, bobbing his head, using his tongue to press along the sensitive vein underneath. Saliva dripped down his chin. The sounds were obscene—wet, gulping, choked breaths through his nose. He looked up, his amber eyes streaming, to see Kael looking down at him, his expression one of rapt, fierce possession.
“Look at you,” Kael growled, his hips pushing forward a little farther. “Silver hair and angel eyes, choking on a wolf’s cock. You were made for this.” His control was fraying. His thrusts became less measured, more demanding. “Take it. All of it.”
Aelar gripped Kael’s muscular thighs for balance, surrendering to the rhythm. He took the full, punishing length, his throat working, his nose pressed into the coarse hair at the base. The taste of pre-cum, bitter and slick, coated his tongue. He was hard in his own trousers, achingly so, rutting mindlessly against the air.
Kael’s breaths became ragged pants. “I’m gonna come. You’re gonna swallow every fucking drop. You understand?”
Aelar made a desperate, affirmative sound around the cock stuffing his mouth.
With a final, deep plunge that held Aelar utterly still, Kael came. The hot, pulsing flood hit the back of Aelar’s throat. He swallowed convulsively, once, twice, the salty, thick liquid overwhelming his senses. Kael held himself there, grunting with each spurt, until he was spent.
He pulled out slowly, his cock glistening with spit. Aelar knelt, gasping for air, strings of saliva and seed connecting his lips to the softening length. He was trembling, his own need a sharp, painful throb.
Kael looked down at him, his golden eyes blazing with satisfaction. He tucked himself away, then hauled Aelar to his feet by his tunic. Without a word, he pushed him backward onto the pile of furs that was their bed. He yanked Aelar’s trousers down, his own hand rough and sure as it closed around Aelar’s slender, leaking cock.
“You did so well,” Kael murmured, his mouth against Aelar’s ear as he began to stroke him with a tight, twisting motion. “You took me so deep. Now come for me. Show me how much you loved it.”
It took three strokes. Aelar arched off the furs, a broken, wordless cry tearing from his ravaged throat as his orgasm ripped through him, spilling over Kael’s fist and his own stomach in hot, helpless stripes.
He collapsed, boneless. Kael gathered him close, licking the sweat from his temple, then cleaning his stomach with a corner of the fur. The den was quiet, save for the fire and their slowing breaths. The scents of sex and stew and woodsmoke blended into one.
“Tomorrow,” Kael said into his hair, his voice already thick with impending sleep, “you will work the gardens with Mara. She will show you which weeds to pull.”
Aelar nodded against the Alpha’s chest. The bite throbbed. His throat was sore. His muscles ached from grinding grain and plucking geese. He was stained with dirt, sweat, seed, and goose down.
He had never felt more solidly, irrevocably placed in the world.
He was part of the pack.