Chapter 13: Public Claiming
Andre woke to cold silk and an empty space where Draven’s heat should have been. The lingering scent of sex and sorrow clung to the sheets. On the pillow lay a single sheet of thick parchment, Draven’s sharp script detailing a list of preparations for the claiming ceremony tonight and a final, stark line: You will not see me until then. Kael will assist you. The formal distance in the words felt like a door shutting.
A swift knock echoed, and Kael entered without waiting, his expression unreadable. “The Alpha has ordered your preparation,” he said, his voice flat. “We begin in the baths.” The process was clinical: scented oils, silent attendants scrubbing his skin until it glowed, the careful trimming of his short curls. Kael’s eyes lingered on the fresh bite mark on Andre’s shoulder. “It will hold,” he muttered, almost to himself.
Andre said nothing, letting the attendants drape him in a simple linen robe. The day passed in a blur of measured footsteps and murmured instructions. He was led to a secluded courtyard for a late lunch as the sun began its descent.
Kael joined him at the stone table as the clock tower chimed four-thirty. "You eat," Kael said, pushing a plate of roasted game and herbs toward him. They ate in near silence for several minutes, the only sound the distant call of a hawk.
"So," Kael began, wiping his mouth, "you're from the eastern ridges." It wasn't a question. Andre nodded, chewing slowly. "It's different there," Kael offered, his gaze analytical. "The forests are thinner, the winds sharper."
"Different isn't always bad," Andre replied, meeting his eyes. Kael gave a noncommittal grunt, a faint smirk playing on his lips. When the plates were cleared, Kael produced a small ceramic cup filled with a steaming, murky green liquid. "Wild leaf tea," he stated, placing it before Andre. "It will help calm your nerves for the ceremony tonight."
Andre eyed the bitter-smelling brew with distrust. "I don't need it." Kael’s smirk widened. "You will. The ceremony is...intense." His tone brooked no argument. With a final glance of resistance, Andre reluctantly lifted the cup to his lips and drank the entire contents, its earthy, astringent flavor coating his tongue.
With a final glance of resistance, Andre reluctantly lifted the cup to his lips and drank the entire contents, its earthy, astringent flavor coating his tongue. A slow, prickling warmth began to spread through his veins almost immediately. "What was in that?" he asked, his voice already feeling thicker.
Kael’s only answer was a faint, knowing smile as he stood. "Come. It’s time." The warmth deepened into a steady, low burn as Kael led him down a torch-lit corridor, his steps feeling both heavy and liquid. Andre realized the ceremony time was drawing near; the distant sounds of the gathering crowd vibrated through the stone. It was almost six.
Kael led him down to a group of elders, one of them being the woman he learned was Draven’s sister, Bernadine. Her sharp eyes assessed him with a cold, clinical air as they silently surrounded him. They lathered him with some kind of scented oil, their hands impersonal and efficient, and said an oath over him in low, guttural tones before he was told to walk out on the dais, alone.
The great doors swung open, and the roar of hundreds filled his ears. He looked out as hundreds were in the crowd, a sea of shadowed faces and gleaming eyes under the torchlight. He noticed his usual nervousness was absent, burned away by the tea’s fire, and a new feeling started to rise in him. Heat.
It bloomed low in his belly, a needy, insistent pulse that made the thin linen stick to his skin. All Andre had on was a two-piece, white linen sleeveless shirt and pants , and he had to keep his breathing under control as his heat was rising. The fabric felt impossibly coarse, and every whisper of it against his nipples sent a sharp jolt downward.
Then suddenly the crowd grew quieter, a hush falling like a physical weight. And as he turned his head he saw Draven’s muscular back as he sat on his throne, only adorned in a leather loincloth. He sat back, his muscular thighs and biceps looked incredible, carved from stone and shimmering in the firelight.
Andre stood, eyes downcast, waiting. The silence was deafening, thick with anticipation and the crackle of torches. Then Draven addressed the audience, his voice a deep rumble that resonated through the cavernous hall.
“You see a man taken from enemy territory,” Draven began, his gaze sweeping over the gathered wolves. “I see a strength that was never theirs to claim.” He rose from the throne in one fluid, powerful motion, the firelight catching the scars that mapped his back. He descended the dais steps, his presence pulling every eye in the room toward him.
He descended the dais steps, his presence pulling every eye in the room toward him. “He bears my mark,” Draven declared, his voice silencing the last whispers, “but that is only a symbol.” He stopped before Andre, the heat of his body a palpable force. “The true claiming is not in the bite, but in the binding.” Draven’s emerald gaze held Andre’s, fierce and possessive. “As fate would have it,” he announced, his voice ringing through the hall, “I have found my Soulbound.”
The crowd murmured, a wave of shocked awe, as a Soulbond was the rarest of all. Draven closed the final distance, his hand snapping out to grip Andre’s jaw. “Show them,” he commanded, his thumb forcing Andre’s mouth open. He spat, a thick wad of saliva landing on Andre’s tongue, and the crowd roared its approval. “Swallow it,” Draven growled, low enough for only Andre to hear.
Andre obeyed, the act of submission making his cock twitch painfully against the linen. Draven’s other hand found the laces of his pants, yanking them open with a sharp tug. The fabric fell, pooling at Andre’s ankles, leaving him exposed to the hungry stares. “So eager for me,” Draven said loudly, his fingers slicking through the wetness already beading at Andre’s tip. He turned Andre roughly to face the audience, pulling his hips back to arch his spine.“See how my Soulbound weeps for me?” Draven’s voice was a dark taunt. He ran a single finger down Andre’s crease, collecting the slick there, and held his glistening finger up for the crowd to see. Then he shoved two fingers inside without warning, twisting them deep. Andre cried out, his knees buckling as the tea’s fire and the humiliation fused into pure, unbearable need. “You want more, don’t you?” Draven breathed against his ear.
Draven breathed against his ear.
"Yes," Andre rasped, the word torn from him. The admission echoed in the silent hall, raw and absolute. Draven pulled his fingers free with a wet, filthy sound and wrapped a fist in his curls, yanking his head back to expose his throat.
Draven’s hot tongue lashed up the column of his throat before his teeth scraped the sensitive skin there. “They see a whore,” Draven growled against his ear, his voice low enough only Andre could hear its vicious edge. “But I know the truth.”
Andre knew he should feel ashamed about the filthy sounds Draven was pulling from him, but he didn’t care. Right now all he wanted to do was be his mate’s perfect little slut, willing to do anything for him. “And you will,” Draven growled in a whisper, having heard his inner voice. “The tea you drank lowers your inhibitions and the mental block you put up around me, and it’s also an aphrodisiac.”
He then pulled away and addressed the crowd again, his voice booming. “A Soulbound’s devotion is absolute!” Draven’s tongue licked him over his chin up to his mouth before he pulled away. He guided Andre down with a firm pressure on his shoulders until he was squatting unsteadily over Draven’s face where he sat on the dais step.
Draven’s mouth was a hot, wet brand as he latched onto Andre’s balls with his tongue, sucking each one deep into the scorching heat of his mouth. The obscene, wet noises were amplified in the silent hall. He wouldn’t touch his cock, or fuck him, not yet.
He wouldn’t touch his cock, or fuck him, not yet. Draven’s mouth was a furnace of humiliation, his tongue a slick, relentless weight rolling Andre’s sac. The wet, sucking sounds were obscenely loud in the hushed throne room.
“You better not fall,” Draven grunted, his breath hot against Andre’s trembling thighs. He let Andre’s balls slip from his mouth only to take them back lazily, the casual, deep pressure making Andre’s vision blur. Andre’s cries echoed off the black marble, high and desperate.
Then Draven’s hands were under his ass, lifting him eagerly as his mouth trailed lower. He kissed his hole, a soft, deliberate press of lips against the clenching muscle. Andre knew what he was about to do, his body arching into the touch.
Draven was kissing his hole like it was a mouth, his tongue licking broad, wet stripes before pushing insistently inside. The noises—the vulgar, slick sounds of his tongue fucking deep—should have embarrassed him, but they did not. He moaned like a bitch in heat, the sound torn from a place of pure, needy surrender.
“Hear that?” Draven pulled back, addressing the crowd again, his voice thick with satisfaction. “That’s the sound of a true bond.” He buried his face back between Andre’s cheeks, his tongue plunging deeper, fucking into him with a rhythm that stole Andre’s breath. Andre’s hands scrabbled against the cold dais step, his knuckles white.
Andre’s hands scrabbled against the cold dais step, his knuckles white. “I need to come,” he moaned, the plea a broken, guttural thing lost between Draven’s vicious licks. Draven pulled his face away, stood, and delivered a sharp, stinging smack to Andre’s ass that echoed.
He smacked him again, and again, the slaps precise and cruel until the pale skin flushed a deep, heated red. Andre sobbed openly, tears mixing with sweat. “You don’t get to come until I say so,” Draven snarled, his voice void of mercy.
“Get on all fours.” Andre collapsed forward onto his hands and knees, the rough stone scraping his palms. Draven strode back to his throne and sat, the picture of relaxed, terrifying authority. He addressed the crowd, his voice carrying easily over Andre’s ragged breathing.
“Observe the desperation I create in him,” Draven said, gesturing toward Andre’s trembling form. “Look at his cock, dripping onto my floor. See how empty he is, how beautifully he aches just from my tongue.” He described the fluttering clench of Andre’s hole, the slickness he’d left there, in excruciating, humiliating detail.
Andre barely registered the words anymore. He was a furnace of need, every nerve alight. His vision swam, focused only on the wet spot beneath his leaking cockhead.
“Come to me,” Draven commanded from his throne, his voice dropping to a low, possessive rumble. “Crawl. Slowly.” Andre whimpered, his muscles shaking as he obeyed, inching forward across the cold, slick marble on his hands and knees.
The slick trail from his weeping cock smeared a glistening path toward the throne. He kept his head down, the tea’s fire and the public degradation a molten synergy in his veins, until his forehead brushed Draven’s bare knee. “Look at you,” Draven murmured, his hand tangling in Andre’s curls not to guide, but to possess. When Andre’s face bumped into the solid wall of Draven’s thick thighs, Draven spread his legs lewdly, a slow, deliberate invitation to the space between them.
“This is where you serve,” Draven announced, his voice projecting to the silent, watching crowd. His fingers tightened, tilting Andre’s face up toward his hard, swollen cock where it strained against the leather. “Open your fucking mouth.” Andre complied, his jaw dropping, a string of spit connecting his lips. “Now,” Draven commanded, leaning forward slightly so his words carried, “you take me deep, and you swallow every goddamn inch until your nose is buried in my skin.”
He leaned forward, addressing the hall. “I’ll let you all judge how good my mate takes my cock in his mouth.” With that, he guided himself forward, the broad, flushed head pushing past Andre’s lips, stretching them wide. “That’s it, take it all, show them,” Draven grunted, his hips giving a shallow thrust that forced more of his thick length into Andre’s throat. Andre gagged, tears springing to his eyes as the head nudged the back of his palate, the salt-bitter taste of pre-cum coating his tongue.
“Relax your throat, you greedy little thing,” Draven ordered, his voice vibrating through the flesh in Andre’s mouth. He pushed deeper, a relentless, smooth invasion until Andre’s nose was indeed pressed flat against the coarse hair at the base. The crowd’s collective inhalation was a rush of sound. Draven held him there, utterly impaled, for five agonizing seconds before pulling back just enough to let Andre gasp a wet, ragged breath. “Again,” Draven growled, and Andre opened wider, letting him slide back in, the obscene, wet sounds of his sucking filling the throne room.
“Again,” Draven growled, and Andre opened wider, letting him slide back in, the obscene, wet sounds of his sucking filling the throne room. Draven’s hips began a lazy, dominant rhythm, each thrust a calculated invasion that scraped the back of Andre’s throat. Tears streamed freely down Andre’s flushed cheeks, mixing with spit and pre-cum, a messy canvas of his submission.
Draven finally pulled his slick cock from Andre’s mouth with a pop, a thick strand of saliva connecting them. He looked out over the sea of rapt faces, a cruel smile playing on his lips. “But a true Alpha shares his spoils,” he announced, his voice echoing off the marble. “Kael. Approach.”
The blond guard stepped forward from the shadows, his usual composure shattered, face pale. “My King,” Kael said, his voice tight. Draven’s smile widened. “You’ve watched long enough. Draven wanted to have a bit of fun. He called Kael, who looked terrified. He knew better than to get between an Alpha and their mate, but what better way to show submission than to push his mate’s limits.”
“Kael, Andre is going to serve us both, now,” Draven commanded, his tone leaving no room for dissent. He pointed to the floor before his throne. “On your knees. Take his cock like you’re taking mine, now.” Kael’s eyes flickered to Andre’s swollen, dripping erection, then back to Draven. Of course, Kael was already rock hard, as Draven knew he would be.
“Now,” Draven repeated, the single word a lash. Kael dropped to his knees, his movements stiff with a mixture of fear and raw arousal. He didn’t hesitate, his hand wrapping around Andre’s shaft, his mouth engulfing the head in one swift, practiced motion. Andre cried out, the dual sensation of Kael’s hot, suctioning mouth and Draven’s commanding gaze a violent shock to his system.
Draven’s hand fisted in Andre’s hair, forcing his head back to watch Kael work. “See how he enjoys my leavings?” Draven’s voice was a low, possessive rumble in Andre’s ear. Kael’s tongue swirled around the crown before he sucked Andre’s length deep into his throat, a low groan vibrating through his chest.
Andre’s hips jerked, a helpless fucking motion into that wet heat. “Hold still,” Draven commanded, his free hand sliding down to squeeze the base of Andre’s cock, a brutal, punishing grip. “You don’t get to chase it.” The denial was a sharp, bright agony.
Draven released his hair only to reach down and grip Kael by the back of the neck, controlling the rhythm of his head. “Faster,” he ordered, pushing Kael down until his nose met the coarse hair at Andre’s groin. The wet, gagging sounds were raw and public. Draven watched Andre’s face contort, the pleasure fraying into something desperate.
“You’re going to watch him swallow,” Draven murmured, his own cock a hard, neglected weight against Andre’s cheek. “And then you’re going to beg me for what he got.” Kael’s pace turned punishing, his cheeks hollowing with obscene force. Andre’s vision whited out, a strangled cry tearing from his lungs as he came in violent, hot pulses down Kael’s throat.
Kael swallowed every drop, his Adam’s apple working, before Draven released his neck. “Good,” Draven said, shoving Kael aside without another glance. His full attention returned to Andre, who was shuddering through the aftershocks, empty and exposed. Draven stroked his own length, slicking it with spit and the leftover wetness on Andre’s lips.
“Now it’s my turn,” Draven growled, turning Andre bodily and bending him over the arm of the throne. His thumb pressed roughly against Andre’s spit-slicked hole, still loose from his tongue. “You’re going to take me raw, and you’re going to thank me for it.” He shoved the thick head inside without preparation, a brutal invasion that stole Andre’s breath.
Andre screamed, the stretch a searing, perfect burn. “Thank me,” Draven demanded, sinking deeper, his balls slapping against Andre’s tender skin. “Say it.” “Th-thank you,” Andre sobbed, the words muffled against the cold throne arm. Draven’s pace was immediate and merciless, each thrust a claiming that shook Andre’s bones.
The slap of skin and Draven’s guttural grunts were the only sounds in the vast, silent hall. Andre’s mouth made sounds that bordered on sobbing and moaning; he loved the way Draven was taking him, the brutal fullness that erased everything but this raw, possessive joining.
Draven leaned down, his chest hot against Andre’s back, and addressed the crowd. “See how perfectly my mate’s hole takes my cock?” He pistoned in deep, a visceral demonstration. Then he smiled, a flash of teeth. “He always takes it perfectly.”
His pace became ruthless, a driving rhythm that bumped Andre’s prostate with every snap of his hips. “In a moment he’s going to come on my cock,” Draven growled against his ear, the promise a hot vibration, “and he’ll thank me for it.”
Then he spun Andre to face him, the sudden shift wrenching a cry from Andre’s throat. Draven’s hands cradled his face, thumbs pressing into his jaw, holding his gaze as Andre’s eyes kept rolling back. “My perfect fuck-mate,” Draven breathed, his own control fraying. “The gates couldn’t have chosen any better.”
Draven doubled his efforts, pistoning into him with a frenzy that left Andre boneless, supported only by Draven’s grip and the relentless thrusts. “Come on my cock for me,” Draven commanded, his voice ragged. “Let them see how well we meet each other’s most base needs.”
Andre screamed, “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” as he sprayed his cum, the hot streaks painting both their chests and splattering across Draven’s lips. Draven licked his lips, tasting him, and then his mouth found Andre’s shoulder. He bit down, not on the fresh mark, but beside it, a second, searing claim as he followed him into oblivion, his own loud moans a muffled echo into Andre’s neck.
Draven’s teeth unlocked from his shoulder with a wet, final sound, his breath hot and ragged against the new mark. The throne room’s silence rushed back in, a vacuum after the storm of sound, broken only by their harsh panting and the distant crackle of torches. Andre’s vision swam, the taste of his own blood coppery on his tongue where Draven’s shoulder had been pressed against his lips.
IN THAT MOMENT ANDRE WAS PULLED INTO A VISION, OF HIM CRADLING A BABY AS DRAVEN KISSES HIS FOREHEAD.
The image was shockingly vivid, serene: his own arms, cradling a tiny, sleeping form wrapped in soft grey wool, the scent of milk and clean skin cutting through the throne room’s musk. Draven’s lips, now gentle, brushed his forehead, a look of quiet awe softening his normally ruthless features. The warmth of the imagined child’s weight was utterly real against his chest.
Draven saw what he did.
A violent tremor ran through Draven’s body still sheathed inside him. Andre somehow shared it with him. Draven ripped himself free, staggering back as if burned, his emerald eyes wide with a panic Andre had never seen. “What the fuck was that?” Draven breathed, the words not a roar but a shattered whisper meant only for him. The crowd murmured, confused by their Alpha’s sudden withdrawal.
Andre could only stare, his body aching and spent, the ghost of the child’s warmth still clinging to his arms. Draven’s gaze darted from Andre’s face to his own hands, as if they were foreign objects. He wiped his mouth, the back of his hand coming away smeared with Andre’s release and his own blood. “Get up,” he muttered, the command lacking all its former force. He turned from Andre, from the crowd, his naked shoulders rigid with a tension that had nothing to do with passion.