Chapter 6: Claiming His Prize
Draven’s deal hung in the charged air between them, a taunt wrapped in a promise. Andre stared, the blue glow finally fading from his skin, leaving him cold and exposed. “Thirty minutes,” Draven said again, his emerald eyes still lit with that unsettling internal fire. “Starting now.” Andre didn’t wait for another word. He wrenched the heavy door open and fled back into the torchlit corridor, the sound of Draven’s low chuckle chasing him like a predator’s breath.
He ran blindly, bare feet slapping cold stone, the ripped linen shirt flapping open. The celebratory noise from the feast was swelling, flooding the lower halls. He took a narrow servants’ staircase, the spiral tight and dark, but it spat him out into a crowded gallery where revellers were spilling from the great hall, cups in hand, their scents a blur of ale and sweat. Andre shoved through, muttering apologies, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. He had no fucking idea where he was.
A hand clapped his shoulder. He spun, expecting Draven, but it was only Thorne, the Beta, his face flushed with drink. “Andre, right? The run’s started! You should be out there!”
A jolt of raw panic sliced through him, cold and clean. Andre twitched, his eyes darting past the Beta’s friendly face to scan the corridor’s end, his pulse a frantic bird beating against his throat. “Just… finding my way,” he stammered, the lie thin and brittle in the thick, ale-scented air.
The Beta’s grip on his shoulder tightened briefly, an anchor meant to stall, and he launched into a rambling story about the feast, feigning ignorant enthusiasm that was too loud, too bright, and too precisely timed. Sweat beaded on Andre’s lip as he listened, a trapped animal sensing the slow, deliberate closing of the trap. A shiver crawled up his spine, realizing this easy chatter was a tactical delay, a purposeful distraction to spike his adrenaline, because the best kind of sex for wolves came on the sharp edge of fear and flight.
The ancient watch on his wrist—the only thing left from his old life—ticked with a taunting finality. Ten minutes gone. The barest flicker in the Beta’s eyes, a glance at something over Andre’s shoulder, confirmed the silent mind-link he shared with Draven was active. Andre finally wrenched himself free, muttering a curt “gotta go,” and he ran, the Beta’s deep, knowing laughter chasing him down the hall. “He always wins, Andre!” the voice echoed.
He pounded past torches that blurred into streaks of orange light, his breath ragged in his throat, sweat now plastering the ripped linen to his back. The pounding was a prelude to a dead end, just a blank stretch of unyielding stone and a single, high, barred window revealing the indifferent moon—his second dead end hallway. He spun, a curse tearing from his lips, and sprinted back the way he’d come, veering into a different passage where the sounds were wetter, louder, animalistic.
Here, bodies were pressed against the walls, fucking with a raw, open hunger, the slick sounds of skin on skin and guttural moans flooding the narrow space. The scent of sex—musky, sharp, and overwhelmingly primal—was a thick fog that coated the back of his tongue, searing his focus into ash as he had to slide past a writhing tangle of limbs, his own traitorous body responding with a hard, painful throb of want. He burst out the other side, gulping cleaner air, and stumbled onto a vaulted balcony that overlooked the castle’s main foyer.
He looked down. There, standing like a dark king surveying his domain, was Draven, with Thorne at his elbow and a cluster of others Andre didn’t know. The Alpha turned his head slowly, precisely, as if drawn by the very heat of Andre’s gaze, and looked directly up, meeting his eyes across the dizzying space. He smiled then, wide and cruel, his expression opening to show all his teeth, including the elongated, predatory canines. Thorne followed his king’s gaze, spotted Andre frozen on the balcony, and laughed, a sharp, victorious sound that bounced off the stones.
E Andre’s gaze snapped to his wrist. Six minutes remained.
Six minutes remained. Andre kept going, pushing past another wave of bodies, his path a frantic, useless zigzag through the stone labyrinth. He was going nowhere fast, the castle a living puzzle designed to disorient him.
The halls were filling with people returning from the Run, their voices loud with drunken laughter or hushed with intimate promises. He stumbled into a wider corridor where a group was already celebrating, limbs tangled against the wall, the raw scent of sweat and sex choking the air. He spun away, dizzy, and took another hall, this one mercifully vacant and silent except for the thunder of his own heartbeat.
He looked at his watch. "Fuck." Less than a minute. A sob of pure desperation caught in his throat. He tried a side door, yanking at the iron handle until his shoulder burned, but it was locked solid, trapping him in the dead-end hall.
"Thirty-two seconds." The voice materialized from the shadows behind him, lips ghosting the shell of his ear. Andre flinched hard, his back hitting the cold stone wall. "I still have time," Andre stammered, the lie pathetic even to his own ears.
Draven stepped into the sliver of moonlight slicing through a high window. "I decided to meet you since you were nowhere near the room," he said, his tone conversational as he closed the distance. "Makes it easier for both of us." He glanced at his own wrist, a predatory smile touching his lips. "Time's up."
Andre pushed himself harder against the wall, his heart racing. As he opened his mouth to beg, to say anything that might save him, Draven’s lips crushed into his, swallowing the sound whole. He was done waiting. The kiss was a conquest, demanding and deep, a raw claim that stole the air from Andre’s lungs.
Draven’s hands gripped his ass, pulling their bodies flush, and Andre felt the hard, thick line of the Alpha’s cock against his own through their clothes. “You’re mine now,” Draven growled against his mouth, one hand fumbling with the tie of Andre’s pants. The linen gave way, and Draven’s rough, calloused fingers wrapped around Andre’s length, squeezing hard enough to make him gasp. “All that running just made me want you more.”
Draven’s hand stroked him, a rough, demanding rhythm that made Andre’s hips jerk. “I have a few secrets of myself,” Draven whispered, his breath hot against Andre’s ear. “Close your eyes.”
Andre squeezed them shut, obedient in his panic. The air around him vibrated, a deep hum that rattled his teeth and shuddered through his bones. When the vibrations stilled, cold stone was gone, replaced by the soft crush of a thick rug beneath his bare feet.
They were in the largest bedroom Andre had ever seen. The large four-poster bed dominated the space, a monstrosity of carved dark wood hung with heavy black curtains. Draven released him, stepping back to watch Andre take in the vaulted ceiling, the banked fire, the sheer scale of his captivity.
“No more running,” Draven said, his voice final. He began undoing the closures of his own trousers, his eyes never leaving Andre’s trembling form. “You’re here now. Mine.”
Mine. He let the word hang, a verdict in the vast, silent room. Draven circled Andre, his eyes glowing green, his wolf clearly at the surface. "I can hear your blood rushing through your veins, smell the sweat beading your brow, and the arousal of your cock that you keep trying to suppress," he growled, his voice more inhuman now, gruff, dangerous. It called to Andre’s soul, his core; he trembled like a leaf, and it appeased the beast that stalked him.
A corner of Draven’s mouth lifted at the visible shudder. He reached out and closed his hand around the back of Andre’s neck, not squeezing, just holding. "Open your eyes and look at me." Andre did, his brown eyes wide, the freckles on his face stark against his pale skin. Draven leaned in, their foreheads almost touching. "Tell me you feel this," he commanded, his other hand sliding down to grip Andre's hard length again, giving it a rough, possessive stroke.
A sharp cry tore from Andre's throat, his hips bucking forward into that brutal friction. "I feel it," he gasped, the admission ripped from him. "God, I feel it." Draven's thumb swept over the slick tip, smearing pre-come down his shaft. "Good." In one fluid motion, he tore the remnants of Andre's linen shirt away and pushed him backward onto the massive bed.
The dark curtains whispered around them as Andre landed on the lush furs. Draven stood at the foot of the bed, stripping his own clothes with ruthless efficiency, his gaze a physical weight. His cock sprang free, thick and ruddy, curving up against his abdomen. Andre’s mouth went dry. Draven crawled over him, the heat of his body like a forge. "You're going to scream for me," he said, a simple statement of fact.
His claim hung in the air, a vow sealed by the ancient tether thrumming between them. Andre’s reply was a shuddering inhale, his body arching up from the furs in a silent plea.
In an instant, Draven pulled him by the hips to the very edge of the bed, the movement startling and absolute. He hooked Andre’s legs over his broad shoulders, spreading him wide open to the firelight and his own relentless gaze. Andre was blushing with a ferocious heat, every freckle standing out, especially after Draven’s large hands came down in two sharp, stinging slaps on the sensitive skin of his inner thighs. The sound was crisp, the bite of pain making Andre gasp and then moan.
Next, he scented Andre. He simply rubbed his nose, rough and intent, all over his cock, his balls, and deeply in the crease between his ass. Draven groaned as he did, the sound vibrating against Andre’s skin. “You smell like lightning and fear and me,” he growled, his voice thick. Then he asked, his tone deceptively soft, “Do you want a kiss, Andre?” Breathless, Andre said yes. He didn’t expect him to spread his ass open and kiss him there.
The touch of Draven’s lips against that most private place was a shock of wet heat, intimate and devastating. Andre cried out, his hands fisting in the dark furs, his back bowing off the bed. Draven’s tongue followed, a broad, flat stroke that licked a burning path over his hole, and Andre’s vision sparked with that same electric blue for a fractured second. “There it is,” Draven muttered against his skin, before spearing his tongue inside, working him open with a ruthless, wet rhythm. Andre babbled, a broken stream of “oh god” and “please” falling from his lips, his hips rocking helplessly against Draven’s face.
Draven laughed, a low, vibrating rumble against Andre’s skin as his tongue speared deeper, working him open with a wet, obscene rhythm. “Such a good boy,” he growled, pulling back to look at the wrecked man beneath him. “All that valiant effort trying to escape just made you wetter for me.”
He gave Andre’s hole one final, lingering kiss, his lips soft against the stretched, sensitive ring. Then he moved up, capturing Andre’s mouth in a brief, hard kiss that tasted of salt and both of them. “Playtime is over, Andre,” he breathed against his lips, his voice thick with promise. “I’m going to fuck you now.”
Positioning himself, he guided the broad, blunt head of his cock to Andre’s entrance, applying relentless pressure without hesitation. Andre cried out, a sharp sound of shock yielding to overwhelming sensation as Draven pushed in, the stretch an exquisite, burning fullness. Draven leaned down, his breath hot in Andre’s ear. “You will come on my cock,” he swore, setting a deep, punishing pace. “And I’m not even going to touch it with my hands.”
He meant it. Draven drove into him with a brutal, measured rhythm, each thrust a shock of deep, stretching pressure. Andre choked on a moan, his own untouched cock leaking onto his stomach, but Draven only watched with those glowing green eyes, his large hands pinning Andre’s hips to the bed with immovable force.
Draven kept touching something deep inside of Andre with every thrust, a spot that sent jolts of blinding pleasure radiating through his groin. Andre had his eyes closed tightly, lost in the overwhelming sensations, but Draven demanded his focus. "Look at me," he growled, his voice raw.
Andre’s brown eyes fluttered open, dazed and wet. "Tell me what you feel," Draven asked, never slowing the punishing pace of his hips.
"I don't know," Andre gasped, the lie brittle. Draven’s mouth curved into a vicious smile. "Liar. Yes, you do."
Andre’s moan caught in his throat, a sound of pure nerves and overwhelming sensation. Draven leaned down, his forehead pressing against Andre’s. His scent, the overwhelming taste of power, filled Andre's lungs. "There is no shame here, Andre!" Draven said, his words a fierce promise and a command that vibrated in Andre’s very bones. "Because this is only the beginning."
He punctuated the statement with a harder, deeper thrust that made Andre cry out. Draven pulled back just enough to meet his eyes again. "Because I am going to fuck you, Andre, until you lose that shame. On my throne, in the forest, in front of the whole pack. And you'll thank me for it. And you’ll cum on my cock." His hips snapped forward, a relentless piston. "Now, tell me how my cock feels lodged in your virgin asshole, Andre."
Andre was moaning louder now, a continuous, broken stream of sound he tried to muffle by biting his own lip. Draven thought that was funny. He huffed a low laugh against Andre’s sweat-slicked neck, his teeth grazing the skin. "They'll all hear it," he whispered, his breath scalding. "No matter how hard you try to hide."
He felt Draven’s lips smile against his throat before the king slammed into him again, and Andre’s muffled cry broke into an open-mouthed scream that echoed in the vaulted room. "There it is," Draven purred, the sound dark with triumph. Deep inside, behind his ribs, the soul-bound tether ignited, a thread of pure, scorching sunlight weaving their frantic heartbeats into one.
It blazed brighter with each savage thrust, a perfect misery. "I’m going to make you cum from your ass, Andre,” Draven snarled, his rhythm becoming impossibly precise, “just by touching that little prostate of yours.” Andre’s sob was a wet, ragged thing. Each deep, grinding drive hit that buried knot of nerves, sending violent tremors up his spine that had nothing to do with his untouched cock.
“An assgasm and an orgasm at the same time is one of the most intense pleasures a person can experience,” Draven panted, his voice rough with exertion. “You’ll have to let me know if that’s true.” Draven was relentless now, hammering that spot with machine-gun precision. Andre was a sobbing mess, his voice hitching louder and louder, body taut as a bowstring.
“Come for me now, Andre.” The command vibrated through the tether, an undeniable law. Andre glowed a brilliant, electric blue, his eyes rolling back into his head as he screamed, “FUCK YESSS, YESSS AHHHHHHHHHHHH!” His hole clenched in a brutal, rippling rhythm, milking Draven’s cock as his own shaft jerked, spilling hot stripes across his stomach.
“Fuck yes,” Draven growled in response, hips stuttering. “Squeezing my cock with your perfect hole.” He buried himself to the hilt and flooded Andre’s ass, the scalding rush triggering another wrenching pulse from Andre’s oversensitive body. Andre’s head fell back, neck bared in total submission. Draven groaned and bit down, teeth breaking skin at the juncture of shoulder and throat. The sharp, claiming pain shot through them both, and they shuddered through a final, simultaneous release, fused by blood, seed, and blinding light.
A sublime hush blanketed the aftermath. With one powerful pulse, Draven released his claim from Andre's shoulder, that final sharp pinch surrendering to something wider and irrevocable now stretching inside them. He pulled his softening cock from Andre's wrecked hole, a slick, warm trail of seed and spit dripping onto the rumpled furs.
Draven turned off his back, his chest rising and falling in a controlled, tidal rhythm. For a long minute, only the crackle of the dying fire and their harsh breathing filled the space. His low rumble cut through it. “Thirsty?”
Andre could only manage a weak nod. Draven rose, a fluid, powerful shape against the low light, and went to a sideboard where he poured two golden ales from a clay jug. He returned, handed one to Andre, and propped himself on an elbow, looking down at him with an unnerving, glittering focus. Draven took a long pull from his mug.
"So," he began, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his tone almost conversational."The glow. The energy-pull. It reacts when you're scared. When you're coming undone." Andre flinched, taking a shaky sip of the bitter liquid. "It's not a weapon.Not exactly."
"And it can't physically hurt you," Andre offered, his voice raw from screaming. "It might blow things up or make a mess, but it's… protective. Flares up when I'm cornered."
Draven grunted, his brows knitting as he listened. "Explain the 'tether' to me now," he said flatly.
Andre wrapped his arms around himself, gathering scattered truths about ancestors from hazel wood and troubled visions when around pure power. “I think… it’s like a homing beacon. My soul is apparently hunting something, has the ability to anchor to something else." He met Draven’s unwavering gaze. "It found you."
Draven went still. When he reached out again, his fingertips brushed just behind Andre’s ribs, where the thing called the soul bond now simmered, a smoldering coal nestled in their shared center. His touch was unlike any before it.
"I feel it," he confessed, his voice stripped bare.
Andre's own hand moved unconsciously, pressing over Draven’s own at the place where the king's touch met his skin. Draven’s emerald gaze flickered, not with command, but with quiet astonishment. He watched as that quiet astonishment slowly bled into his vivid eyes, recognition rewriting his features. For one stark moment, there was no king, no captive. There was only two wolves conjoined at a burn centre. There was only another soul, finally near.
Draven blinked slowly, lingering in the feeling. He blinked away the haunted fracture moment, but the shift in the air remained. He got up, ordered Andre in that gruff tone to clean up in his own bathroom and go to bed. Andre moved sluggishly, his skin already prickling with gooseflesh despite the banked fire, an aftermath shiver.