Chapter 7 Chapter 7
AMINA
The knowledge that Ethan was now a hostage in my war settled over me like a suffocating shroud. I spent the night pacing my five-star cage, the luxury of the suite a sick joke. Rian hadn't checked on me. He didn't need to; the threat was enough.
The next morning, Rian arrived without fanfare. He was wearing black athletic shorts and a sleeveless compression shirt, a casual uniform that only emphasized the dangerous, perfect geometry of his physique. He looked like a statue carved from lethal intent.
“Get up,” he commanded, his voice devoid of emotion. “The seventy-two hours started yesterday. We don’t have time for your self-pity, Hybrid.”
I glared at him. “What, no warm-up? No motivational speech about the Alpha spirit?”
“Your motivation is survival. Mine is political viability,” he countered, walking toward a hidden panel in the wall. “That’s all the motivation we need.”
He pressed the panel, and a heavy, seamless door slid open, revealing a vast, climate-controlled room. It was stark white, padded, and completely soundproof which was a perfect arena for controlled chaos.
“The training room,” Rian announced. “We start with the source of your problem: the chaos.”
I walked past him into the bright room, feeling suddenly exposed. My casual clothes felt flimsy against his armored presence. “I already told you the problem isn’t my power. It’s your ancient, fascist laws.”
“The law is a mirror of necessity,” he said, following me in. “The Lycan-Seers were outlawed because their power—the Earth Pulse—is inherently chaotic. Werewolf power is controlled, focused, and primal. Your magic is like an unpredictable flood trying to burst through a stable dam.”
He stopped, his eyes locked on mine, intense and clinical. “We will fix the dam. I cannot train you using traditional wolf methods; your power would consume me. But we have a unique resource.”
I already knew the answer, and my stomach twisted with dread. “The Mate Bond.”
“Precisely,” Rian confirmed, a dark satisfaction hardening his features. “The Bond links your internal chaos directly to my absolute, lifelong control. When we touch, the Bond acts as a conduit. I will push my control into you, a focused discipline that overrides your fear and allows you to harness the Earth Pulse without letting the chaos overwhelm the command.”
I swallowed, the air suddenly too thin. “This sounds less like a lesson and more like a sexual assault dressed up as political strategy.”
“Spare me the dramatics, Amina. This is biology. We are stripping away emotion and focusing purely on energy transfer. But yes,” he admitted, stepping closer until the sheer pressure of his proximity made the hairs on my arms rise. “It requires sustained, intimate physical contact.”
“And if I resist?”
“You will fail, the Council will execute you, and my Beta will feel vindicated,” Rian stated plainly. “Your choice.”
He didn't wait for my answer. He simply reached out and took my right hand in his.
The contact was immediate, explosive, and not entirely unpleasant. The Mate Bond, which had been a throbbing ache, suddenly snapped taut, sending a rush of raw, primal possessiveness from him and a blinding surge of reluctant recognition through me.
"First exercise: The Channel," Rian instructed, his voice lower, rougher now, battling the instinctual reaction of the bond. "Focus on the Earth Pulse, feel the magic trying to escape. Don’t fight it. Just acknowledge its presence."
I closed my eyes, trying to focus on the cold, ancient power I usually kept locked down. When I let it surface, it felt like an ocean tide roaring in my ears, terrifying and magnificent.
"Now, relax your resistance," Rian urged, his thumb brushing the sensitive skin of my wrist. "Let the power rise."
As the magic surged, Rian’s grip tightened, and I felt a simultaneous, sharp invasion. It wasn't physical pain, but a profound, absolute psychic control pouring from him into me. It felt like my very will was being overridden by a cold, metallic force.
Get out of my head! I screamed internally, fighting the intrusion.
"Stop fighting me!" he growled, the Alpha Command laced into the words. "You have to accept the discipline! You have to accept my control!"
"I won't submit to you!"
"You will submit to your survival!" He ripped my other hand up and pressed both our palms together, forcing me into a full physical connection. "I am not taking your power, I am teaching you where the lock is! Now push!"
He was punishing me, I knew that. But as the Earth Pulse roared, I felt Rian’s immense control. His pure, disciplined Lycan power acts like a dampening field. The chaos in my magic subsided, becoming focused, sharp, almost surgical.
The sensation was dizzying. I felt powerful, controlled, and utterly dependent on him. It was terrifyingly addictive.
"Good," Rian muttered, his breathing heavy. His eyes, fixed on mine, were no longer cold, but blazing with the heat of the Mate Bond. "That's control. Now try to hold it without the chaos returning."
He started to pull his hands away, but as the control began to slip, the chaos returned immediately. I panicked. I didn't want the uncontrolled surge.
Instinctively, desperately, I lunged forward, pressing my hands against the side of his skull, near his temples, trying to re-establish the psychic connection.
The Mate Bond exploded.
It was not a controlled feeling of power transfer. It was a massive, uncontrolled flare of my Blood Sight.
The training room vanished. I was slammed into a cold, dark vision, but it wasn't my prophecy. It was Rian's memory.
I saw a younger Rian, perhaps ten years old, standing rigidly in a massive, ancient chamber. It wasn't the Council room, but a family crypt. He was weeping, silent and terrified, holding the cold, lifeless hand of an older woman, possibly his mother or grandmother.
The air was heavy with death and betrayal. A voice—not Rian's, but a harsh, male Alpha voice echoed: "The prophecy does not skip a generation. You failed to contain the curse, and now you pay the price. Rian, you must never allow emotion, or it will be your blood on this floor next."
The vision snapped off violently. I stumbled back, gasping, shaking. The trauma was raw, personal, and devastatingly clear. He hadn't just been raised by a ruthless family; he had been conditioned by a traumatic, prophetic execution right in front of him. His need for control wasn't arrogance; it was an active coping mechanism built on a foundation of witnessed murder.
I stared at Rian, who was now breathing hard, his control completely shattered by the invasion. He hadn't seen what I saw, but he knew I had seen.
The Alpha was gone, replaced by a wounded, horrified boy.
I realized, with sickening clarity: He taught me control, and in return, I just ripped away his most devastating secret.