Chapter 83 Dangers of Mating with a Sempyr
Ruel's POV
The lantern burns low on my desk, throwing long shadows across the worn pages of the old tome. The leather binding is cracked.
The Dangers of Mating with a Sempyr.
The title barely holds on in dull gold. I’ve read this passage three times, but I still read it again anyway, hoping the words will stick this time.
Sempyrs do not love as we do, they feed. Heartless, unforgiving beings… they absorb the life of their prey.
I trace the line with one finger, my jaw clenched.
A sempyr’s kiss is not affection, it is extraction. Through a kiss on any part of the body, through touch, through climax, through the bite of mating, they draw life essence from their partner.
At first this happens slowly. It starts as a fatigue the victim mistakes for passion. A lingering weakness normally blamed on battle or age. But over months, even years, the wolf grows quiet. In time, the bonded mate becomes an example of alive-but-hollow.
My chest tightens when I picture Ira’s mouth on me, hot and eager, her small hands gripping my thighs as she took me deep.
Yes, afterwards my legs felt unsteady, my breath was ragged but I've never cum so hard my whole life. Of course I had shaky knees.
The intensity of my release, the shock of her boldness… all of it made me weak in the knees but do I think she drained my life force?
No.
Ira is literally like a wolf without a claw.
I force myself to read on, already knowing this is bullshit.
Research shows that sempyrs unlike witches and warlocks are incapable of true pair-bonding. The mating mark may be imprinted, but the bond is always one-sided.
The sempyr feels no reciprocal pull, no lifelong devotion. They use partners as wells to drink from, discarding them when the flow weakens.
Many recorded cases end in the death of the wolf, with the sempyr walking away unscathed, already seeking the next source of its power balance.
Krist growls low, pacing restlessly beneath my skin.
“I can't believe you are still reading this bullshit.” he seethes.
“Have you forgotten you are the one who suggested we read more about sempyrs?” I shoot.
“This isn't what I meant. I was… Ruel if we are going to make her ours…”
“We are not making her ours, we are only fucking her.” I yell inwardly.
“Yeah, whatever sails your rickety boat.”
Letting out a groan I pinch the center bridge of my nose.
“What? I'm giving you a headache? I told you we need to know how to please her if we are going to… we'll fuck her. It's our first time, we can't mess this up.”
I swallow, not sure how I even got to this page but look at all of these. It's written to make it seem like getting intimate with a sempyr is deadly.
“What if this is correct and it's the reason there was barely any mating between a sempyr and a werewolf in Vahl?” I mutter under my breath.
“And what if this is a lie and instead of preparing for the necessary, you are busy rereading a dumb fiction, written to instill hatred in the heart of werewolves for sempyrs?” Krist asks.
I close my eyes for a moment, my thoughts syncing with Krist's.
The image comes unbidden, Ira on her knees in the clearing, her lips stretched around me, looking up with triumph as I lost my grip.
My cock stirs at the thought like the shameless traitor that it is.
I move to shut the book but then another passage catches my eye.
Sempyrs often display heightened allure during feeding cycles. Their scent intensifies. Their skin warms invitingly. Victims report obsessive thoughts, inability to focus, dreams of the sempyr night after night.
Signs of a hungry sempyr is majorly the desire to be intimate. A hunger for control in bed.
I exhale sharply. Obsessive thoughts, Inability to focus, Dreams… This all sounds like normal bond traits. Perhaps people just hated being mated to sempyrs that they cooked up these takes.
If anything written here is true then it means I'm cooked. Yesterday I rewrote the same supply request four times because I kept writing her name instead of the relevant numbers.
She is dangerous. Just not in the way the documentary claims, not as some soul-draining monster, but in the way she slips past my thoughts and lodges herself where years of discipline should live.
My wolf always strains toward her and I’m the one who has to hold his leash all the time.
“Yeah?” Krist snorts, “I don't remember getting my dick sucked, Ruel. Guess I should have put you on a leash then, seeing as you've lost control way more times than I have.”
I shut the book and push it aside. The warnings linger anyway, clinging to the edges of my thoughts.
Still I call bullshit and reach for the letter on my desk instead. The quill is dry. I dip it, and steady my hand.
To the Alpha King, Alpha King Andre, Alpha of Vahl…
The quill moves as I write on, remembering to be the most polite I can be. But suddenly my focus slips again.
And once again I'm perceiving her scent like a long sought memory, her moans echo faintly in my head.
My hand stops moving but it's too late, the paper already has three extra unplanned words
Ira, Ira, Ira.
I drag a rough line through what I’ve written and start again.
This time I mutter everything I'm writing out loud to help my mind from drifting. I ask for more than we need in the base.
I do this on purpose knowing alpha King Andre will never give what's needed. If I aim high, I might still walk away with enough to keep us standing.
Once I'm done, I seal the wax, press my signet into it harder than necessary, then set the letter aside for the morning rider.
I rise, heading for the door.
Outside, I'm immediately intercepted by Scarface.
“The men are ready,” he says. “They’ve been waiting.”
“Good,” I respond with a nod. “Then let’s not keep them waiting any longer.” I mutter, already striding to the field.