Chapter 3 The rut hasn’t claimed you yet.
Elara's POV
“You’re late.”
I close the door behind me, heart thundering like a trapped animal. “I was at the hospital.”
He doesn’t turn right away. Breathes in—slow, sharp, deliberate—like dissecting my scent: grief-salt, tears, healer light. A low rumble builds in his chest, ominous as thunder.
“You’re crying.”
My throat tightens, voice cracking with desperation. “Alpha—”
“Come. Here.”
Not a request. An order, alpha-laced with dominance that weakens my knees, compelling obedience. My feet move before my brain consents, drawn by bond-pull older than words, each step a march toward fate. Closer, the wound reveals itself: ragged, deep, silver-fouled gashes weeping through his shirt, a gruesome testament to the ambush.
My healer sense screams at me—heal, purge, save—but fear holds me frozen.
“You’re injured,” I say, breathless, hands hovering uselessly. “You need treatment. You can’t let it fester—the silver will drive the rut into madness—”
“I don’t need anything,” he snaps, whirling with lethal grace.
His eyes lock onto mine, gold flaring bright like molten fire, pupils dilating with rut hunger.
Except he does need something—desperately. He’s barely holding himself together, fraying at the edges, the rut stirring beneath his skin—too early, too strong, a volcano on the brink.
He steps closer, his towering presence invading every inch of space, heat suffocating like an inferno.
“What happened?” he asks, voice suddenly quieter, but laced with dangerous undercurrents—a predator’s murmur. “Who hurt you? Tell me, and I’ll end them.”
“No one,” I whisper, backing against the desk, voice trembling. “I’m just—my mother—her treatment—Alpha Voss, they’re stopping it because I can’t pay—the bills are piling up, stage three, aggressive, she’ll die without it—”
My voice shatters into sobs, ripping free like a dam breaking, hands flying to my face as tears cascade in a torrent of despair.
His expression changes—not softening, not pitying. Hardening with purpose, a dark gleam in his eyes like a wolf spotting prey.
“And you came to me,” he says, voice silk over steel.
“Yes.”
“Because you have no one else.”
“Yes!”
“Because you expect me to save her.”
Silence stretches between us, taut as a bowstring on the verge of snapping.
“Yes,” I gasp, meeting his gaze through tears.
He moves so fast I barely register it—lightning in human form.
One moment he’s standing a foot away. The next he’s inches from me, towering over me like a colossus, his immense physique crowding every molecule of air around us, his aura pressing down like chains of dominance.
“My rut begins in three days,” he says, voice low and dangerous, a growl vibrating through his chest. “And I need someone strong enough to keep me from losing control—to anchor the beast, endure the storm.”
My breath catches, terror and forbidden thrill colliding.
His gaze burns into mine, golden eyes devouring.
“Tell me, Elara,” he murmurs, breath hot against my skin. “Are you prepared for what that means? To be mine, night after night, until the fire burns out?”
My heart pounds against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat of fear and resolve.
I think of my mother in that hospital bed—weak, fading, her smile a fragile mask over unending pain, her life hanging by a thread I can’t mend alone.
I meet his eyes, defiance born of desperation.
“No,” I whisper, voice breaking. “But I’ll do it anyway. For her.”
Something sharp flickers over his expression—approval, possession, restraint hanging by a thread, his control fracturing like glass under pressure.
“When does it start?” I ask, voice a threadbare whisper.
He leans in until his breath brushes my ear, his presence overwhelming, inescapable.
“It already has.”
Drama ignites: his hand fists my hair in a grip both gentle and possessive, yanking my head back to expose my throat, his eyes boring into my soul with feral intensity. Magic clashes like fireworks—mine surging to heal, tentative threads weaving into his wound, his lashing back with raw, possessive force. A growl rumbles deep in his chest, pleasure-pain shuddering through him as control cracks audibly.
“Say yes,” he demands, lips ghosting my pulse, voice a thunderous vow. “Or walk away now—before it’s too late.”
“Yes,” I sob, the word tearing out of me like a confession and a surrender all at once.
The sound of it does something to him.
Not softness.
Not mercy.
Restraint—shattering.
His grip tightens in my hair, not cruel but unyielding, tilting my head back until my throat is bare, my pulse hammering wildly beneath my skin. His breath ghosts over it, hot and uneven, a growl vibrating through his chest that I feel more than hear.
Magic erupts between us.
Mine flares gold and frantic, healer instinct screaming at the sight of his wound, reaching without permission. His answers it instantly—dark, immense, crushing in its intensity. The clash sends a shock through me, stealing my breath, my knees threatening to give out as power coils tight around my spine like invisible hands.
I gasp.
He freezes.
Just for a heartbeat.
That’s the terrifying part—not the hunger, not the dominance—but the control he still has. The way he clamps down on himself with brutal precision, jaw locking, breath shuddering through his teeth as if every instinct in him is screaming to take more than he allows.
His forehead drops to mine.
“Look at me,” he orders quietly.
I do.
His eyes are molten gold now, pupils blown wide, the rut burning bright and merciless behind them. But beneath it—deeper, sharper—is awareness. Calculation. Consent.
“You don’t belong to me,” he says, voice rough like gravel dragged over steel. “Not yet. This isn’t ownership.”
My chest heaves. “Then what is it?”
A pause.
“A contract written in blood and need,” he answers. “One you can still walk away from.”
His hand loosens in my hair, fingers sliding back—giving me space. Choice.
“If you stay,” he continues, low and deliberate, “there will be rules. You will not be touched unless you say so. You will not be claimed. You will not be broken.”
His gaze drops, tracking the way my hands tremble at my sides, the way my magic still strains toward his wound.
“But you will see me at my worst,” he finishes. “You will feel what I am when the beast is awake. And once you step into that… you don’t leave unchanged.”
I swallow hard, throat tight.
“I’m already changed,” I whisper. “My mother is dying. I can’t save her alone. If this is the price—”
“It’s not a price,” he snaps, lifting my chin sharply, forcing my eyes back to his. “It’s a risk. For both of us.”
Silence presses in, thick and electric.
Somewhere outside this room, an empire trembles. Staff whisper. Guards brace. The tower holds its breath.
Inside, the Alpha watches me decide my fate.
I think of hospital walls. Machines humming. My mother’s hand in mine, warm and fading.
I nod once.
“I stay.”
Something dangerous and final settles into his expression.
“Then listen carefully,” he says. “When the rut crests, you do exactly what I say. You do not run. You do not lie to me. And if I tell you to leave—”
“I won’t,” I interrupt, voice shaking but firm. “I can handle it.”
His lips twitch—not in amusement.
In warning.
“We’ll see.”
He steps back at last, turning away with visible effort, shoulders tight as if every muscle is locked in a battle he’s barely winning.
“Go home,” he orders. “Rest. You’ll need your strength.”
I hesitate. “And my mother?”
“I’ll make the call,” he says without looking back. “Before midnight.”
Relief hits me so hard my vision blurs.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
His voice drops, rough and unreadable.
“Don’t thank me yet, Elara.”
The door unlocks with a soft click.
As I step out, his final words follow me like a promise and a threat intertwined:
“The rut hasn’t claimed you yet.”
The door closes behind me.
And for the first time since the hospital, I realize something far more terrifying than desperation.
I’m not sure I want to escape him.