Chapter 5 You did well!
Elara's POV
But he’s losing the fight.
His free hand shoots out, gripping the bedframe so hard the wood creaks, splintering under his claws—claws that weren’t there a moment ago, elongating from his fingers in a surge of feral transformation. A snarl tears from his throat, raw and animalistic, his body arching as the rut crashes over him like a tidal wave, shaking him to his core.
“Hold on,” he snarls through clenched teeth, his grip on my wrist tightening—not to hurt, but to anchor himself, fingers digging in just enough to leave faint marks. His breath comes in ragged pants, chest heaving, every muscle in his torso rippling with the effort of restraint. I see the battle in his eyes: the Alpha fighting the beast, humanity flickering like a candle in a gale.
The wave peaks. His head falls back, a guttural roar escaping him that vibrates through the floor, through me, echoing off the walls like a warning to the world outside. Magic erupts in visible sparks—dark tendrils lashing out from him, crackling against my golden glow, clashing in a storm of light and shadow that fills the room with ozone and heat. One tendril brushes my cheek, not painful but possessive, curling around my throat for a heartbeat before he wrenches it back with a pained growl.
“Silver—” I almost whisper it, the safe word on my tongue, but I bite it back. He’s not hurting me. He’s hurting himself—claws raking his own thigh now, drawing thin lines of blood to redirect the urge, to keep from lunging at me.
“Don’t,” he gasps, eyes locking onto mine, wild and pleading. “Don’t say it. Not yet. I can… fight it.”
And he does. Gods, he does. Minutes stretch into eternity as the wave rolls through him—his body shuddering, sweat slicking his skin, low whines mixing with growls as he wrestles the rut down inch by inch. My magic pours into him relentlessly, a lifeline of gold threading through the chaos, soothing the silver poison in his veins, knitting the edges of his wound even as his control frays.
Finally, the surge ebbs. His claws retract with a wet snap, his grip on my wrist loosening to something almost gentle. He slumps forward, forehead pressing to mine, breath hot and ragged against my lips. “You… held me,” he murmurs, voice hoarse, laced with awe and exhaustion. “You didn’t run.”
“I won’t,” I whisper, my own voice trembling from the intensity, from the way our magics are still tangled, pulsing in sync like shared heartbeats.
But it’s not over. The rut isn’t a single wave—it’s an ocean. Another builds almost immediately, subtler at first, a low hum in his chest that grows into a vibration I feel in my bones. This time, he loses more ground. His hand slides from my wrist to my thigh, fingers splaying wide, possessive, testing the boundary. “Elara,” he growls, eyes darkening further, “your scent… it’s changing. You’re responding.”
Heat floods my face—and lower. I can’t deny it. The raw power of him, the vulnerability in his fight, stirs something primal in me. My magic betrays me, flaring brighter, reaching deeper into his, weaving tighter until it feels like we’re one circuit of energy, feeding off each other.
He snarls again, body tensing as the second wave hits harder. This time, he stands abruptly, dragging me with him—not roughly, but urgently—pressing me back against the wall, his massive frame caging me in. His hips pin mine, the hard evidence of his arousal grinding against me through fabric, a involuntary thrust that makes me gasp. “Fuck,” he hisses, pulling back with visible agony, fists slamming into the wall beside my head, cracking the plaster. “I won’t… take you. Not like this.”
But his control slips further. His lips crash against my throat—not a bite, but a desperate nuzzle, teeth grazing my pulse, hot breath sending shivers racing down my spine. Magic surges wildly—his darkness coiling around my waist like invisible ropes, lifting me slightly off the ground, pressing me closer to him as if the rut demands it. I cry out, not in pain, but in overwhelm, my hands flying to his chest, pouring more healing light into him, forcing the wave to crest and break.
He roars again, louder this time, the sound primal and echoing, his body convulsing as he fights to pull away. Blood trickles from where he’s bitten his own lip, copper tang mixing with his musk. Finally, he drops to his knees before me, head bowed, hands gripping my hips—not to claim, but to steady himself, forehead pressing to my abdomen as the rut subsides once more.
Hours blur like this—wave after wave, each more intense, each stripping another layer of his restraint. He paces like a caged animal between surges, growling commands for me to stay still, to breathe with him, to touch his chest when the pain spikes. At one peak, he nearly loses it completely: claws extending fully, raking shallow lines down his own arms as he pins me to the bed beneath him, hips rolling in desperate, instinctive thrusts against my thigh, his breath a litany of curses and pleas—“Elara, anchor me, fuck, please”—until my magic floods him, golden light exploding like a starburst, dragging him back from the brink.
By the time dawn filters through the curtains in pale streaks, we’re both wrecked—sweat-soaked, magic depleted, bodies trembling from the ordeal. He collapses beside me on the bed, one arm draped over my waist possessively but gently, his breath evening out at last.
“You did well,” he murmurs, voice raw and spent, golden eyes flickering back to something almost human. “I didn’t break you.”
Something tender—and terrifying—blooms in my chest. “You didn’t break at all,” I whisper, my hand resting on his chest, feeling his heartbeat sync with mine.
He turns his head, gaze locking onto me with an intensity that steals my breath. “Not yet,” he says softly, echoing his earlier words. “But gods, Elara… you make me want to.”