Aiden
The drive back to Blackwood territory took two hours and forty-seven minutes. I counted every one of them.
She sat beside me in the back of the blacked-out Escalade, hands folded so tight in her lap her knuckles looked like white stones. The driver—my gamma, silent as always—kept his eyes glued to the road. Smart man. He knew better than to glance in the rear-view when I had fresh prey next to me.
Gabriella hadn't spoken since we left the Trimoon gates. Not one word. Just stared out the tinted window like the passing trees owed her something. Her scent filled the car—jasmine, rain-soaked earth, and that faint undercurrent of fear-sweat that made my wolf pace behind my eyes. Delicious. Dangerous.
I let the silence stretch until it hurt.
Then I reached over, slow, and laid my hand on her thigh. Just rested it there. Heavy. Possessive. The silk of her dress was cool under my palm; her leg jumped like I'd burned her.
"Don't," she whispered. First word in almost three hours.
I didn't move my hand. "Don't what?"
"Don't touch me like I belong to you."
I turned my head just enough to catch her profile in the passing headlights. Jaw tight. Lips pressed thin. Those big hazel eyes glassy but not crying. Not yet.
"You said the vows an hour ago, little wolf. 'I accept you as my mate, to lead beside you, to submit to your will.'" I let my thumb trace one slow circle on her thigh. "Sound familiar?"
Her breath hitched. "I didn't have a choice."
"Choices are for people who aren't in debt." I squeezed once—not hard enough to bruise, just enough to remind her how much bigger my hand was than her thigh. "And you're very much in debt."
She finally looked at me. Really looked. Not the scared glances from the ceremony, not the forced smiles for the cameras. Real, burning eye contact. There was fire in there. Good. I wanted fire. Ashes are more interesting when they used to burn.
"You think this makes me yours?" she asked, voice low and shaking just a little. "A signature and some words?"
I leaned in until our faces were inches apart. Close enough I could taste her breath—mint and panic.
"I don't need words or paper to own you, Gabriella." My free hand came up, fingers sliding under her chin, tilting her face so she couldn't look away. "I just need time. And I have all of it."
Her pupils blew wide. Fear. Anger. Something else flickering underneath—something curious and traitorous that her body recognised before her mind did.
The car slowed. Gravel crunched under the tires as we turned onto the private drive that led to the Alpha residence. Lights flickered on ahead—warm gold spilling from every window of the sprawling stone-and-glass monstrosity my father had built and I'd already started tearing apart from the inside.
Home sweet cage.
The driver killed the engine. Silence rushed back in.
I released her chin but kept my other hand on her thigh. "We're here."
She didn't move.
I opened my door, stepped out into the cold night air, then circled around and opened hers. Offered my hand like a gentleman.
She stared at it like it might bite.
"Get out of the car, Gabriella."
She swallowed. Then—slow, like every joint hurt—she placed her small hand in mine.
I closed my fingers around hers. Firm. Final.
I led her up the wide stone steps, through the double doors that two of my warriors held open without a word. The foyer was lit low—candles and wall sconces, shadows everywhere. No staff tonight. I'd cleared the house. Just us.
She tried to pull her hand free once we were inside. I didn't let go.
Up the curved staircase. Down the long hallway lined with portraits of dead Alphas who'd all done worse things than I ever would. (Or maybe not. Depends who you ask.)
My bedroom doors—black walnut, carved with wolves mid-hunt—opened under my palm.
I pulled her inside.
She stopped dead in the doorway.
The room was huge. Dark wood, charcoal walls, king bed that looked like it could swallow three people whole. Floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the forest. One lamp burning low on the nightstand. No other light.
She looked small against all that darkness.
I kicked the door shut behind us. The lock clicked.
Her shoulders jumped.
I let go of her hand then. Stepped back. Gave her space. (The illusion of it, anyway.)
"Take off the dress."
Her head snapped toward me. "What?"
"You heard me."
"I'm not—"
"You are." I slipped my jacket off, tossed it over the armchair. Started unbuttoning my cuffs. Slow. Calm. "You're going to take it off, or I'm going to take it off for you. And I won't be gentle about it."
Her chest rose and fell too fast. "This is our wedding night. You're supposed to—"
"I'm supposed to claim my mate." I rolled my sleeves up to my forearms. The muscles flexed under the ink that covered most of my left arm—pack sigils, kills, promises I'd already broken. "And I will. But first I want to see what I bought."
Her eyes filled. Not tears yet. Just glassy rage.
She reached behind her back for the zipper. Hands shaking so badly she couldn't catch it.
I crossed the room in three steps.
She flinched when I touched her.
I caught both her wrists in one hand—easy, like catching birds—and spun her so her back was to my chest. My other hand found the zipper. Dragged it down inch by torturous inch.
The silk parted. Cool air kissed her spine.
She shivered.
I leaned down, lips brushing the shell of her ear. "You're shaking."
"I hate you," she whispered.
"I know." I let the dress fall. It pooled around her feet like spilled cream. Underneath—white lace bra, matching panties, garters. virginal. Expensive. Her parents had dressed her like a sacrifice.
Perfect.
I released her wrists.
She didn't move. Just stood there, arms wrapped around herself, trying to cover what I'd already seen.
I walked around to face her again. Took her chin between thumb and forefinger. Tilted her face up.
"Look at me."
She did. Eyes blazing. Wet. Beautiful.
"You're mine now," I said quietly. "Every inch. Every breath. Every tear. And tonight you're going to learn exactly what that means."
Her lips parted. No sound came out.
I smiled.
Then I kissed her.
Hard.
Claiming.
No gentleness. No romance. Just teeth and tongue and the taste of her fear mixed with the first reluctant spark of heat.
She made a small, broken sound against my mouth.
I swallowed it.
The game wasn't just starting anymore.
It was winning.