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Chapter Text

The battling scents of the nearby town and the wildlife in the woods filled Derek’s lungs as he padded silently around the trees, his paws barely whispering across the forest floor. This late at night, there was an ethereal tranquility to the forest that almost enough to make him forget his rage and despair.

Almost but not quite.

Because Derek wasn’t a Born wolf but Turned.

Against his will.

He’d been attacked three months ago in these very woods during a routine hike, something he’d done every day, and that attack, which had left him shaken and unconscious, changed his entire life. In an instant, his human existence was forever split apart. It had only lasted a few minutes because someone had heard his screams but it felt like years of agony, even after she’d been scared off by a gun.

Even just recalling the moment he’d woken in the hospital, lights blinding him, brought back all that rage. Dad had been there, his face lined with stress, and when Derek had looked at him, he’d burst into tears. Simon and Tori, Derek’s siblings, had been notably absent. He was glad, though, that Dad hadn’t brought them; Derek’s violent reaction to his diagnosis had forced hospital staff to sedate him. As the drugs sucked him under, he’d been hurt by the fear on Dad’s face.

And it was all because of that bitch— the wild, young she-wolf that shouldn’t have been in the woods in the first place. Her instincts had overtaken her when she’d spotted Derek, the police said. Like he’d care that it was her instincts. Like he gave a flying fuck. His life was ruined, and it was all her fault.

Derek snarled to himself at the reminder as he squeezed underneath a leaning, half-rotted tree, belly scraping the bed of pine needles that made up the forest floor.

If it wasn’t for her, he’d have graduated early, maybe even gotten a girlfriend finally. His siblings wouldn’t whisper about him when they thought everyone was asleep, scared of him. And his dad wouldn’t look at him sometimes like he was waiting for Derek to slip up, to show he was as dangerous as everyone thought.

Thanks to her, he had to drop out of school. Lost his job since no one really wanted to work with a lycanthrope, even though it wasn’t contagious through skin contact or proximity. Only through bodily fluids, not that people listened when Derek would correct them. They’d just stare until he got annoyed and stalked away. Thanks to her, he’d lost everything he’d had going for him—his acceptance into MIT, his schooling, his job, his family, his life.

If he ever saw her, he’d make her pay. Torment her until she begged for the mercy of death. And maybe he’d grant her that final wish. Maybe not. He didn’t know what exactly he’d do, just that he’d make her pray for the end.

As he quickened his pace, stretching out his restless muscles, he inhaled through his nose, tasting every scent on his tongue, and his stomach twisted sharply at the newest one.

Green apples.

It can’t be…

The she-wolf.

He raised his nose into the downwind breeze, inhaling more of her scent, as his heart galloped painfully in his chest. His belly swooped as he drank in more of her scent, tasting its tang on the back of his tongue as he did so.

The one thing that had been burned into his mind wasn’t the weight of her body, the reflectiveness of her eyes, or even the pain, but her smell. Like freshly-cut green apples, tart and sweet all at once, belying her violent nature.

He’d know that scent anywhere; it haunted his dreams, and even just a whiff of something similar would send him retching into the nearest trash can.

But not now. Right now, he was frozen, gazing blindly, recalling the heat of her body on his back, her claws scoring the earth so close to his face, reliving the terror that had made him wet his joggers and cry like a little boy. Green apple-scented wind swirled around him, coiling like an old friend that steadily tightened its grip, choking him, and the baleful, mournful howl of someone’s dog jostled him out of his stupor.

Shaking his head violently, he pawed the ground, hesitating, unsure if he really wanted to face her again, and then the anger took over. It raced through him, white-hot and intense enough to vibrate his legs, and he shot off like a bullet. Air burned on the way down his throat, whistled past his face, as he tore up the forest floor, following the trail of her scent.

Branches snagged his fur, shredded the bottoms of his paws, but he ignored it and pushed himself to go faster and faster still. To find her, catch her. Make her hurt the way she’d made him hurt.

The apple scent grew stronger, more intense, so sharp it made his eyes water as much as the wind buffeting against his muzzle and his eyes.

He swerved around thick trees, jumped rotten logs, scrambled over boulders and used them as springboards to push himself further. His lungs burned as he gulped down air, trees flying past him in a blur of dark shape, twisting and turning around the trees.

As he approached what looked like a clearing about twenty feet away, he slowed to a crawl, his heart hammering, blood rushing in his ears. Here, her scent was nauseating, his stomach roiling at its strength, and it saturated the tongue that he found lolling out of his mouth in an attempt to cool down.

His heart still raced as he breached the clearing, scanning the treeline, searching for any indicator that the she-wolf was here. A flash of bioluminescent eyes, a glimpse of her fur, anything. As he crept closer to the center, his breath shuddered out of his nose, his mouth, his flank heaving with the ragged heaviness of his breathing.

Where was she? He could smell her, taste her, yet he couldn’t spot her. If she was hiding from him, he’d find her and punish her. Show her a sliver of the pain she’d heaped upon him that day, a fraction of the agony. She’d stolen his life, and he’d steal something just as vital back, wounding her.

Rustling somewhere off to his right had his muscles bunching underneath his coat. There she was. The bitch had been hiding, either too scared or cautious to show face. He fought down the rumble of anticipation that threatened to escape him, swallowed it down, and relaxed his body language, his tail wagging. Exuding a friendly, curious air that he only wanted friendship.

And, just like he’d hoped, she stepped out of the darkened underbrush, barely a rustle to her movement. She was languid in the moonlight, her coat fair and trimmed now, her eyes critical as they assessed him. Sized him up. No doubt trying to make sense of him.

Like his human form, he was larger than her, maybe double her size, and pitch-black from nose to tail. The only color on him were the grey, craggly pads of his paws and the humane eyes that kept their green shade.

Even though he’d never fought another wolf, he knew immediately he could take her. She was so small, a pup could’ve taken her down.

The realization of how easily she’d caught and bitten him made him clench his jaw, but as she padded ever slowly closer, he forced himself to relax. No point in tipping his hand—er, paw—too early. He needed her guard down in order for this to work.

She stopped a few feet away from him, hackles raised as she watched him with shrewd, distrustful eyes. Her body made one long line of red-blonde, the tip of her nose and her paws more red than blonde, the tip of her tail too.

After a few pulls of air, that uneasy look faded, replaced by excitement, and she wagged her tail happily, making the air swish. Her folded ears wiggled with the movement, and for a minute, he wasn’t sure he could do it. Everything about her screamed innocence, that she only wanted to play, and he couldn’t make sense of the creature that had attacked him, ruined his life with this—this happy pup in front of him.

But then her scent bowled him over, saturated his air supply, and he remembered the terror that had washed through him as he was pinned into the dirt. How his eyes had watered, and he’d pleaded and cried, his frantic thrashing doing nothing but gouging her claws deeper into his unprotected back, cutting through his rain jacket and T-shirt.

Even face-down with a mouth filled with wet dirt, he could remember her smell, sugary and tangy in equal measure. Innocuous. Before that moment, he’d enjoyed the smell, a precursor usually to a big slice of heaven, but now it turned his stomach.

Derek focused back to reality to find she was even closer—too close. Not for him, not with what he had planned, but for her own safety. Was she really that dumb? So naive that she’d plop herself inches away from a Turned wolf? Apparently. And that was just as well for his plans.

She cocked her head, her eyes shining. Who are you?

So easy to read, it was as if she were speaking aloud.

He shook out his coat and leaned forward, snorting. You don’t remember?

Anger tightened his belly, squeezed his throat in a chokehold, at the idea that she’d ruined his life and didn’t even fucking remember it. That he’d lived for months with her face behind his eyelids, haunted by memories, and she’d gone on like nothing had ever happened. Like she hadn’t destroyed any possibility of him living a normal life again. As if she hadn’t ripped away his humanity, hadn’t turned him into a monster just like her.

His lip curled over his long teeth as he snarled, the sound echoing in the largely quiet forest. The silence seemed to amplify the sound, making it much louder than it was, more threatening.

She tensed, her eyes narrowing in speculation, but before she could react, he pounced, knocking her to the forest floor beneath them, pinning her flat. As he’d expected, she struggled, yelping in fear and panic, but he threw his body weight against her flailing and pinned her down.

Unhinging his jaw, he fitted his teeth against her throat, rumbles vibrating up his own throat at the sensation of her fur and the hammering pulse against his teeth. Don’t move.

A thin, weak whimper.

It lit his blood on fire, boiled it underneath his skin, flooded him with white-hot rage. At her for attacking him that day. For sinking her teeth deep into his shoulder that he still had issues with the muscle to this day. For taking his life in her monstrous hands and ripping it to shreds. For ruining his chances at a normal, happy, human life. For making him exactly—like—her.

The rage blurred his vision until he realized he was crying, and it fuzzed his head, coloring everything in a red tint like blood running into his eyes. Like it had that day.

Beneath his belly, she’d gone completely still, limp even, as if accepting of whatever punishment he’d dole out. Give him a break. What a fucking martyr. Or maybe she thought if she played along, he’d scale back whatever gruesome intentions he had for her, go easy on her. Unlikely. But she didn’t know that.

His snort buffeted against the fur pushing into his face and he closed his jaws more tightly, feeling her body jerk. Her high-pitched yelp was one of fear, prey instinct, and she began to struggle again. To squirm and try to break free, to escape. Expected, of course, but it was still annoying to have to squeeze her neck tighter, cutting off her air supply.

Her flailing grew more violently, her claws leaving long, blazing lines where they scored underneath his coat. As if that would deter him.

He simply tightened his teeth on her, mindful to not deprive her of oxygen enough to kill her. Not yet…at least. Just enough for her to lose consciousness. It’d be easier for his plans anyway.

Her thrashing weakened bit by bit, her blows fewer and farther between, slower each time, softer. Until they stopped altogether and she went rigid, her eyes, panicked and full of terror, rolled back in her skull.

Perfect.

He climbed off her, releasing her neck, and nudged to find the steady thrum of a pulse beneath her thick fur. In doing so, he inhaled her scent directly. The intensity of it had his eyes watering, nose burning, but he pushed it aside and rolled her to her belly. From there, he caught her by the scruff of her neck and dragged her.

Payback’s a bitch.

Chapter Text

Chloe’s head was swimming when she woke, her vision blurry and unfocused. No matter how hard she squinted, it didn’t seem to clear.

Little by little, the fog enveloping her lifted, and she became aware of several dueling sensations. The throbbing of a headache that seemed to spear the entirety of her body. The pressure on her wrists and her ankles, limbs taut. The thick, cotton-y feeling that filled her dry, pond scum-flavored mouth.

“Oh, good—you’re awake.”

She didn’t recognize the thundering rumble of a voice at all, but she flinched at the sudden words. More out of surprise than fear but it didn’t seem to matter to her captor.

There was a low, unhinged laugh.

“I was worried that I bit down too hard, y’know,” he said conversationally, cordially.

As if they were friends.

As if this were a friendly encounter, not one where her body was sluggish and she could barely focus her eyes.

Her stomach flipped over as her vision finally sharpened and she saw him. He was ordinary-looking. Unremarkable. White, green eyes, black hair, a face pock-marked by old acne scars. Handsome if she squinted. If she’d seen him on the street, she wouldn’t have spared him a second glance.

“Who…?” The word slurred out of her mouth, her tongue thick and heavy as she tried to form her question. Tried to pull her muddled mind together enough to string a line of words together, coherent enough to comprehend.

Obviously, that was the wrong thing to ask because his face changed in a flash, darkening, and he leaned so close she could smell his breath, soured and hot. Her gorge rose.

“Who am I, she asks,” he laughed humorlessly, and the sound chilled her to her very bones. “You ruined my fucking life and you don’t even fucking REMEMBER IT!” His angry bellow made her ears ring, made her shrink back against the mattress, and she gaped at him in confusion. His yell knocked back the kegs of drowsiness, disorientation.

Ruined his life? She’d never even met him before. What the hell was he going on about? How could she—Her thoughts came to a grinding halt the longer she stared at him, so close she could smell him, Axe deodorant and sun-warmed book pages. She stared harder this time, examining his face, the way his hair fell in uneven waves around his chubby cheeks, and inhaled sharp as it came to her in snippets.

She remembered attacking a hiker, his screams of fear and pain, the taste of hot, coppery blood filling her mouth. And the subsequent police station trip. Remembered standing there, shaky and sick to her stomach, begging to know if he’d made it. How she couldn’t live with herself if she’d killed an innocent man or, worse, made him just like her. She’d been Born, not Turned, and even then it was difficult, an experience she wouldn’t wish on her worst enemy. She hadn’t been able to imagine how it’d have affected a human—to be bitten and Turned, especially against their will. To suddenly have their entire world twisted inside out, ruined, and there was nothing anyone could do.

And here Derek was, staring her down, bigger than her, stronger.

“Yeah.” A dismissive, if not angry, snort. But he didn’t say anything else, just glowered down at her with those pretty eyes. Eyes that looked like shards of stained glass. Sharp, hard, and just as cutting.

She shuddered as dread wrapped its sharp-clawed coils around her and squeezed. Tightened and tightened until it was hard to breathe, her lungs quivering on every dragged inhale and fluttering on the exhale.

His gaze bore into her, into her soul, and her stomach churned at the rage in his expression. His lip curled in a sneer the longer he stared, and nothing had felt as sharp and brutal as that. Like a dagger straight to her tender organs. He found her…lacking, maybe. Undeserving of his forgiveness, certainly. She didn’t blame him one bit for the latter, if that was the case; she wasn’t sure if she were in his shoes, if she’d be able to forgive the person who destroyed his life in a careless bad decision.

Guilt needled underneath her skin. Because an ill-thought choice, she’d attacked him, tore his life apart, and she hadn’t even been charged with the assault nor the life-altering affliction she’d forced on him. Probably because Dad was a high-end lawyer and, well, money made a lot of problems go away. She’d never thought more of it, had simply been told, “I’ll take care of it, pumpkin,” and she’d been so relieved she hadn’t asked.

Maybe she should have. Maybe if she’d asked, pressed more— cared more—she wouldn’t be here right now, obviously in a very harrowing situation with no way out, at this man’s mercy.

Finally, she couldn’t bear the sight of his gaze anymore and averted her own, breaking the stare-down, a flash of weakness. But she’d rather be weak than have to look into his eyes a single second longer.

“You don’t look anything like how I thought you would,” he said finally as he sat back, wood creaking underneath him with the sudden redistribution of his heavy weight. His eyes dragged down, critical and assessing, and the sneer told her he found her lacking.

Chloe knew she wasn’t anyone’s type. Sure, she was strawberry-blonde, white, and blue-eyed but that was where that attractiveness ended. Barely five-foot on a good day and barely curvy enough to not be mistaken for a grade schooler, her breasts minuscule.

At the matter-of-fact observation, her face burned, embarrassed heat creeping along the back of her neck, her scalp prickling with it. As if she didn’t know how lacking she was in the looks department.

“I mean, you took me down and fucked up my entire life? You’re barely ninety pounds soaking wet. How the fuck—” He stopped, a muscle in his jaw feathering as he clenched it. Then he rose unexpectedly and continued to rise, taller and taller; his head was a few inches from the water-stained ceiling. Christ, had he always been so tall? Or was it the Change that made him so? Either way, his overwhelming, staggering made her stomach sink like she’d jump from a great height, her throat closing with panic and fear.

There was no way she’d ever be able to fight him off, to break free and escape, no way out.

He was still silent as he stepped away, his footfalls shuffling across the floor, and she turned, watched him like a hawk. Her breath in her lungs caught at the sight in her periphery.

Silver.

Fucking silver circled her wrist in a cinch with no seam that she could discern.

When she shifted, pain boiled beneath her skin, the raw edges gouging a ragged wound. Blood welled and streamed down her forearm, pooling beneath her elbow.

She could only stare blankly.

Silver and its affect on lycanthropes were often movie magic, exaggerated for humans’ entertainment like everything else. It didn’t burn but its weakening effects were well-known, the first thing told to young pups. Beware of silver. It won’t kill but it will maim and drain you of strength. It was the first thing her own mother had taught her, drilled into her, and yet here she was, tied to a bed with it.

She’d laugh if she wasn’t flooded with an overwhelming sense of dread and foreboding.

“What’re you going to do to me?” she asked, her voice cracking on the words as she wet her dry, splitting lips with the tip of her tongue. The backs of her eyes burned as she watched him, catalogued the way he moved, slow and measured, like he had all the time in the world. Maybe he did.

“I’m going to make you wish you were dead.”

He said it succinctly, calmly. As if it were an every day occurrence. As if he kidnapped women and held them hostage on a daily basis.

He turned to her then, and her blood went ice-cold in her veins. Dwarfed in his big hand was a pair of sharp, shear-like scissors that he opened and closed slowly, calmly. With almost medical coldness, he examined the blades, tested them with the tip of his finger, blood welling along the cut. In an instant, it had closed over, leaving only red behind.

His gait when he approached her was slow and steady, a prowl if she ever saw one on a person, and finally he leaned over her, blocking out the grunge-y, buzzing fluorescent light. His long hair fell over his eyes, blocking her view of them, and somehow, being unable to look into them, made it even more unsettling.

Chloe’s heart pounded with terror, her body ice-cold with it, as she stared up into his unreadable face, his blank expression. It was like staring into a mask, cold and unfeeling. Emotionless.

Every muscle in her body tightened to a painful degree, her skin drawn tight—too tight. Any minute, her skin would split and crawl away to save itself. It would leave her behind to be tormented and tortured by a monster, a beast, of her own making.

She could only watch, her eyes so wide they’d begun to burn, tears falling silently down her cheeks, as Derek climbed on top of her, keeping his weight off by balancing on his knees. Not a single inch of him touched her. Almost like he didn’t want to. Maybe he just wanted to drag it out for his own sick entertainment, his amusement.

There wasn’t an ounce of emotion, not even a flicker, in his eyes, in his face as he braced himself next to her head, his palm sinking into the mattress. Against her clammy skin, the dulled edge of the shears was ice-cold, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake as it ran along every inch of bare skin.

Her frantic gulps of air burned on the way down as he snapped open the shears and, without a word, started cutting away her clothes. Tears filled her eyes, but she bit her lips to keep quiet. Already she knew there was no amount of pleading or crying in the world that would change his mind.

Every inch of skin that was exposed pebbled, because of the cold temperature, the creaky mattress, and especially his eyes. But when they flicked up to hers, she couldn’t find a single sliver of lust or anger in them. Almost like he wasn’t enjoying this at all, which was bizarre. He’d said he wanted to ruin her life and what way to make a woman pay than with a fate worse than death?

Over the slopes and dips of her body, the shears slid, a whisper of metal following everywhere they cut fabric: along her shoulders, up her arms, down her chest, everywhere. Until she was only in her plain cotton little girl panties and a Hanes bra-lette. Not that it did anything; there wasn’t much for it to hold up anyway.

Derek sat back and his head ducked as he examined her, perusing her like one would a stallion for purchase. Keen and observant.

She wanted to curl in on herself, hide from his stare, but being bound with her arms and ankles star-fishing her, she was immobile. Could only let her eyes fall shut, her bottom lip wobbling at the sharp spikes of vulnerability, the discomfort, she was currently feeling, chin tucked against her breastbone under his assessing, clinical gaze.

With her eyes closed, she didn’t see the shears descend again but only felt him move, the bed dipping, jostling her, and pain bloomed across one of her hips. If she moved, those sharp blades could do damage, she realized. She only screwed her eyes tighter as the soft snip of the shears opening and closing and the sound of fabric giving way filled the room.

It only took what must’ve been seconds until she was completely naked and completely, utterly at his mercy, if she hadn’t been already. Sure, she’d felt vulnerable before, before he’d cut away her clothes, but this new vulnerable reminded her of babies, of all things. Not that she felt like one, but she reasoned she had the same level of fragility as one, her life now in his hands, subject to his every whim and depraved desire, unable to stop him.

Her nipples pebbled against the chill of the air that brushed over them, and she closed her legs to hide from him. Tried to, at least, stopped only by bounds, not having enough slack to do anything more than shift incrementally.

Chloe cracked her eyes open when she felt the bed shifting, mattress springing back to its original form, and she caught sight just as Derek sat back, his gaze glittering.

Let the torment begin.

Chapter Text

Derek had had a lot of time to think about how he’d do this. How he’d drag out her pain and savor her sniveling, her tears, the pain he’d cause her. Just like how he’d cried and raged over his lost life.

But as he sat there, his eyes roved over her naked body, taking in the long line of her legs and arms, the jiggle of her small tits. Her knees shifted together, the binds too short for her to hide from him, and her inability to move made him smile.

Sure, he could torture her with wounds, slowly break her down with them. He could cut shallow slices into her skin and methodically pull off her nails, break each of her fingers and toes, but that wouldn’t be as…pleasurable. And with her naked as the day she’d been born—well, he was a red-blooded straight man.

There must’ve been something in his face, in his eyes, that she saw because her eyes widened with terror, and she went bone-white.

“Pl-please…” she rasped. “Pl-please, don’t.”

How dare she? How dare she beg and plea with him when she’d ignored his own cries during the attack? No, not ignored—she’d paused, just briefly, long enough that he’d known she’d heard him as he sobbed and then kept going.

“Funny,” he said coldly as he stood and began to peel off his clothes, “I said the very same fucking thing.” His throat was scraped raw as the words escaped, his hands shaking with rage when they yanked at the belt holding his jeans up, letting the denim slide down his legs.

“I didn’t mean to,” she argued, her voice cracking on the words, then she was full-on bawling her eyes out, her face flushed red, tears running in rivulets down her temples. “I didn’t mean to!”

The rage that washed over him—it turned his vision blood-red. And he should’ve felt silly kicking his jeans away and looming over her in her in just his boxers, but the anger burning through him pushed away any rationale. His blood pounded in his ears, his hands trembling violently when he reached for her. There was no room for embarrassment over his near-nakedness in the face of his pure rage.

Oh, so she didn't mean to ruin his life. To turn him into a beast just like her. To carry on with her merry rich girl life, barely giving him another thought.

“You didn’t mean to.” His voice came out a harsh, angry growl, the words more animal than human, as he stared down her, spread out at his mercy. If only he had any for the bitch that had ruined his life.

He struck her, hard, across the face with an open hand, and watching her head snap to the side was almost as satisfying as the sting that spread across his palm in waves.

After the pain died down, he flexed his hand, staring and examining his fingers in wonder. The relief that came from striking her, from giving her even just a sliver of the pain she’d forced on him, was…exhilarating, a breath of fresh, clean air, to say the least.

Then he grinned, his new fangs catching on his lower lip.

Beneath him, Chloe viscerally shuddered.

Poor thing.

As if he’d pity her when she was here by her own making. As if he’d waste anything that wasn’t pure hate, pure rage, on her. The mere idea was laughable, and he did so, letting it rumble from his chest.

She cringed away when he shimmied out of his boxers and began to cry silently when he climbed onto the bed beside her, sliding down the length of her body. Her shudders shook against his face, his mouth, as he licked her skin, catching hunks between his teeth on the way.

Then he was looking straight at her cunt, covered in downy blonde curls, her clit poking out of her plump lips. Christ, he could smell her hymen, smell how ripe and untried she was, and it made him grin. This would be all the sweeter—not only would she take his cock but it’d be her first too.

“N-no!” she choked as he shoved himself between her spread thighs, examining her closely, using his thumbs to spread her cunt lips wide to reveal her pink insides.

He forced her legs wider, used his broad shoulders to keep them from trying to close, smirked to himself. Then he turned his attention to her cunt and leaned down, dragged his tongue across the hot, dry skin there, tasted the salty-sweet remnants of arousal.

“No…” she groaned.

Ignoring her whimpers, he dragged his tongue up the length of her cunt, tapped her clit then wrapped his lips around it, sucking with the gentlest of pressures. No point in chafing his dick with dry cunt walls as he sawed in and out of her.

Her shaky inhale and the way her knees pressed into either side of his skull was more than enough motivation to keep going, to make her cum again and again and again, forcing orgasm after orgasm on her. Humiliate her more. Make her soaking wet for his dick.

She continued to squirm and struggle, succeeding in only shoving her pussy harder against his tongue and lips, until she was slippery, soaking wet. Her thighs trembled as she twisted and writhed, her breaths coming in sharp, shaky inhales that flexed her belly, jiggled her tits.

Over and over, he forced orgasm after orgasm from her, relishing in the way she squeaked and then began to cry that it was too much, that she was too sensitive. But he ignored it, focused instead on making her as slippery as possible, a trail of slick running out of her and puddling underneath her freckled ass.

The smell of her wetness filled his air supply, stained his lips, as he sat back, admired his handiwork, before he shoved his way between her still quivering thighs and rubbed the tip of his cock along the length of her cunt.

“No…”

Weakly, feebly, she shoved at him, her eyes wild and unfocused, still wracked with tremors from the last orgasm.

He’d lost count after seven.

“I’m not on anything,” she rasped, the words melted and slurred together. Her face was red from strain and crying.

A pause as he considered her words. He’d never pictured himself as a father, never daydreamed about having a litter of his own, but if it was her? The idea of pumping her full of cum, of getting her pregnant, was too tantalizing to ignore. To punish her even more.

He grinned, watched her shudder.

And sank into the wet, tight heat of her cunt, pushed past her hymen, listened to her high-pitched moan of pain. Christ, she squeezed him tight, her walls fluttering around his dick, hot as magma. He could smell the minuscule amount of blood that coated his skin, and it only made his control waver, his wolf salivating at it.

Her knees gouged into his sides, fighting the pain, and her face pinched with it, her eyes screwed shut.

Had it been anyone else, he’d have sympathy, maybe give pause while their pussy adjusted, whisper sweet nothings in their ear. But she wasn’t anyone else; she was the bitch who’d ruined his life without a second thought.

So he didn’t pause, simply withdrew and thrust forward, watched the way her cunt swallowed the entirety of his cock. Her intimate walls squeezed him, her body tensing at the intrusion, her breasts bouncing. Her jaw was tight, a muscle feathering beneath her skin.

His pace was hard from the first thrust, each one sinking deep into the depths of her cunt, the heat and pulsing a welcome home. It was delicious, heat sparking underneath his skin, needling there. Almost as delicious as the pained look on Chloe’s face, the way her mouth hung open every time he sheathed himself to the hilt, knocking the air from her lungs.

The mattress underneath them squeaked as he fucked her with long, deep strokes that made her tense and try to claw away. Each one bounced her, her legs dangling useless on either side of his hips, her head bobbing with the vehemence. Her skin rippled, cellulite dimpled, freckles winking in and out of existence.

There was strain in her neck, her shoulders hunching as far as they could, trying to curl in against the pounding, the pain.

He laughed straight in her face as he watched her try to lessen the agony inside of her, try to curl in on herself so he had less surface area to grope at.

It was funny she thought that would help.

“You hear that?” he asked, slowing jut enough to bring attention to the way her cunt gurgled around him, her slick bubbling at the edges of where they met. It squelched noisily on every punch of his cock.

She shook her head, sobbing.

“That’s how wet you are while I rape you,” he sneered, punctuated the words with a sharp thrust of his hips, the snap echoing between them.

Even though she tried to swallow it down, the moan slid between her teeth, her body jack-knifing to close, her cunt squeezing him like it would force him out.

That, in particular, only made him fuck her harder, savoring the glide of her treacherous, sopping pussy along his hard cock, instinct and pleasure driving him forward. And the desire to ruin her forever, to brutalize her so much she’d never look at another man again, that she’d be haunted by the phantom sensation of his cock, the first one she’d ever had.

He pounded into her, moaning at the sensation of her pussy squeezing him, a rhythm that only made him more feral, hungrier to pump her full of cum. His thrusts turn frantic, his ferocity rattling the bed so hard it shifted, her teeth clicking on each downstroke where he buried himself in full. Pleasure twisted in his belly as he plowed Chloe, her swollen pussy embracing his cock like a lover, smearing the entirety of his length with thick, slippery cream.

“Stop! Stop! Please,” she blubbered as her red-rimmed eyes met his. A mix of tears and mucus ran down her face.

Fucking disgusting.

She was a mess, cunt swollen, teary and snotty, a girl, not the monster who’d ruin his life. And he made her like that. A dirty, disheveled whore.

Satisfaction roiled through him.

Keeping his brutal breakneck pace, Derek wrapped a hand around her throat and squeezed. Hard. Until her eyes bugged and she tried to claw at his hand only to be stopped by her chains.

“I won’t stop” —he thrust so hard that she scooted up the bed several inches, him following her to keep pushing into her— “until you wish you’d never met me.”

He ground his hips against her, punching his hips forward in sharp little staccato bursts, and her body jerked violently, her mouth dropping open and her head flinging back.

She looked so pathetic impaled on his cock, unable to crawl away, her throat fragile under his palm.

“I’ll keep you here for as long as I’d like. Pump you full of cum until you’re dripping. And worse yet, you’ll want it. Crave it even.” To punctuate his words, he withdrew and used one hand to yank her down as he thrust forward.

The scream that tried to escape was reluctant pleasure.

Her pussy spasmed around his dick, milking him, and he realized she orgasmed. Again. Number eight.

Tremors wracked her body, her muscles quivering as her teary gaze found his.

“See? You just came on my cock, Chloe. Like a dirty slut.” He wet his dry lips. “A dirty whore.”

Sweat ran in rivulets down Derek’s face as he fucked her pussy raw, uncaring of how her legs shook violently at the over sensitivity. Her cunt still wrapped around him, tightening and relaxing, so wet there was a puddle underneath Chloe’s freckled ass.

It was as his orgasm barreled down on him that he took note of the smooth, unblemished crook of her shoulder. He dragged her close, slamming into her full force now, using both hands to anchor her to him.

Her cries and moans filled the room, a mix pleasure and pain, of denial, as he pinned her and took his fill.

His back, his thighs, his lungs burned as he threw all his weight into the last few thrusts. Then he found the crook of her neck and, before she scream again, sank his teeth into her.

Marking her, making her his mate.

Permanently.

The hot, metallic taste of blood filled his mouth as his thrusts went sloppy, an orgasm cresting over him. He forced more weight behind each thrust, her slick making it easier to push his thick knot into her, and when he came, it slid into place, locking them together.

Shudders shook his body as the white-hot pleasure pulsed through him, boiled his blood.

“What did you do…?” Chloe sobbed, half-delirious as she fought to get away, moaned at the pain of trying to dislodge herself from a swollen wolf knot.

“Made you mine.” He licked the blood from his teeth. “And now I can make you regret ever attacking me for the rest of your life.”

Because while wolves governed themselves, it was largely a lawless community.

Now Chloe was his mate, and nothing could be done about it. No magical cure, no courts, no surgery, no cops to fix it.

She was his.

And he’d make her pay.