The Feral Alpha's Captive-Chapter 84: Fuck Him, for Power

🦋 ALTHEA

"Fuck him," she whispered in my head, the weight pressing against my temples. "Our power will know no bounds. His touch awakened me. His cock will ignite me. It is the fates of mates."

The hairs on my arms rose, confusion and helplessness clawing at me. Were wolves like this? Were they all so vulgar?

"I am more than a wolf." She cut in. "They will know what we are soon enough."

I swallowed past the painful lump lodged in my throat, dread wrapping around my spine. I did not want this; Did I?

The exchange in the meeting chamber played in my head, my body still buzzing with adrenaline—I had never barged into anywhere my whole life. I had never taken a room and forced them to listen to me. I had never held a table with a jab being tossed my way.

But I had.

"That is just a taste," Her voice slithered in, smooth silk. "We can do so much more now."

My heart lurched with foreboding and—excitement. I gulped it down.

I paced, knowing what was going to happen. I was no fool. I knew the weight of bonds in this world of ours. Once you took a step in, there was no stepping out unless with an outright rejection.

Yet even after I knew what Thorne had done, I could not speak the words and sever it. Even after he shattered my trust a second time. Even knowing what he’d opened—a pandora’s box of implications.

He had ’chosen’ my life despite knowing what mate bonds meant. It was the reason they were so coveted, revered, feared.

The little marking Thorne did—the desperate bite to pull me back from death—that was just the preliminaries. The opening act of something inevitable.

They would always need to finish it.

Mates weren’t just marked and done. They were bound. Intertwined until their scents mixed, became uniform, became one. Until they could feel each other’s emotions across distances. Until they could find each other in the dark. Until separation became physical pain.

Until there was no "mine" and "his"—only ours.

And I would lose what little remained of myself in the process.

"You were never just yourself," she said quietly. "You were always meant to be more."

I stopped pacing, my hands clenched into fists.

"I don’t want to be more," I whispered. "I just want to be me."

I was tired of what everyone preferred. Even Thorne had preferred I be the cruel bitch—an extension of the woman he hated. To him I was no one but Morgana’s cursed offspring. And then he marks me like I would ever matter to him.

I wanted to be me.

"And what is that, exactly?" Her voice was almost gentle. Almost pitying. "The broken girl Morgana made? The daughter who learned to smile through pain? The Silvermoth who moved in the shadows because she was too afraid to stand in the light?"

My throat tightened.

"That’s exactly who you were," she interrupted before I could argue. "And that girl was dying. Slowly. Piece by piece. Until there would have been nothing left but obedience and fear."

I pressed my palm against the wall, needing something solid.

"But now you have a choice. Become what you were always meant to be. Or disappear entirely."

"That’s not a choice."

"No," she agreed. "But it’s what you have."

The truth settled into my bones like ice.

The marking was done. The bond existed. And every day it remained incomplete, it would pull at us both—demanding, insisting—until we gave it what it wanted.

Until I gave him what he wanted.

What this world necessitated.

I could dress it up in whatever words made it easier to swallow, but the truth remained: I would have to let Thorne finish what he started.

Let him claim me. Complete me.

And become someone I didn’t recognize. Someone whose scent was no longer just hers. Whose thoughts were no longer entirely private. Someone who belonged to another person in ways that went deeper than ownership—ways that couldn’t be undone.

And inevitably, when he realized being bonded to me no longer served him, he would find another. Trampling my heart on his way out.

"You’re catastrophizing," she observed.

"I’m being realistic."

"You’re being afraid."

I opened my eyes, staring at my reflection in the darkened window. Purple-blue eyes stared back. Not grey anymore. Never grey again.

I was already changing.

"When it happens," I said quietly, "when we... finish it. Will I still be me?"

Silence.

Then: "You’ll be more."

"That’s not an answer."

"It’s the only one I have."

I turned from the window, from my reflection, from the truth I didn’t want to face.

But there was nowhere to run. Not from this. Not from him. Not from what we would have to do.

"I will never love him," she muttered.

I paused. "What do you mean?"

"Exactly what I said." Her tone went flat. Cold. "I will never love the Hell Hound. I will use him. Bond with him. Let him rut into us until the bond is sealed and our power is complete. But love?"

She laughed, bitter and sharp.

"Love died with our pup."

A dagger slipped between my ribs.

"I felt everything," she said, something raw beneath the coldness. "Every moment you carried it. Every flutter. Every dream. And then—"

She stopped.

"And then it was gone," I whispered.

"Yes."

I pressed my hand to my stomach. To the hollow space.

"Love makes you weak," she continued, voice hardening. "Blind to their machinations. Their games. You think he wants us for us? You think he cares?"

"I—"

"He needs us to fulfill his revenge against Morgana. That’s all. He was happy to have us in his clutches. At the edge of the mist—" Her voice turned vicious. "—his display of possession while you cried and writhed in pain? That wasn’t protection, Althea. That was ownership. He wanted to hurt you. Wanted Morgana to see you suffering in his arms. To prove he’d won."

The memory surfaced. His hands on me. Holding me up while my body screamed. While I begged.

And he’d held me tighter. Made sure Morgana could see.

"He marked you without consent," she continued. "Used Yana’s death as strategy. Held you up like a banner while you were dying. And now he wants to complete the bond—not because he cares, but because a powerful mate serves his purposes."

My chest tightened.

"So no. I will never love him. Because love makes us vulnerable. Makes us tools in his hands the way we were tools in Morgana’s. And I refuse to be used again."

Relief flooded through me—immediate and visceral.

She won’t love him. We won’t be vulnerable.

But beneath the relief, something uncomfortable stirred. Something that felt like loss.

Because if she never loved him, that meant I couldn’t either. That meant whatever connection might form would always be tactical. Strategic.

Never real.

And some small, traitorous part of me had wanted it to be real.

Don’t be foolish, I told myself. She’s right. Love makes you weak.

"You understand now," she said, satisfaction in her voice. "The bond will try to trick you. But you’ll remember this conversation. Remember what he is."

"A tool," I said hollowly.

"Exactly." I felt her smirk, slow and wide.

Wolves don’t smile.

"I do," She replied, her words coiling around me like smoke. "I am Zyra."