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The pain that tore through him beneath the bright moonlight was a kind of agony he had no words for. It was not merely physical; It was as if the stars themselves had chosen to set him alight, to hollow him out with a fire so hot that it seared the muddy ground beneath his feet. The embers sparked deep in his core before igniting into an inferno that spread through his every vein, searing away reason until only rage remained. His skin burned as though it were no longer his own, as if it were a mere vessel of fury that had been stretched too thin.
The blood slicking down his arm grounded him in the sense that it reminded him he was still flesh, still breakable, even if the aching wound had already sealed his fate. It had been unwise to hold a revel on the night of the full, and looking back, Antonin couldn’t help but feel that this had been the Dark Lord's plan all along. As he felt the curse coursing through him, the crowd’s noise — cheers, howls, and gasps of disgust — blurred into a meaningless cacophony. He had only one goal, one target, one beast that would be the focus of his wrath.
Greyback.
His wand cut through the air with deadly precision, each slash, each curse carved into flesh intentional, a show of restraint even in his fury. His master’s voice thundered through the madness, commanding obedience, demanding he back down. He knew what defiance would cost him, knew it in the marrow of his bones. And yet the very command to heel made bile rise in his throat. He was no dog. He would not cower. Not before his would be master. And certainly not before the wolf that lay panting and bleeding like the animal he was.
So he struck again. He paid the price almost instantly. The Crucio cracked against his nerves like a whip that burned almost as hot as his new affliction, dropping him to his knees. His body trembled, his breath fractured, but the memory of the purple flames sinking into Greyback’s flesh was worth every scream dragged from his raw throat. The beast’s howl behind him still rang in his ears, sweeter than any punishment could dream of tainting.
Greyback’s master might have dragged him back from death that night, but Antonin knew with an unshakable certainty that the wolf’s end would one day come from his hands alone. And when it did, it would be something dark and cruel. He would see to it that the monster would see what it meant to turn someone such as him, someone who would work with his wolf, who would honour him and become one… his lord and his pet would both pay, of that he was certain.
Weeks later, he would have preferred to say that Greyback’s death on the battlefield had been vengeance, the fulfillment of the promise he had made to make him suffer. But, he knew better than that. What had driven him then was not revenge, not something so neatly human. It was rawer, more primal, as though the same flames that had consumed him beneath that damned moon had been reignited with a fury.
Mate.
The word had branded itself into his soul before he’d even understood it. When they apparated into Hogsmeade, he’d felt it the pull in his chest, the burn in his skin, the restless drive to move, to find whatever it was that was calling to him so desperately. His restraint had been a fragile thing, his nails digging bloody crescents into his palms as he forced himself to stand, to pretend that he’d had even a scrap of loyalty left to the halfblood fool, even as every instinct screamed to go out and find his center.
As the battle raged on around him, Antonin felt the tether inside his chest grow taut, then slack, then taut again, pulling him in directions he could not, would not follow. All while the Dark Mark on his arm, the mark that had been a constant reminder of oaths he had once thought unbreakable, was weakening its hold, dissolving more with every hour that passed. At first, it had been a subtle thing, an itch beneath the skin, instead of the searing pain that came when the Dark Lord chose to summon him.
It was then that he realized that the lycanthropy ran deeper than the Dark Mark ever could. That cursed affliction, the thing that he knew would rule his future, was also the thing that was unshackling him. He could feel it deep within him, the certainty, in the fire that smoldered in his blood, the Dark Mark no longer held him hostage. He could taste freedom and it was intoxicating.
And with that freedom came temptation. He had found himself picturing his homeland, even as spells and curses flew past him, imagining what it would be to turn his back on all of it right then. To abandon this fight, to leave behind the shrieking and the putrid scent of blood and debris, to slip across borders and vanish into the shadows.
The thought was almost enough to sway him, until he was stopped dead in his tracks by a feeling unlike anything he’d ever experienced.
Panic. Soul crushing panic.
It came sudden and suffocating, like a fist tightening relentlessly around his throat. He could not breathe, could not think; the raw terror clawed through him with more ferocity than any curse or blade ever had. His instincts screamed at him, drove his eyes wild across the battlefield, searching. His body moved before his mind caught up, feet stumbling and dragging him forward, drawn by an instinct that he did not understand, but had no choice but to follow.
And then he saw it. Saw him . Greyback, with his icy blue gaze locked, predatory and unyielding, meters in front of him. Onto her . Onto what was his .
Antonin had been a fool not to recognize it sooner, a fool to mistake the signs. The lilac scent that had clung to the air upon apparition, the ache in his chest, the restless fire, how could the draw come from anyone but her? Of course, it was her. It could only have ever been her.
The girl who defied logic by surviving when all logic dictated that she shouldn’t. The little witch who embodied defiance itself. His witch. His mate.
Something primal, something ancient and instinctual snapped into place in his core, before a fury so absolute it nearly drowned him, took over. His future, the battle, the Dark Lord himself… none of it mattered anymore. The only thought that went through his mind as he made his way forward was that if Greyback so much as breathed in her direction, Antonin would rip him apart with his bare hands, without hesitation.
Any illusion of allegiance to anyone other than her shattered in that instant. Loyalty, duty, fear, all of it burned to ash in the knowledge of what she was to him.
Antonin knew instantly, in the marrow of his scorched and aching bones, that this battlefield was no longer about victory or defeat between light and dark. It was about ensuring her survival. And anyone who stood in his way would fall.
That same animal instinct that had taken over beneath the moon that first night surged through him again, merciless and unrelenting, and this time the dog's master wouldn’t be there to save him.
And so Greyback’s end had come swift and brutal, nothing poetic, nothing grandiose. Before the beast had even had the chance to lunge, Antonin’s hand had pierced through flesh and bone, fingers curling around the foul thing’s heart. For the briefest moment, he had the pleasure of watching those bright blue eyes widen in shock, a flicker of fear breaking through their savage heat.
Antonin couldn’t stop the cruel smirk that curved his lips. “You will never touch what is mine, chudovishche ,” he growled, voice ragged and guttural, before crushing the organ in his fist.
The sound was obscene, wet and final. Greyback’s body crumpled into the mud with a hollow thud, robbed of dignity, robbed of life silently from the predator that he had created. A wolf tearing apart a rival to protect what was his.
And Hermione Granger was his.
There was no hesitation in the thought, simply the resolute knowledge of the bond that was threaded into the very fiber of his being. Unshakable and Absolute. He watched her through the haze of battle, her curls flowing beautifully behind her as she fought with righteous fury. Even as she slipped from his sight, Antonin’s chest clenched with an ache he could neither ignore nor soothe. Protecting her had become as essential as drawing breath. It was not a choice; it was his purpose. His obsession. His damnation.
And so he stalked her. Silent. Relentless. Always in the periphery, always near enough to strike but never close enough to be seen or felt. A shadow in the halls, her unseen guardian as she tore her way through the castle.
He hadn’t thought twice when the familiar faces appeared first Nott, then Goyle, Macnair, and then Rookwood. All men who had been his comrades, his brothers, men with whom he had shared firewhisky and laughter, victories and defeats. Once, they had meant something to him. Once, he would have bled for them.
Now, they were nothing but threats. And threats to her were enemies to them both.
He cut them down one by one without hesitation, without remorse. Their deaths were swift, merciful… an odd kindness amidst the slaughter. Unfortunately for them, they never even saw him coming. One moment they stood, wands raised, fighting for a cause they had been vowed to, the next they lay sprawled out with wide, unseeing eyes, green light still lingering in the corridors. They had fallen not for the Dark Lord, nor for the cause, but for daring, daring to turn their wands against his mate.
When the dust finally settled, when screams gave way to silence, Antonin lingered in the shadows. His eyes sought her instantly, found her as he knew they always would.
She collapsed to her knees, the weight of loss crushing her small frame, and the sound that left her lips carved through him like a hot blade. A wail. Raw, soul shattering, the kind of grief that broke even the strongest of warriors.
Every instinct in his body urged him forward. To take her into his arms. To silence her cries with promises whispered in his native tongue as not to scare her, to show her she wouldn’t be alone, never again. His legs twitched with the urge to move, and his chest ached with restraint as he forced himself still.
He remained in the dark, fists clenched, heart burning, watching his witch break apart. And it destroyed him. But he knew. Merlin help him, he knew .
Even if the world considered her grown, even if she had proven herself in ways that shamed men twice her age, his golubushka was still too naivnyy in the ways that mattered. Too tethered to what fragile ties she had left as she clung to those who remained when the others had been torn away.
He had seen it in the way that she had held on so desperately to the paling hands, fingers white knuckled as if she could force life back into them by sheer will. He’d seen the refusal to accept their fate; he hated that he’d had to watch from a distance as the grief sank into her bones. As much as he’d wanted to claim her, even then, he knew by the way that her pain had hollowed her out…
She was mourning. She was broken. She was not ready for him… Not yet.
And so he did the only thing he could do: he stayed away.
But distance did not mean absence. He knew that he needed to take that gnawing, desperate need that pulled at his core and bury it beneath the discipline that he had always been known for, to focus it instead on what he did best. He bled hours, days, weeks into research and preparation, mapping out every possibility, planning their future with the meticulous care of a man both condemned and redeemed by his need.
And all the while, his eyes never strayed far from her. His witch. His sud’ba.
He watched her stumble under the weight of her grief, watched her fight and fail to keep her head above water as wave after wave dragged her down. Each time her shoulders sagged, each time her eyes dulled with her aching sorrow, it carved another wound into him. He ached to go to her, to silence that suffering, to tear her out of the world that only seemed to break her down.
He wanted to steal her away. To shield her, cradle her, love her with the ferocity that burned through his blood. As his wolf never ceased its howling.
| protect her, nurture her, claim her.
The poor wolf screamed until his chest felt like it was ready to split apart. But Antonin held steady. He clenched his jaw, whispering to the beast within.
Podozhdi, napersnik. Skoro. Wait. Soon.
It took three years. Three long years of restraint and focus, of choices that he knew were questionable…underhanded. But he had needed her to follow, needed to show her the way forward.
He knew that the articles, the subtle nudges, had paid off when she’d finally quit the dead end job and enrolled in university across the Atlantic. That had been the beginning, the sign that it was finally time.
Through it all, all of their time apart, he had shadowed her, keeping her safe as she drifted from place to place, always close enough to strike if danger rose. He had taken notes like the soldier he had always been, gathering intelligence, studying the smallest of details. The way she took her tea. The colors she favored, the items she lingered on in shop windows. The way her lips curved, however faintly, when certain scents brushed her senses.
He knew acutely that he would know how to please her. How to comfort her. How to make her life seamless and whole again.
Their home had been finished. Built piece by piece with her in mind, his hands raw from the labor, his nights spent envisioning her within its walls. Everything was shaped to her liking from the bookshelves stacked high, the quiet cozy corners with a ridiculous amount of pillows, to the garden planted with blossoms he’d seen bring a smile to her pouty lips.
So now that enough time had passed. He noted that the grief had softened, if only a little. Just enough to make all the difference. The girl who hadn’t truly lived, who was too buried in the past, would now feel the bond as he did. He was certain of it.
She would feel what he felt. She would know the moment that he revealed himself. And she would be his, as he had been hers. Now there was nothing left but to wait for the perfect moment.
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At twenty-two, Hermione Granger felt like she was unraveling. Not swiftly, not cleanly like someone who’s had enough. No, this was a slow, merciless fraying that left her hollow. The war was over, but the weight of its aftermath pressed down heavier with every passing day, and no matter how tightly she tried to hold herself together, she was always breaking. She told herself to be strong, to endure, to survive because that’s what everyone had expected of her, the only member of the Golden Trio left standing.
It had been worse in those first years after the battle. Each morning had felt harder than the last, and living in a world where she had been left behind felt like dragging herself through quicksand.
The grief still came in waves so relentless she thought she might drown some days. She had lost Harry, Ron, and Fred and those three alone might have been enough to ruin her. But then she had found out about her parents. Her parents whom she had thought she saved, only to find out that she had lost them on the same day, in almost the same breath. Killed before they had even left British soil. She hadn’t even been able to bury them, only having found out about their deaths during the many trials she attended.
And in the wake of these truths, it was like someone had taken a knife to her life, cutting away every tie, every anchor that she had ever had.
She’d been so numb that the deaths of Remus and Tonks barely pierced through until she saw baby Teddy screaming in his grandmother’s arms, inconsolable. That was when the numbness cracked and horror sank in. She remembered staring at him, this little boy who would never know his parents, and wondering why he was condemned to the same brokenness she carried when he had been so innocent. So new. It had all felt unbearable, too much grief in too small a space, but she still hadn’t shattered. Not yet.
No, the true breaking had come later, when they buried Harry.
She had held herself together by threads up until that point, and then Molly’s voice — sharp, bitter, and stripped of warmth — cut through the silence of the graveyard at Godrics Hollow.
“I thought you were meant to be clever. You were supposed to be useful, to keep them safe. But they are all in the ground, and you are still here.”
The words had sliced straight through her chest, so clean and cruel that she couldn’t even breathe. Her mind went blank. Everything inside her just… stopped. The world went soundless, colorless, until all she could hear was the crack of something breaking inside her ribs. What little of her heart remained splintered and then shattered completely.
Arms caught her before her knees could hit the ground. As Bill’s raised voice, furious and protective, and Arthur’s desperate apologies barely reached her. She wasn’t there anymore, not really. The scent of damp earth and grass clung to the one holding her, grounding her just enough to realize that it had been Neville, but even that detail felt distant, irrelevant. All that mattered was the truth that had finally been spoken aloud. Molly had said what they all had been thinking.
That she was to blame.
She couldn’t argue, couldn't defend herself, couldn’t try to reason because she blamed herself too.
She should have been there for Fred, should have shielded him, should have saved him the way he would have done anything to save her without hesitation. George couldn’t even look at her anymore and why should he? Every time his hazel eyes flickered away, she knew it was because he saw her failure.
Ginny’s disgust had been worse, though. The way she’d spat the words on the battlefield, replied in her mind over and over, even now. That it was her fault Harry had died. That he had thrown himself in front of the curse meant for her, just as Ron had minutes before. That she had stood there, shield cracking, faltering, and made herself the weakness they had died protecting.
And wasn’t it true? If she had been stronger, if she had fought harder, if she had lasted just a moment longer, then maybe Harry and Ron would still be alive. Maybe Fred would still be laughing. Maybe George wouldn’t look at her like a stranger, and Molly wouldn’t blame her, and Ginny wouldn’t curl her lip every time their eyes met.
But that hadn’t been the case. She had failed and now none of them were here and only she remained.
She had all but abandoned the magical world after that day, slipping quietly into a Muggle neighborhood where no one knew her name and no one looked at her with pity, accusation or worse, adoration. She buried herself in mindless, unfulfilling work that had nothing to do with the passions or dreams she had once had. But that had of course, been the point. It gave her no time to think, no space to feel. It was safer to vanish into obscurity than to risk having to face the grief that always felt like it was clawing its way forward.
It hadn’t taken long — six months if she had to guess — for the owls to start coming. Molly Weasley’s handwriting, Molly’s apologies, Molly’s pleas, Molly’s guilt. Hermione hadn’t even needed to open the first few to know what they contained. They weren’t real, not truly. Molly had meant every word she’d said as she grieved, every syllable of her blame and no number of parchment pages covered in teardrops and shaky apologies could undo that truth. No, those letters were guilt, nothing more. Guilt and Arthur’s gentle, relentless pressure. Arthur, who had always treated her like one of his own, who had never once made her feel unwanted or in this case, like the villain.
The truth of it, though, was that even if the words had been genuine, even if Molly had somehow meant them, Hermione knew she couldn’t face her. Couldn’t face any of them after everything.
So she stayed away and isolated herself as much as possible. The few people who still reached out, primarily Neville, Dean, and even Draco sodding Malfoy, were persistent in that first year. Determined to see her actually live. Neville especially, begging her to come out, to sit with them, to let herself breathe among the ones who had survived. But they didn’t understand. They had found comfort in each other, in shared experience in their survival. But as much as she had tried to move forward, that voice in the back of her mind reminded her constantly that she didn’t deserve comfort.
Every time she tried, every time a smile tugged at her lips or a laugh slipped free, guilt came crashing down over her. Because how dare she laugh when Fred couldn’t? How dare she smile when Ron never would again?
Her mind always dragged her back into the deepest depths of her despair, to the moment that always held the most hurt, the most regret. The last time that she saw Harry alive.
They had been happy. Happy, even in the raw ache of losing Fred and Ron. Happy, because it was over, because Voldemort was gone, because the world had a chance to breathe again. She had let herself believe it was finished. She had let herself feel that fragile relief.
And then Rookwood’s curse had come, she had seen him raise his wand, and her shield had held.
For a few precious moments, it had held, but she’d felt the strain, felt it buckling, and Harry had seen it too. She would never forget that look on his face, that quiet, resigned smile. Not fear, not anger. Just a quiet resolve. As if he had just accepted that this was how it was meant to end. And when he moved, when he wrapped his arms around her, she had understood too late, her aching body as tired as her exhausted mind.
Rationally, she knew she couldn’t have stopped him. Even now, years later as she looked back she could see that. Rationally, she knew there hadn’t been time. But rationality meant nothing when she still woke at night, feeling his weight collapsing against her, as he had the nerve to whisper a bloody apology in her ear before falling into her arms as she cradled him. The sound of his last breath would haunt her until her dying day, while no one saw the moment that the wizard who cast the curse took his final breath. Because no one had cared about Rookwood in that moment. All eyes had been on the savior of the wizarding world as he died in her arms.
While Hermione thought of Fred’s laugh often, how it had always been just a little too loud, how it had filled every room with warmth. She thought of Ron’s smile, wide and brilliant, the one that had made her forget every insensitive thing he’d said, the one that always made her forgive him. So every time she thought of what she had lost, of who she had failed, she retreated and locked herself away even further.
Two and a half years, she spent in London. Existing, not living, but punishing herself with silence and solitude. Only letting herself have those few friends that she couldn’t seem to push away. And though she knew it wasn’t healthy, it could hardly be considered living at all, that was the point.
She didn’t deserve to be healthy and healing; she certainly didn’t deserve happy…
At the time, she had been far too stubborn, too buried in self-loathing to change anything, as her misery had felt deserved. She hadn’t wanted to be healed, hadn’t wanted to be forgiven. She had wanted to fade, quietly, until her grief swallowed her whole.
And she had done just that until one summer afternoon, she’d opened her letterbox to find a small stack of Muggle leaflets about university. The glossy pages smelled faintly of ink and paper, and for the first time in years, something stirred faintly inside her. A spark.
University had always been part of her plan. She used to daydream, back at Hogwarts, about reading in grand libraries, about lectures and debates in classes that challenged her mind. But after the war? After everything? The thought of making plans, of daring to build a future without her boys, had felt impossible.
She’d had the money. She’d had the NEWTs. But she hadn’t had the drive. Not anymore.
Even as she sat in her tiny flat that warm July evening, leaflets spread across the table, she couldn’t quite bring herself to want it. Not really. She turned the pages, looked at the smiling faces, the long lists of courses, the crisp photographs and merely felt numb.
It wasn’t until the following week, when another leaflet arrived, that something inside her shifted. This one wasn’t about the local schools. It was full of adverts for Harvard, Yale, Brown… even Oxford, with its grand arches and green courtyards. She wasn’t sure why they kept coming, how she’d ended up on the mailing lists. For a moment, she wondered if they were Draco’s doing. He had tried countless times to convince her to continue her education, pushing pamphlets across her table, telling her she was going to fade away if she didn’t try something. But she’d always brushed him off, drowning him out with excuse after excuse.
Because how could she? How could she sit in lecture halls in Britain, surrounded by people who might recognize her face? Who might want to talk about Harry or Ron…she had been avoiding not only her own grief but the worlds as well. She still received the Prophet, still saw the headlines that reminded her that Harry Potter, the boy who lived and then died had meant so much to everyone , not just her.
So she avoided it. She avoided all of it. Her grief. Theirs. But this… this was different. She’d be an ocean away. In a place where no one would know her name, and she could properly fade away.
Maybe this was the answer to the question she’d been too afraid to ask aloud, the one that haunted her in every sleepless night: How could she ever move on?
One night, she was filling out the forms, submitting essays, sealing envelopes with trembling fingers. And then almost overnight, she was accepted to Harvard. Then, she was packing up what was left of her life and moving half a world away.
And now, a year and a half later, she was twenty-two. Alive, but still unraveling. Far from anyone who knew her, as she clung to her studies like a lifeline, losing herself in coursework, in library stacks, in late nights scribbling until her hand cramped. She kept her head down and tried her best to disappear into the background, to be invisible.
What she didn’t know, what she couldn’t have known, was that she could have never been invisible. Because she would always be seen by her guardian, the man who was always watching her from the shadows. Where he had remained protectively, silently, patiently until the night everything changed.
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The night air cut sharper than she had expected, the kind of cold that seeped into ones bones and made you wish you had stayed wrapped in the safety of the indoors. Frost clung to the soil, glittering faintly under the moonlight, and the bare trees looked skeletal against the inky black sky. It was darker than she liked. Rationally, she reminded herself she was safe, there were lights strung outside the university buildings, guiding her way. Rationally, she knew that she had nothing to fear.
And yet the chill that prickled along her skin, raising gooseflesh on the back of her neck, remained.
She shouldn’t have stayed so late in the library; she knew that. But she had needed the distraction, the comfort of words and books. The hours had slipped by too quickly, and by the time she left, night crept upon her. She had only taken a few steps down the path when her heart sank.
Craig Johnson.
She didn’t even need to hear his voice. His silhouette, the swagger in his stride, it was too familiar. He’d become a fixture she couldn’t seem to shake, a persistent upperclassman who never seemed to hear the word no. She had lost count of how many times he’d asked her for coffee, how many excuses she had offered, how many polite smiles she’d forced. And yet he always came back.
And now he was there blocking her path.
“Aren’t you going to say hello, pretty thing?” The look in his eyes, the entitled, predatory gleam, made her stomach twist, and she wanted nothing more than to disappear.
“I’m sorry, Craig, I am in a bit of a hurry.” Her smile forced, as she tried to step around him.
His hand shot out, fingers curling around her waist with a grip that stung. Before she could even process it, she was slammed back against the outer wall of the building, her breath catching in her throat.
Panic surged through her. Her body screamed at her to fight, to hex him where he stood, but her wand stayed buried, untouched. She knew that he was a Muggle and she couldn’t risk it.
“Now, I’m done letting you run away from me,” he hummed, his voice low and mocking. His weight pressed against her as he leaned in closer. “You know, you are far too pretty to be so rude, darlin'."
Her heart hammered against her ribs, her breath coming shallow and uneven. She tried to force her voice steady, to make herself sound stronger than she felt. “Please, Craig, it’s late. Just let me go, you don’t want to do this.”
The heat of his breath against her skin made her want to retch, and when his lips brushed her neck, damp and possessive, nausea surged through her chest. She prayed desperately that it would stop there, that he’d have had his fun and release her.
But then everything shifted.
Craig was ripped away from her, torn from his grip on her body, and hurled aside like he weighed nothing at all. She blinked in shock, too stunned to comprehend what she was seeing. A man — solid, broad, and intimidating — had just been tossed like a rag doll.
The sickening crunch of bone echoed in the night air as Craig landed in a heap at the base of the steps. Her mind reeled, unable to process. Relief tangled with horror, confusion with fear.
But before she could breathe, before she could even think, the familiar hook of Apparition yanked deep in her gut, pulling her away from the scene, away from the icy night air.
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The moment that Antonin had seen the man’s filthy hands on her, had heard her voice shaking, pleading, asking him to let her go , the world for him had narrowed. Instinct had taken over, with the need to protect what was his . By the time reason caught up, it was already done.
He hadn’t meant to kill the man. He hadn’t gone out looking for death. But regret? Nyet. How could there be regret when her fear had laced the air thick as smoke, choking him with its bitterness? How could he regret when another man had dared lay hands on her, on what was his? How could he mourn when he still saw the way that bastard’s mouth had pressed against her throat?
Yego sheya. His to kiss. His to claim. His to protect.
The wolf inside him had howled for blood, and Antonin had answered without hesitation.
And then, because instinct never quieted, he had apparated her away, torn them both out of that filthy place and into safety. Into their sitting room. Their home . The one he had built plank by plank, stone by stone, every piece chosen with her in mind long before she had ever known what she was to him. She had never set foot inside it, never breathed its air, and yet it had always belonged to her.
Now she stood trembling, her eyes wide, shock rolling off her in waves. It cut at him, her fear, not of him, but of what had been done, what she had endured. He should have spoken then. He wanted to. Needed to. To tell her she was safe, to tell her she was his, to tell her the truth of what she was to him. To make her understand.
But his wolf roared loudly, drowning out reason.
| Get the stench off her. Get it off, now. Our mate is sullied. Cleanse her. Scent her. Claim her.
And while he agreed that the foul man’s scent needed to be erased from her skin, until only his own remained. He was too distracted by her true scent as it reached him. Sweet, intoxicating, pure arousal beneath the fear. It crashed into him like a wave, stealing the air from his lungs. His cock hardened instantly, painfully, saliva flooding his mouth. He knew that it was merely their bond reacting to proximity, but it was proof nonetheless. Proof that she was his.
The wolf whined inside him.
| She is ready, boy. Ease her ache. Take care of her.
And just like that, Antonin broke. He was on her in an instant, closing the space between them, lips crashing into hers. The kiss was wild, searing, desperate, claiming and worshipful all at once. Not gentle nor tender as he had imagined their first would be, but still it was a kiss filled with devotion.
He tore himself from her mouth only long enough to press his forehead to hers, both of them panting, their breath mingling, chest heaving as the scent of her arousal wrapped around him. Drowning every rational thought, every hesitation, every scrap of restraint he’d had. There was nothing left in the world but her.
“You are driving me wild, Milaya ,” he growled, voice low as he was barely holding on to his control. “Do you know I can smell you from here? Your needy little cunt is calling me home.”
Her answering whimper nearly undid him. Bozhe moi, that sound soft, helpless, meant only for him had his cock straining painfully against his trousers.
It was clear she needed him as much as he needed her, but still, Antonin forced himself to slow. She had to understand. He couldn’t let instinct strip this moment of its meaning; he needed her to choose him, not simply yield to the bond.
“It is taking all of my strength,” he rasped, mouth dragging down the line of her throat, tongue tasting her skin, “not to tear off your clothes and take you right here in our sitting room… to mark you, claim you. Do you understand what I’m saying, Golubushka ?”
Her nails bit into his arms, her body arching closer. The thrum of her heartbeat pounded against his lips, the scent of her need dizzying him.
“Yes.”
That one broken word had his hips surging forward, cock grinding against her, restraint shredding. But it wasn’t enough. Not yet.
“I need to know you truly understand, Milaya ,” he groaned, trembling with restraint. “Once I’ve had you, once I’ve marked you… You’ll be mine completely .”
Her moan as he rolled his hips into hers tore through his chest. Still, he needed her words. Needed her to claim him as surely as he was claiming her.
Her eyes lifted, fire burning through the haze. “I’m your mate, and I want you to mark me, Antonin.”
His heart raced at the simple truth she’d revealed, not only did she understand the bond but who he was.
His mouth crushed to hers as the last syllable left her lips, tongues tangling in a kiss filled with need and fierce devotion. Inside, his wolf howled with triumph.
| Claim her. Mark her. Never let her go.
Patience, moy napersnik. We need to ready her.
His hand slid from her hip to her waist, slipping beneath her shirt. Heat seared him as his palm pressed to her bare stomach. He groaned, undone by the silk of her skin. Every inch of her called to him, every sound she made, tearing away another thread of control.
Her breath hitched when his fingers brushed the underside of her breast, the soft weight filling his hand. She moaned, grinding against him, and he knew she was his undoing, his reckoning, his punishment, and yet…his salvation .
“ Khorosho , Milaya ,” he murmured against her throat, voice reverent, raw. “So good for me already.”
His wolf prowled just beneath the surface as he pressed her hard against the bookshelf, holding her in place where he could worship her. In one swift motion, he tore her jumper away, and his starving eyes drank her in.
Her gasp shuddered through him, sweet and sinful, his cock jerking violently against her belly. When her tongue darted out to wet her lip, his vision blurred. Bozhe moi. Did she know what she was doing to him?
“I need you,” she moaned, and he swallowed the sound greedily, gaze devouring every curve framed by lace. When she rolled her hips against him, his body nearly betrayed him, threatening to spill like a boy too young to know restraint.
It wasn’t enough. Nothing but burying himself deep inside, claiming her, marking her, would ever be enough.
| She needs us. Take care of her. Claim our mate
His hands tore through the delicate bra, the fabric giving way with a rip that sent a savage satisfaction through him.
Mine.
Her gasp only stoked the fire. But then his smirk faltered as the cursed mark on her skin was revealed. For a breath, shame cut through lust.
“You are a truly beautiful woman, Milaya ,” he murmured reverently, trailing his lips down her neck, over the swell of her breast. His tongue swept deliberately across the scar, claiming it, worshipping it as sacred.
“Gods… I can’t wait, please… I need you.”
Her plea sent fire ripping through his veins, cock twitching, wolf howling.
| Now, boy. Claim her now.
Antonin gritted his teeth. She was so needy, her scent thick and intoxicating, but he would not rush. Not when he could hurt her. He was a large man with a thick cock, too large, too much, for her greedy little cunt, no matter how wet she was for him already. She was precious and needed to be prepared, stretched, made to fall apart for him first. He would worship every inch, wring every moan, make her cum again and again until she was trembling and soft for him until she could take him without so much pain.
Her body was a masterpiece, his mate, his Sud’ba. How could fate give him this after all he had done? After all the blood on his hands, all the pain he had caused her? He knew that he could never deserve her, and yet she was here. In his arms. His.
He seized her lips again, kissing her with searing, desperate hunger before trailing lower, neck, collarbone, until his mouth hovered over her bare, heaving chest. He inhaled deeply, eyes glazed with lust and reverence, the word echoing through him, wolf and man as one.
Mine.
His tongue flicked over a rosy peak, teasing, coaxing. Her moan tore through him, his cock jerking hard against her belly. He scraped his teeth lightly, savoring the shiver that rippled through her. Already trembling for him, so responsive, so perfectly his.
While his mouth worshipped her breast with licks and nips, his hand slid lower, over her stomach, unfastening her jeans in one sharp motion. Her breath hitched, shaky and sweet, as his fingers slipped beneath the fabric, hovering above her slick heat. A soft whimper broke from her lips, so desperate it nearly undid him.
He pulled back just to see her face. Bozhe, what a sight, her lips swollen, her teeth worrying the bottom one as though she could hide the sounds he wrenched from her.
He pressed deliberately against her clit, rolling it between his fingers as he had her nipples. Her hips jerked helplessly, gasps and muffled moans spilling as she shuddered for him. Intoxicating. Addictive. His napersnik hummed with approval as her panties soaked through.
“You don’t know what you do to me, Milaya, ” he rasped, voice rough with need and devotion. “Don’t you realize the way I want to devour you?”
Her gasp broke into a cry when his fingers finally slipped beneath the fabric, stroking her drenched cunt. Bozhe, she was already dripping, hot and ready, her body begging to be filled. He groaned as her walls clenched greedily around the finger he pushed inside.
She welcomed him, tight and yielding all at once. He found the spot he sought and pressed, building a rhythm that matched the frantic pace of her heart. Every cry, every shudder, every drop of slick on his hand was a gift, a promise of how beautifully she would fall apart when his cock finally split her open.
Her legs spread wider for him, so trusting, so perfect, that Antonin’s heart clenched even as his cock throbbed painfully. For me, he thought, nearly undone. She opened herself like a gift, and he would worship her until his last breath.
His fingers worked her slowly, coaxing, teasing, drinking in every sound she gave him. Each breathy moan, each rake of her nails down his shoulders, tugged him closer, his wolf prancing in delight.
“I need you to come for me, Milaya, ” he groaned against her lips, rough with need. “I need this perfect little cunt to relax so I can claim you, because I will not hurt you. Can you do that for me? Be a good girl and come for me?”
Her walls fluttered around his fingers, answering for her. Satisfaction rumbled in his chest as he slipped a second finger inside. Gods, the way her tight body gripped him was ecstasy itself. He groaned, kissing her deeply, slow, tender, devotion pouring into her even as hunger tore at his control.
Her scent, lilacs and heat, dizzying, addictive. He was drunk on her moans, on the slick heat soaking his hand. Curling his fingers just right, thumb circling her clit, he drove her higher. Her cry as she arched into him nearly undid him. Bozhe moi, she was radiant in her ecstasy. He wanted to taste her, to pin her down and feast, to bury himself inside her until he could sink his teeth into her throat and seal what fate had written.
But not yet. Nyet.
Her legs spread wider, welcoming him deeper. He plunged faster, harder, her slick coating his hand as she clung to him. A growl tore from his chest, hips pressing against her, cock straining to be inside where he belonged. Her body begged for him, instinct calling to instinct, mate to mate.
His wolf howled inside him, drunk on her scent.
| Claim her. Mark her. Now, boy…our perfect little mate.
Her head tipped back, breath stuttering, eyes fluttering closed. Exquisite. Antonin’s lips trailed her throat, finding the fragile beat of her pulse. His teeth grazed the spot, his wolf roaring to sink them in, to mark her forever.
Mate.
He nipped just enough to make her squirm, a low growl vibrating against her skin — warning, promise, devotion all at once.
| Mate. Mine. Mine.
Please, moy napersnik… patience.
Every sigh, every tremor, every whispered plea of his name pulled him deeper into her.
“You’re beautiful like this, Milaya, ” he rasped, watching her break, her body clenching tight around his fingers, thighs trembling as she came undone for him.
Scooping her up as though she weighed nothing, he carried her to their bed and laid her down like she was made of glass. His wolf snarled to take her hard, now, but Antonin forced gentleness. She was panting, flushed, glowing in the dim light, and he would not rush what was sacred.
Hooking his fingers in her belt loops, he dragged her jeans down slowly, devouring every inch of revealed skin. His jaw ached with the force of his restraint, cock throbbing painfully.
| Every inch of her is mine. My perfect mate. My Sud’ba.
Ours, she is ours, napersnik.
His gaze dropped and he groaned low at the sight of her knickers, soaked through with her desire. He had dreamed of this too many times, but reality was sweeter, devastating.
Kneeling between her trembling thighs, he cupped her face reverently, thumb brushing her jaw as though to anchor himself to the miracle of her presence. Then he claimed her lips, sucking her bottom lip until she whimpered, sliding his tongue into her mouth with desperate hunger.
She was everything he had ever wanted, everything he knew he could never deserve and still, she opened for him.
When he pulled back, her needy whine made his lips curve, a low chuckle rumbling out that was more wolf than man. His fingers traced the waistband of her lace, delighting in her shiver, in the way her breath caught. Slowly, torturously, he stripped her bare.
The growl that followed was feral, possessive, absolute.
Mine.
He wanted to drop to his knees, bury his face between her thighs, feast until she was writhing against his tongue. His mouth watered at the thought, his restraint fraying. But no, he knew what she needed, what the bond demanded. She needed him inside, needed his claim, his knot.
When Antonin finally stood, her eyes widened, lips parting as his cock sprang free — hard, heavy, aching for her, tip glistening with proof of his desperation.
Her breath hitched, whisky-colored eyes locked on him.
“You’re mine, Milaya. And this” his voice dropped to a growl “is only for you.”
“Now be a good girl and open these perfect thighs for me. I promise it won’t hurt for long. I’ll make you feel so good, Milaya. ” His voice was gravel, thick with hunger, his hand stroking over his weeping cock.
She whimpered, spreading for him without hesitation, her sweet little moan breaking as her cunt fluttered, wet and waiting.
| Now. Ours.
Antonin lined himself against her slick heat, vision blurring from her scent, from the fire of her body welcoming him home. She was made for this, for him.
“Hold onto me, Milaya, ” he rasped.
Her nails dug into his shoulders, the sting only feeding his wolf. Their eyes locked, hers wide and trembling, his burning with the need to claim. Slowly, he pushed forward, stretching her around him inch by inch.
Her whimper, her cry, gods, it was everything. Her body clenched him like a vice, resisting and yielding all at once. His growl rumbled deep, feral pride tearing through him.
| So good. So tight. My perfect mate. Claim. Bite. Keep her, boy.
Every muscle strained to keep from slamming into her, to keep from biting down and marking her too soon. Her scent wrapped around him, intoxicating.
“Breathe,” he murmured with a smirk, brushing a tear from her cheek when she gasped, “oh gods, I don’t think I can… too much.”
He kissed her neck, whispering into her skin, “You’re taking me so well, moy Milaya. Made for me, for this. Mine.”
Another slow roll of his hips, another inch, her heat gripping him tighter than sin. She moaned his name, the sweetest spell he’d ever heard. He nipped along her throat, groaning as her thighs quivered, her hips lifting in silent plea for more.
He leaned back, needing to see her, hair mussed, lips swollen, eyes glassy with tears and desire. His napersnik sighed within him.
| Forever mine, mate. Always mine. No one will ever take you from me.
Her body shuddered, opening for him, and he gave in. His hips snapped forward, sinking his cock deeper until he was seated fully inside, until there was nothing left between them.
Buried. Home.
They moaned together as he bottomed out, the blunt head of his cock pressed to her cervix. Their chests heaved in sync, eyes locked in a gaze more binding than any vow. Nothing in his twisted life had ever felt so right.
She bit her lip until it trembled, hands clawing his sheets, knuckles white. She was unraveling, holding herself together, and all he wanted was to fuck her past every restraint.
“ Bozhe moi… perfect. Too perfect.”
His gaze burned over her, her body stretched tight around him, his hands bruising her hips and lower, gods, he saw it: the faint swell of his cock pressing against her stomach. Proof. She was ruined for anyone else. She was his.
Leaning down, he caught her lip between his teeth, tugged, then devoured her in a kiss that left them both breathless.
“I need you. Please, Antonin, I’m ready,” she gasped, voice wrecked.
He groaned, lips at her throat. “Anything. I’ll give you anything you need, Milaya. Always.”
His hips moved again, slow and torturous, dragging his cock through her so carefully she whimpered. Control frayed every instinct screamed to take, to pound until she shattered, but he forced himself to pace, to protect her even as her greedy cunt milked him raw.
Her breath hitched each time he struck deep, and he hummed praise against her skin, urging her to breathe, to trust him. His grip tightened on her hips; he couldn’t help it. She would bruise, and the thought nearly undid him.
He nipped her clavicle, dragging his nose along her throat. She whimpered, tilted her hips, begged without words. He growled low, pulled almost free, then slammed back inside with a single, claiming thrust.
He loved her. He knew it then, this trembling, yielding mate, her soul bound to his. Everything.
His wolf panted. His chest ached. This was where he belonged: buried inside her, holding her together as she melted in his arms.
He drove harder, rougher, her sharp little yelp sending fire through his veins. Too much, but she could take it. She was his mate.
She screamed, broken pleas spilling as he pounded into her, the sound of her desperation spurring him closer to the edge.
His lips curled into a feral smirk. He held her down, hips snapping forward, the sharp smack of their bodies echoing. Her cunt fluttered, her thighs trembling, her hands clawing the sheets.
When she moaned his name, ragged and raw, it hit him like prayer. “Gods, I can’t… I’m so close,” she gasped, surrender in every word.
Pride burned hot in his chest. Every moan, every cry, every trembling plea was his. She was his. He sucked her breast greedily, savoring the weight in his hand, the way her back arched as she met his thrusts. Perfect.
Mine. Always mine.
Her sweet cunt stretched for him, softening, begging for more, for all of him. And gods, he would give it. He would fill her until she couldn’t take another drop, until she was marked by him, heavy with his child. The thought alone made his cock pulse inside her.
He pressed his forehead to hers, forcing stillness as she squeezed tight around him. Control. He couldn’t finish yet, not until she shattered, not until his mark was carved into her flesh.
“Please keep going, don’t stop…” she whined, breaking on the plea. His chest rumbled with a dark chuckle.
“You feel too good, Milaya. ” He kissed her, all heat and devotion.
She rolled her hips, greedy little thing, fucking herself on him even as he tried to hold still. The rush of pleasure made his eyes squeeze shut. She was using him, taking what she needed, and he would let her take everything.
He kissed her slower then, reverent, pouring every ounce of devotion into the press of his lips. She had to feel it he was hers as much as she was his. His fingers dug into her hips hard enough to bruise, but she welcomed it, welcomed the brutal weight of him inside her.
He pulled back to the tip, savoring the way her body clung to him, desperate not to let him go. Gods, he would remember this. Her parted lips, the sheen of sweat, his mate trembling open beneath him. Burned into his soul.
Then she grabbed his hips and dragged him deep, greedy cunt clutching him so perfectly he nearly spilled. A groan ripped from his throat. He couldn’t last like this, not when she milked him with every squeeze. He needed to bring her over, to claim her fully.
With a growl, he slipped free, ignoring her whimper as he shifted her trembling body and slammed back inside. The angle destroyed her. She screamed his name, nails digging into his wrist. His wolf howled, triumphant, each thrust ruthless, deliberate. He drove her down onto his cock again and again, every movement a reminder—
She was his. Only his. Forever.
He knew it was time to feel her break apart on his cock, to claim, to sink his teeth into her tender flesh.
His wolf howled approval.
| Mine.
“ Milaya, I need you to tell me you want this,” he demanded, desperation roughening his voice. She was his mate, their bodies, souls, magic already knew it. But he needed her words, her acceptance.
He couldn’t stop thrusting, hips snapping hard once, twice, again until his breath came ragged against her throat.
“You’re doing so well,” he panted, reverent. “You take me so well. But I need you to tell me you want my mark. I won’t do it if you don’t… You are close, Milaya. Please, tell me.”
“Yes,” she sobbed, perfect in her surrender. “I accept you… I accept us… our bond… please.”
His groan tore from deep in his chest. He gripped her hips harder, eyes falling to where her swollen cunt swallowed him down, sucking him deeper every time.
“ Moya dorogaya… ” he rasped, fucking her harder into the mattress, giving her everything. One hand slid up her trembling belly to her breast, rough and possessive, kneading, rolling her nipple until her moans broke apart beneath him.
She was his. To worship. To ruin. Forever.
His teeth grazed her throat, sharp and teasing as she rocked against him, perfect, greedy, taking him deeper. One hand spread wide over her ribs, thumb stroking tenderly even as his other hand pinned her hip down with bruising force, holding her still for his savage rhythm.
His chest rumbled, a low, desperate whine his wolf couldn’t hold back. Yet the beast didn’t fight for control, it trusted him. Trusted he would protect their mate, love her right.
He pulled back to look at her, her body bouncing with each thrust, lips parted in helpless sounds that wrecked him. Moya printsessa. Moya zhizn’.
He kissed and marked her throat, nipping and sucking until she was branded everywhere but where it mattered most. Her scent filled his lungs, thick and intoxicating, making his cock throb and his balls tighten. When he buried his face in the curve of her neck and shoulder, breathing her in, his restraint nearly snapped.
She was so close he could feel it, smell it. And gods, he would not let her fall without him.
“So damned close,” he growled against her skin, hips snapping with merciless rhythm. Her thighs trembled, breaths sharp and shallow. “That’s it, Milaya, ” he coaxed, voice breaking with need. “Come for me, my perfect mate.”
He drove harder, pressing into her cervix until she screamed, nails clawing his shoulders.
“I’m—” she gasped.
“ Mine, ” he growled, chest aching as her cunt fluttered, spasm after spasm.
| Ours. Forever.
Instinct consumed him. His wolf howled in triumph as his teeth sank into her flesh, tasting her blood fire, ambrosia, Sud’ba. Her moan was sweet, shattering, perfect. She came undone, her body shaking, clenching around him so hard he feared they’d be locked before his knot even formed.
He groaned into her skin, breaking the bite to admire his mark, raw and deep. Pride surged his and his wolf’s, as he licked it gently, claiming her.
Even as she lay boneless beneath him, he continued to move, cock sliding through her fluttering walls.
“ Fuck, Milaya, you’re going to kill me if you keep squeezing like that,” he rasped, hips snapping with deliberate force. Every pulse, every clench was made for him alone. His wolf roared, delirious with triumph.
“Is that your goal, little mate? Kill me with this greedy cunt,” he growled.
“Oh gods, no I can’t lose this… too much… I can’t,” she moaned, trembling, body coiled for more.
| Again, give her another, make her come. Fill her. Breed her. Keep mate happy
The command vibrated through him. He gave in, thrusts wild, desperate, punishing, stretching her with every snap of his hips. He felt the swelling at the base of his cock, the first pulse of his knot.
“I’m going to knot this greedy little cunt…” he groaned, sweat sliding down his temple. “Give me another, little mate. Come for me again… you were made for me, Milaya. ”
She shattered, back arching, body milking him. “So fucking beautiful,” he groaned, chest rattling with feral hunger as his cock jerked inside her, spilling deep.
Then it happened.
Her final moan broke against his chest, nails digging into him as her cunt stretched, taking him fully, accommodating the swelling of his knot. They locked together, her body fluttering helplessly with every pulse.
“ Moya, ” he groaned, soul and throat torn as she went limp, passing out in his arms.
His wolf preened inside him as he watched her breathe, chest rising and falling, her softness pressed against him. His Milaya. His mate. His Sud’ba. She had done so well for him, had taken everything he gave her.
Carefully, reverently, he adjusted them so they could rest, pulling her against his chest, keeping her locked onto him where she belonged. He pressed a kiss to the crown of her head, inhaled her scent, and let the bliss of her closeness sink into his aching bones.