Chapter 9: Chapter 9: The claiming kiss
(Elena)
The Pack hall is packed wall to wall. Every wolf who can stand has crowded in — benches full, doorways blocked, children sitting on parents’ shoulders just to see. Even the cooks and stable hands abandoned their work.
They’re here for the show.
An Alpha widow marrying a rogue. A boy who bit off an elder’s fingers, standing at the altar like he’s walking to his own execution.
Maybe he is.
I stand at the front beside the old stone altar where my parents were mated, where Viktor and I were mated. The moon symbol carved into the rock is draped with white cloth and dried flowers — someone’s idea of making this look like a celebration.
It doesn’t.
My dress is simple. Dark grey wool, fitted at the waist, falling to my boots. No veil, no jewelry except my mother’s silver ring on my thumb. Hair pulled back tight, not a strand out of place.
I look like a warrior going to war.
Because I am.
The doors open across the hall and Rhydian walks in.
He’s been cleaned up — hair brushed and falling in dark waves, black tunic with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, bandaged wrists hidden. He looks almost presentable.
But his eyes give him away completely.
Golden and wild, cutting left and right like a trapped animal clocking every exit. Jaw tight. Fists at his sides. He’s terrified and furious about being terrified, and that combination is written all over his face.
The crowd parts for him. I catch whispered words as he passes — *young, dangerous, pretty, pity.*
He hears them too. His ears go red.
He stops in front of me. Close enough that I catch the soap they scrubbed him with, something sharp and clean — and underneath it his actual scent. Smoke and pine and something wild that soap couldn’t touch.
We stare at each other. Nobody speaks.
Old Marta, the officiating elder — one of the few who didn’t side with Marcus — clears her throat. "We are gathered under the moon’s light to bind two wolves as one. Elena, Alpha of this Pack, and Rhydian, last of the Alma bloodline."
Rhydian’s jaw ticks.
"The Moon Goddess blesses this union. May it bring strength, loyalty, and—"
"Get on with it," Rhydian mutters.
Someone gasps. Marta falters.
I don’t react. I keep my eyes on his.
"Do you, Elena, take this wolf as your mate? To stand beside you, defend your Pack, share your den and your blood?"
"I do." Steady. Clear.
"Do you, Rhydian, take this wolf as your mate? To stand beside her, defend her Pack, share her den and her blood?"
Silence.
Marta tries again. "Rhydian?"
He looks at me. His throat moves as he swallows. The whole hall leans in.
"I’m not saying it." Loud enough for everyone to hear. "You can chain me and drag me here and put me in this stupid shirt, but I won’t lie in front of your moon."
Gasps ripple through the room. Someone hisses.
I feel the temperature drop.
I step in close. Our chests nearly touching, voice low enough that only he catches it.
"You don’t have to mean it. Just say the words. We both know what this is."
"A transaction," he says, and laughs — short and bitter. "You’re buying a corpse for your bed, remember?"
"Say the words, Rhydian."
"No."
I keep my voice flat and quiet. "You want to embarrass me in front of my Pack? Fine. But I promise you, what comes after this ceremony will be ten times worse for you."
"Is that a threat?"
"It’s a promise."
Five full heartbeats. The hall holds its breath.
Then he looks away first.
"Fine," he mutters. "I take her. Whatever."
Marta rushes forward before he can change his mind. "By the power granted by the Moon Goddess and this Pack, I declare you mates." She exhales. "You may kiss."
He doesn’t move.
Arms crossed, mouth a flat line, eyes somewhere above my head. Ten seconds. Twenty. Someone in the back laughs nervously and the sound makes everything worse.
I feel every eye in the room. The pity settling in.
*Poor Elena. Can’t even get her rogue to look at her.*
Something in me goes very cold and very still.
If he won’t kiss me, I’ll kiss him. And nobody in this hall will ever forget who runs things here.
I grab the back of his neck with both hands.
He’s so caught off guard he doesn’t react in time — eyes going wide, lips parting — and I pull his face down to mine and kiss him.
Hard.
This isn’t romance. This is a claiming. A message to every wolf watching: *he is mine, whether he likes it or not.*
My mouth crushes against his, teeth scraping his lower lip, and I taste him — salt and smoke and something underneath that makes my wolf go very quiet and very alert.
He freezes completely. Hands hanging at his sides, breath caught in his throat, stiff as a board.
Then I bite his lip.
Not hard. Just enough to break skin.
Blood — hot and copper-sweet — spreads between our mouths, and something in him snaps loose. A low growl builds in his chest, not angry, something else entirely, and his hands come up —
Not to push me away.
To grab me.
His fingers find my waist and grip hard — almost too hard — pulling me flush against him, and then his mouth starts to move.
He kisses back like someone who has absolutely no idea what they’re doing.
No technique, no finesse, nothing learned. He mashes his mouth against mine like he’s trying to figure out a lock with no key. His teeth catch mine, he misses slightly and gets the corner of my lips, then my chin, then corrects back. It’s clumsy and uncoordinated and a little bit of a disaster.
It’s the most honest thing I’ve felt in years.
I slide one hand from his neck to his jaw and guide him — tilt his head slightly left, show him the angle. He follows immediately, adjusting without being told twice, and our mouths find each other properly this time.
Still rough. Still inexperienced. But better.
His tongue brushes my lower lip — tentative, like a question. I part my lips and let him in, and he makes a sound deep in his chest, a real groan, and pulls me closer until there is genuinely no space left between us.
I bite him again, softer. He shudders head to toe.
When I finally pull back, he looks wrecked.
Lips swollen and blood-red, eyes dark and unfocused, breath coming in uneven pulls. A thin thread of copper connects us for just a moment before it breaks.
I turn to the Pack before my own face can give anything away.
"My mate," I say. "The Alpha’s husband."
The room erupts — cheers, clapping, stunned silence, all of it at once.
Marta starts to say something. "The ceremony is comp—"
"We’re done." I take Rhydian’s hand — he’s still dazed enough that he doesn’t argue — and pull him down the aisle.
The crowd parts. Whispers chase us out like smoke.
*"Did you see her just—"*
*"He kissed her back—"*
*"He’ll kill her in her sleep—"*
I don’t stop walking. Through the courtyard, past the training yard, straight to our quarters. I close the door behind us.
Rhydian stands in the middle of the room breathing hard, tunic wrinkled where I grabbed him, lips still wet, eyes wild.
"What," he says slowly, "was that."
"A wedding kiss."
"That was a war cry."
"Same thing."
He touches his lip. Looks at his fingers — blood — and wipes it on his pants. Then he looks at me, chest still rising and falling too fast, something working itself out behind his eyes.
"Teach me," he says.
"What?"
"To kiss. Properly." He waves a hand vaguely at his own mouth. "Not whatever that was. I want to know how to do it right."
I should say no. I should point him to his corner of the bed and end the night there.
Instead I step closer.
"Come here," I say.
He comes.
