Alpha Aillard, the keeper of the beast, stood before the imposing iron door of his mate's chamber, his mind filled with a disconcerting realization. The woman he had so meticulously locked away possessed a profound intellect, a level of management that surpassed any expectations he had held. Yet, he chose not to dwell on the reason behind it, nor did he find it relevant. What mattered to him was the potential advantage he could gain from her.
He referred to her as the "duckling," a seemingly innocent moniker that concealed the weight of her humiliation even when she carried the solemn duty as Luna. The title itself carried the weight of responsibility, a testament to her role in this intricate dance of power. She was granted access to modern amenities - a phone, a computer - as well as occasional outings within his confined domain. Aillard understood the importance of keeping her connected to the world outside, even if it was within the confines of her prison. But freedom was a rare commodity for her, always overshadowed by surveillance and the ever-watchful escort that trailed behind her every move.
Alone time was a luxury they rarely experienced together, except for those instances when Aillard sought to pacify the inner beast that resided within him. It must be noted that Aillard never forced himself upon her physically, but a sick pleasure coursed through him as he subjected her to torment. Shibari, an art form in its purest essence, was perverted in his hands. He twisted its beauty, molding it into a tool for his vile intentions. Night after night, he would bind her delicate frame, suspending her in mid-air, denying her skin the respite it craved, refusing it the chance to heal or recover from their previous encounter.
The weight of the ropes pressing against her bruised flesh now burned with a searing agony, an unrelenting reminder of her captivity. They constricted her torso, squeezing the air out of her lungs, instilling a dreadful sensation of suffocation. Every fiber of her being screamed for release, but she was bound, both physically and emotionally. The humiliation of being perpetually exposed to his prying gaze gnawed at her very soul, eroding her sense of self, leaving her feeling like nothing more than a puppet dancing to the whims of a sadistic master.
However, Aillard never actually raped her. He was content with indulging in his twisted desires through self-gratification, his eyes feasting upon her form while his hands remained free of sin, just to indulge his carnal desires with the she-wolf he claimed as his real mate right after with the knowledge of the physical suffering this would cause his duckling for the bond between them.
An overwhelming surge of anger and disgust would well up within him after each encounter, a result of the insatiable yearning he harbored for this mere human. The conflict within him waged on, a battle between the dark desires that coursed through his veins and the knowledge of the line he dare not cross.
Their twisted dance continued, their worlds intertwining in a sick symphony of pain and desire. Alpha Aillard, the keeper of the beast, found himself consumed by the complexity of his own emotions, torn between the power he held and the ethereal beauty that lay before him. The beast within him craved her, its primal hunger echoing in the depths of his soul. And so, he walked the tightrope of temptation, treading the line between control and surrender, unsure of where it would ultimately lead them both.
As the nights wore on, the consequences of his self-indulgence and illicit affair began to wane in their potency, reaching a critical point where he found himself repeatedly losing control of his feral instincts. Overwhelmed by his insatiable desire for this woman, he sought solace in the guidance of a witch, hoping to uncover a solution that his inner beast would accept. The futility of relying on human contraceptives, mere trinkets in the face of his predicament, further fueled his desperation.
To his astonishment, instead of providing him with a remedy to avoid the possibility of a hybrid pregnancy, the witch brazenly encouraged him to procreate with his captive. The very notion of producing offspring with such a being, an abomination in his eyes, filled him with anger, as it contradicted the purity of his noble lineage. The witch, however, possessed a deeper understanding, recognizing the latent power within this woman, not merely a human but a vessel capable of channeling the extraordinary.
"I can discern her true essence," the old crone calmly imparted, delicately placing her cup upon his desk. "She is no ordinary mortal, but a witch in her own right, a vessel of great potential."
Restless and growing increasingly impatient with her enigmatic manner, he retorted, "Regardless, old hag, I yearn for a pure-blooded lycan son, not some hybrid abomination!"
The witch allowed herself a knowing chuckle, a testament to his ignorance. "Oh, young alpha, you fail to grasp the magnitude of what these women, these vessels, can bestow upon you. She can bear not only a son of pure lycan heritage, but a successor imbued with unparalleled power."
His jaw slackened in disbelief, the weight of her words sinking in. "But is it safe for her? Can she withstand the might of a lycan?"
The old witch smiled, her eyes glimmering with a wisdom forged through the ages. "She may not possess the gift of shifting, but if she can endure the presence of a dragon, she will find this task to be child's play."
In that pivotal moment, his feral instincts seized control, and the rest, as they say, became history. But he vowed to himself that this act would not be an act of violation, for the beast within desired her cries to be those of pleasure, not pain.