[Daphne’s POV]
Xander's kiss ignites something inside me that's been smoldering for weeks—denied, suppressed, pushed down beneath duty and gratitude and the bond I wear around my soul like chains.
His mouth claims mine with desperate intensity, and I respond like he's oxygen and I've been drowning. My hands fist in his hair, pulling him closer even though every rational thought screams this is wrong. I'm bonded to his father. I'm Luna. This is adultery punishable by death under pack law.
But my body doesn't care about pack law. My body recognizes home.
"We can't," I whisper against his mouth even as my hands pull him closer, contradicting every word. "This is—we can't—"
"Tell me to stop then, little wolf." His voice is rough, dangerous, his hands spanning my thighs and lifting me onto the library table. Books scatter, pages fluttering. "Tell me you don't want this. Tell me you don't want me."
I open my mouth to say exactly that. To be the good Luna, the grateful mate, the woman who chose safety over desire.
But I can't.
The words die on my tongue because they'd be lies, and I'm so tired of lying. To the pack. To Hector. To myself.
"I—" My breath catches as his hips press between my thighs, as I feel the hard length of him against my core through layers of fabric. "Xander—"
"Say it." His forehead presses against mine, his breathing ragged. "Say you don't want me, and I'll walk away. I'll never touch you again. Just say it."
"I can't," I whisper, and the admission breaks something inside both of us.
His mouth crashes against mine again, and this time there's no hesitation. His hands work my dress up around my waist with desperate efficiency. My fingers fumble with his belt, his pants, needing skin against skin with an urgency that terrifies me.
"Tell me if I hurt you," he growls against my throat. "Tell me if it's too much—"
"It's not enough." The words surprise us both. "I need—please, Xander—"
He tears my underwear—literally rips the fabric—and then he's there, the thick head of him pressing against my entrance. No careful preparation like Hector gives. No skilled foreplay designed to make me pliant and ready.
This is raw need. Barely controlled desperation.
He pushes inside in one brutal thrust, and I cry out—not from pain, though there is pain, but from the overwhelming rightness of it. Of him filling me, stretching me, claiming me in ways that have nothing to do with marks or ceremony.
"Fuck," he breathes against my neck, his whole body shaking with the effort of staying still. "Fuck, Daphne, you feel—"
"Move." My nails dig into his shoulders. "Please move."
He does.
It's nothing like Hector's skilled precision. Nothing like the practiced technique that brings me to climax with efficient mastery. This is rough, almost painful, full of years of denied want and suppressed hunger.
Xander fucks me like he's trying to erase his father's touch from my skin. Like he's trying to imprint himself so deep I'll never be free of him. His thrusts are hard, desperate, driven by jealousy and possession and something that feels dangerously like love.
And I meet him with equal ferocity.
My nails rake down his back, probably drawing blood. My teeth sink into his shoulder to muffle the sounds trying to escape my throat. My legs wrap around his waist, pulling him deeper, harder, more.
"Mine," he growls against my throat, his teeth scraping the spot where Hector's mark sits. "You're mine, Daphne. Always have been. Always will be."
His hand tangles in my hair, yanking my head back, exposing my throat. For one terrifying second I think he might bite—might try to mark over Hector's claim—but he just presses his mouth there instead. Kissing, sucking, leaving marks that won't be permanent but will tell everyone what we've done.
"I should have been your first," he whispers, his voice breaking with emotion. "Your only. Should have protected you better. Should have claimed you before anyone else could."
The words combined with the brutal rhythm of his hips send me spiraling. Heat coils tight in my core, building higher and faster than it ever has with Hector. This isn't technique—this is recognition. Connection. Something primal that has nothing to do with skill and everything to do with rightness.
"Xander—" His name tears from my throat as a gasp, a prayer, a plea. "I'm going to—"
"Come for me." His hand slides between our bodies, finding where we're joined, and the touch sends electricity through every nerve. "Come on my cock, little wolf. Show me who you really belong to."
The climax hits like lightning—sudden, violent, all-consuming. My body clenches around him, my back arching off the table, and I have to bite down hard on his shoulder to keep from screaming.
And that's when something inside my chest cracks.
Not breaking—opening. Like a door I didn't know existed suddenly swinging wide. That stirring I've felt for weeks explodes into full awareness, and suddenly I can sense him.
Not just physically, but emotionally. His rage at his father. His desperate love for me. His agonizing certainty that this changes nothing, that pack law will keep us apart no matter what we feel.
The bond. The true mate bond.
It slams into place between us with the force of destiny itself, and I gasp against his shoulder, overwhelmed by the flood of his emotions mixing with mine.
Xander feels it too. His rhythm stutters, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise. "Daphne—fuck—the bond—"
He comes with a growl that's more wolf than man, burying himself deep, and I feel his climax through the bond like it's my own. Feel his triumph and despair and overwhelming rightness all tangled together.
For a moment, we just cling to each other. Both shaking. Both trying to process what just happened. What we just did.
Reality hits like cold water.
I’m still wearing Hector’s mark. Still his Luna. Yet Xander’s bond burns new and right—pulling me in two.
“What have we done?” I push him back, shaking. I fumble with my torn dress, trying to cover myself, trying to think.
“What should’ve happened years ago.” He buttons his pants, voice rough but steady. “You feel it, don’t you? Our bond.”
I do. It roars against Hector’s, a war in my chest.
“It doesn’t matter,” I whisper. “Pack law says I’m his. They execute wolves for this—especially with the Alpha’s son.”
“Fuck pack law.” He grips my shoulders, eyes fierce. “You’re mine. My father knows it—that’s why he drugged you into heat and forced the bond.”
Ice slides through me. “What?”
“Your heat hit too fast. Natural heat builds over days. Yours was immediate—like someone injected an inducer.”
The world tilts. “The tea,” I breathe. “He made me a ‘Luna blessing’ that morning.” Sweet-bitter. Sudden warmth. The spiral.
“He drugged you,” Xander says. “I can’t prove it—and accusing an Alpha without proof is suicide—but I’ve been looking.”
I want to deny it. I can’t. The pattern is too clear, the manipulation undeniable now that I see it.
Before I can process further—before I can decide what any of this means—footsteps sound in the hallway outside.
We separate quickly, but we're both still disheveled. My dress torn and askew. His shirt untucked, hair mussed. The scent of sex and newly-formed bonds thick in the air.
The library door swings open.
Connor stands in the doorway, and his face lights up with vicious, delighted glee as he takes in the scene. Me trying to cover my torn dress. Xander standing too close. The scattered books. The obvious evidence of what just happened.
"Well, well." Connor's smile is cruel and satisfied. "The Luna and my brother. How very disappointing for Father."