by Alanna Lynd
His Alpha's Bite
By Alanna Lynd
Copyright Alanna Lynd 2016
All Rights Reserved
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Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
A special sneak preview of Disciplining His Elf Lord
More M/M Romance by Alanna Lynd
Chapter 1
Alard had risen early that morning. His small rooms above the town's bakery did not offer much comfort, but he had never felt a need for more than a bed, a roof and a stove for the winter.
He shaved, slowly and carefully, drawing the sharp blade over his skin until his gaze fell onto a bruised patch of skin at his throat in the mirror. His breath hitched; he nearly cut himself.
Suddenly, he was shockingly hard. For a long moment, he sat at his table in the light of the rising sun, pressing fingers to the bruise and denying his body's craving for his hand on his aching prick.
Two days ago, Jerôme Louvel, the chief of police of the town of Soissons, respected citizen and secret werewolf, had bitten him and claimed him once more, as he had tried to claim him so many years ago. Back then, Alard had taken great pride in his duty of guarding incarcerated werewolves like Louvel.
Now, so many years later, Alard found himself assigned to the small town of Soissons, working beneath Louvel. The man had taken the false name of Saverelle. As chief of police, Saverelle was respected by every person in the town for the peace and prosperity he had brought to the area. Beggars, priests and even the mayor rejoiced, for he put an end to the brigands that made the roads unsafe for travel.
No more robberies or murders, and—most importantly—no rogue werewolves to spread terror. Saverelle had taken out a feared werewolf all on his own, or so the story went: the infamous, cruel beast of Soissons. The king himself had rewarded him for that heroic feat with 200 francs.
Alard was the only one who knew that this beloved hero of the town was Jerôme Louvel, who had spent ten long years in the cold werewolf cells of Brest.
Now Alard's breath escaped in a soft moan as he pressed his fingers down harder. The ache of the bruise made his cock swell as he thought of Louvel's teeth on his skin and the man's thick cock inside him.
For so long Alard had run from his desires, denied his heritage, had seen the werewolf blood as a curse from which he had to protect society. And in the end, all it had taken was for this insufferable alpha to look at him, to wrestle him into submission.
Was it not shameful how easily Alard had offered up his surrender to Louvel?
Alard clenched his teeth. The bite with which Louvel had marked him ached with a dull throb in time to the beating of his heart. His prick was painfully swollen, the foreskin retracted, gleaming with slick fluid that dripped from the slit at the tip.
Determined, Alard stood and went to wash. It was cold in his room; the water he poured into the wash basin was nearly freezing. He dipped a cloth into it and then ran that over his aching prick and tight balls. The coldness came as a shock, but he gritted his teeth and dunked the washcloth into the freezing water again, keeping at it until his erection had mostly abated.
Two days since Louvel had claimed him. No—two days since his alpha had claimed him.
Alard shuddered, feeling feverish with desire at the mere memory of the man's large cock spreading him open, filling him, making him ache.
And now Alard had to step before him once more, with this cursed heat running through his blood at the mere thought of him. Perhaps Alard had been right to dread this for so long. Had he not spent all of his life looking down on people who fawned at the feet of their alpha and pined away for a kind touch?
I am not a beast, he thought and clenched his jaw.
Then he remembered how easily he had come undone at Louvel's touch, how he would have begged for his cock if that was what it would have taken. A sound of frustration escaped from between Alard's teeth.
No, he was no use right now. He could not think. Perhaps he should march into his alpha's office and bend over his desk and demand to be fucked until this cursed desire left his body. Or perhaps he could simply concentrate on the work that was to be done: the duty he had devoted his life to.
Alard swallowed, the collar he wore tight around his throat. He raised a hand to touch it. Once it had been a reminder of the fact that he was no animal even though he was cursed with the werewolf blood. Once it had served as a reminder of his duty: to protect mankind from the danger of the werewolf curse.
Now, it was a symbol of his surrender.
Perhaps he should feel shame at how easily he had given in in the end—but despite the shame that still lingered, the memory of how he had bowed his head and allowed Louvel to fasten the collar around his throat sent a rush of arousal through his veins.
Distraction. That was what Alard needed. Distraction and his duty.
He prayed that there would be some investigation waiting for him in the station-house: a thief to catch, a quarrel to note down, even the sighting of a werewolf to follow up. Anything would be better than this new, strange torment. Skin that hadn't known a tender touch his entire life certainly couldn't come to crave it so late.
What he needed was to be worked hard, from dawn to dusk, and then these doubts and desires would vanish and no longer torment him.
When Alard arrived at the station-house, with the sun barely risen, he saw to his chagrin that he was not the first to arrive so early. There was a light in the office of the chief of police. The door had been left open—an invitation?
Frustrated, Alard turned away from it to sit down at his desk in a corner to see if any reports had come in.
There was a folded note resting on his desk, creamy paper that shone in the pale sunlight that fell in through the window. His mouth was dry as he took hold of it. There was only one person who would leave such a note on his desk...
Come see me, Alard, it read, the message short and simple. Even so, it set his heart to racing.
Nervously, his hand rose for a moment to touch the collar at his throat, well-hidden beneath his shirt and cravat. But the gesture that had once calmed him by reminding him of his duty now caused the opposite effect. It was Louvel who had put that collar on him. Louvel who had claimed him.
And here Alard stood, skittish as a wild horse despite his age and experience. He had submitted to his alpha. He had bared his throat and given himself over to Louvel. What was there left to fear now?
Alard feared the disruption of his routine. The loss of his self. He feared the fact that after so many years, a door had been opened and he had been pushed through. Now he stood on unknown ground with no roads and no compass to show him the way.
All of his life he had thought of werewolves as the monsters of his childhood, the criminal pack his parents had run with, which had terrorized an entire department.
Very well; Louvel was no beast like those of his nightmares. But what was Louvel then? And, more importantly, what was Alard? The alpha's lieutenant, a dutiful beta to do Louvel's bidding?
Yes, a voice inside him whispered, and he closed his fingers in torment around the note.
Duty. Duty he understood. But was it truly so easy to exchange one master for another?
No, that was not the true problem, for it had been easy, and it still was easy.
It was too easy to submit to him. That was the problem.
Everything within Alard yearned to surrender to his alpha once more, and that was the most frightening part of it all. All his life, he'd been solitary, dutiful and loyal, but ultimately on his own. He'd had no friends, no lovers, no family after he had parted from his paren
ts as a child. And now all those experiences that had formed him had been brushed aside by Louvel's touch.
What of Alard's doubts? What of his fears? It should not be so easy to surrender!
But you want to surrender, he thought as he slowly walked towards the chief's office, his heart beating faster with every step that brought him closer to the man's presence.
He knocked. When he was bid inside, he entered.
Louvel was seated behind his large desk of heavy mahogany. Despite the early hour, he had been busy; letters were spread over the desk, and there was an open ledger by his side.
There were no chairs, and Louvel did not look up as he copied numbers into the ledger. Alard stood at attention before his desk. He waited with outward calmness while his pulse throbbed against the collar at his throat, his gaze resting on the soft locks that he had felt against his cheek only two days past.
"Alard," Louvel said at last, acknowledging his presence with a nod.
Alard felt his voice wash over him. The soft, dark timbre carried with it the memories of what he'd allowed to happen, and heat rushed to his face.
Alard fought it back down. Behind his back, he clenched his hands, fighting for composure.
All his life he had sneered at the werewolves he had hunted, had thought them weak to give in to their animal nature. Should he truly now experience that in the end, he was just as weak? Was he truly driven by nothing but his own base nature? He might have surrendered to the man—but that changed nothing. In the end, he was still Alard, and he had a duty, and that duty was to the well-being of this town.
"Monsieur," he said, his mouth dry. "You asked to see me?"
Louvel's mouth twitched a little, and he put down the pen. "Indeed, I did. I had not thought it would take an order to see you again."
Alard frowned, suddenly out of his depth. It was true, he knew nothing about pack life. Nothing but what had passed for it in the criminal pack his parents had run with—but those years were long gone, distant memories he had buried years ago. And Louvel was nothing like the beast of Gévaudan.
"I was kept busy by a robbery at the docks, monsieur," he said carefully, trying to keep the bafflement out of his voice. "We tracked the thief all evening; we found him hiding in a cave near the forest at last and returned him to jail. I wrote up a full report and left it for you last night. I—"
"Yes, Alard. Yes, you did, and I thank you, as always, for your impeccable work." Now a small smile began to illuminate Louvel's face.
It hit Alard like a punch in the gut. Louvel's face, the face of the man that had pursued him in his dreams, the man he had sought to hate—and yet had surrendered to in the end. Now he looked at it, his eyes following the lines around Louvel's generous mouth, and he wanted to trace them with his fingers. He saw the strands of hair at his temples that were slowly starting to gray, and he wanted to press his mouth to them.
Alard took a deep breath.
"Then you have not asked to see me about that case, Monsieur?" he asked.
Louvel's smile widened. "Can you think of no other reason why I might want to see you?"
Alard's gaze returned to the sturdy desk. How easy it would be to wipe away the letters covering it. Louvel could simply order him to step forward, and Alard would follow. Louvel's hands might then pull down his trousers, that heavy, inhumanly strong hand bending him over the desk, holding him in place, Louvel's knees spreading his legs while Alard would have no choice but to wait, wait for the inevitable...
His prick jerked in his trousers, aching against the tightly stretched cloth. His tongue moistened his lips. Slowly, he stepped forward.
Louvel did not move. The man was still watching him, his eyes dark. Suddenly, Alard wished he would just demand, order him to his knees. It would be humiliating—but it would also make it easier.
After all, he'd already submitted to his alpha. They both knew that Alard would go eagerly to his knees if it was asked of him. So why draw it out like this? It only made it more shameful to know that every step he took was of his own volition, that the want and humiliation that churned in his stomach was all his own.
And he did not think Louvel wanted to see him humiliated. Louvel could have had that a hundred times. He could have had his revenge for the long years during which he'd been imprisoned, guarded and hunted by men like Alard.
Instead, he'd never treated Alard with anything but respect once Alard had surrendered. And it had been good to surrender. So why did he still feel such shame and hesitancy?
Alard swallowed thickly as he went to his knees before Louvel. His eyes were drawn to Louvel's groin; he was relieved to see the shadows formed by folds of expensive cloth stretching and shifting to accommodate a sizable erection.
No, he was not the only one so affected. Louvel wanted this as much as he did.
Alard did not speak; neither did Louvel. Slowly, Alard leaned forward, awaiting a command, a touch—certainly, any moment there would be the heavy weight of a hand on his head, and he'd know, once and for all...
But there was no touch.
Alard was so close that his lips nearly brushed Louvel's trousers. He swallowed convulsively, his eyes following the immense shape that stretched firm and thick beneath the fabric. He thought he could smell Louvel's arousal—the alpha's scent was thick and heavy in the air, a lust that incited his own senses until he felt dizzy with wanting, his mouth aching for the weight and the stretch of the large cock on his tongue.
He remembered Louvel's taste. He remembered the texture of Louvel's hard flesh, the sponginess of the head, the slickness of the fluid that seeped from it. His own cock jerked as he imagined how he'd smooth back the foreskin to slide his tongue around the crown, slowly and leisurely, as devoted to licking up every single drop as he was to his duty...
Almost, a moan had escaped his throat at the thought. He bit it back just in time.
Still Louvel had not spoken or given him the smallest sign of what was expected of him. Shame and hunger seethed within Alard. Would Louvel make him beg for it again?
He'd begged before, once. He had no doubt he'd beg again. But here, in the office of the man whom he had served for so long, he felt sudden distaste well up in him at lowering himself in such a way. He was more than just his alpha's claimed beta. He was more than just the starved, shameless creature who had writhed on the man's cock not long ago.
He'd serve, yes. He'd do it gladly. He willingly wore his alpha's collar. But this was not Louvel's bedroom. This was the station-house, and the office of the chief of police, and certainly this room deserved respect, just as Louvel deserved respect.
Just as Alard still deserved respect, perhaps.
If Louvel wanted to be served in his office, he could damn well ask for it. Alard would serve, gladly even, and they both knew it. But Alard would be damned before he would throw himself at the man like an omega in heat.
Daring, he closed what distance remained, pressing a worshipful kiss to the fabric that clothed the large erection. He closed his eyes and breathed in again. His own cock was on fire, so hard that he thought it would not even take a touch but just a single word from Louvel to make him soak his trousers with his release.
But Louvel did not speak, and so Alard moved back again, forcing himself to stand despite the way his knees trembled.
When he raised his eyes to Louvel's face at last, he saw that his face was flushed. Louvel's eyes were dark with desire—but there was still a small, knowing smile on his lips, and suddenly Alard was furious once more.
Would the man never cease to torment him?
“Very well,” Louvel murmured, watching him attentively. “There is a lot of work to be done. You will follow up on that robbery today, I suppose?”
Fractious and annoyed—more at himself than at Louvel, although he hated to admit it even to himself—Alard managed a sharp nod.
“Then you are dismissed,” Louvel said, his eyes lingering pointedly at Alard's groin.
Alard could not quite f
orce back the sound that escaped together with his breath. It brought a new flush of shame to his face, but determinedly, he inclined his head. When he left Louvel's office, he tried his best to pretend that he did not feel the chafe of his swollen cock against his trousers with every step he took.
Chapter 2
Alard was later than usual as he made his way through the streets of the small town of Soissons. It was still early. The sun had risen not long ago, and farmers were still making their way to the small market where the first women were already haggling over the freshest eggs and vegetables.
Alard skirted the market square with its stalls. The market meant pick-pockets; a concern, but ultimately of less importance than crimes that took place in the dark, small alleys in the parts of the town where walls crumbled and shady figures gathered out of the eyes of the police.
That was, in fact, where Alard was headed today. The robbery had called to mind a man who had left the town a year ago, who had made it his trade to fence the stolen goods thieves and cut-throats sought to turn into coin.
Alard had cursed the man's escape then. It had been close, and the arrest would have pleased the superiors he had been anxious to please then. Back then, every arrest had been a badge he wore with pride to show off that he, who hated his heritage and the curse of the wolf that ran in his blood, was better than the breed of terror from which he had risen.
But now that he had surrendered himself to his superior who was a werewolf as well—would it give him the same sense of pride to close a case or make an arrest?
Alard frowned when he imagined stepping before Louvel again with the news that he had arrested that old brigand, the fence who had escaped them before.
Heat swelled in his chest—but it was not simply the usual pleasure of work well done and duty fulfilled. Unbidden, the thought of Louvel's cock rose before his eyes, thick and hard. He imagined Louvel stroking himself with one hand, the other hooked into Alard's collar as he was commanded to open his mouth to accept his reward...