PRIMAL CHAPTER V: THE ALPHA
⚠️CONTENT WARNING: EXPLICIT ADULT MATERIAL⚠️
This chapter contains graphic depictions of violence, blood, rough sexual content including dominance/submission dynamics, and explicit sexual acts between consenting adult male werewolves in hybrid form. Reader discretion is strongly advised.
The narrow yard behind the warehouse still carried the stench of the docks. Not their own blood—that belonged to the corpses they’d dumped into the water—but it had dried on their coats, thickened, crusted. Viktor leaned against a discarded window frame, feeling the itchy healing of wounds on his chest. They hadn’t closed completely. Too many on the docks. Too many claws. Too many bites.
Matt crouched in the corner. Palms on the filthy floor, back arched, watching the door from over his shoulder. His ears perked, nose turned toward the window, mouth open, tongue resting between sharp fangs.
“Not... human,” he growled brokenly, his voice rumbling deeper than anything human. His vocal cords had shifted, resonating in his chest.
Viktor nodded. He felt it too. A strange pressure seeped into the air, like before a storm, only this wasn’t natural. It was alien. Dominant. Ancient.
The smell of earth. Dry tree bark. Old blood that couldn’t be washed out.
“Coming,” Matt howled, already moving backward, cornered, claws shooting out, hackles raised at his nape.
But he was already standing in the window.
He didn’t climb in. He simply... appeared. The shadow condensed into body.
Older. Massive. Not the skinny, novice bodies of the victims at the docks. This creature was covered in gray-black fur, but the pelt was worn thin in patches, scar lines slashing across. One ear bore the ragged edge of an old bite. His eyes—those were the worst. Yellow. Not animal, not human either. Like frozen fire that had been extinguished, but the heat still burned inside, dead and dangerous.
His movements were economical. One step inside, and the air trembled under his weight. Viktor felt it in his lungs: submission. Instinctive, deep-rooted fear. The Alpha.
He stood. Sniffed. Wrinkled his nose upward, searching for remnants of the docks, then fixed those two yellow points on the two young wolves.
“You two,” he spoke.
The voice wasn’t human. Deep bass, issued from the full chest, echoing in their bones. Viktor’s spine tightened. Matt growled quietly, a throaty snarl, backing away, but didn’t attack. Not yet.
“At the docks,” the Alpha continued, slowly, articulating every consonant. “Who gave you permission to go public?”
Viktor swallowed. Tried to gather his thoughts. The docks... had been illegal. Secret. But loud. The massacre must have been heard.
“We didn’t... get,” he answered hoarsely. His mouth formed the words, fangs grinding between them.
The Alpha tilted his head. His gaze drifted to Matt, who stepped back again, pressing his back to the wall. His claws opened and closed.
“Younglings,” the Alpha rumbled. Not a compliment. “Strong. But stupid.”
Matt started growling. Angrier. Louder. He rose on his hind legs, shoulder hunched, dropping into attack stance. Viktor still pressed himself to the wall.
“Matt,” Viktor warned hoarsely.
Too late.
Matt leaped. Covering the distance in milliseconds, claws extended, mouth open to tear the Alpha’s throat.
The Alpha didn’t retreat. He sidestepped—so fast no eye could follow—and one paw, more steel casting than flesh, clamped onto Matt’s neck. Pinned him to the ground. Single motion.
Matt’s limbs hammered the floor, claws raking concrete, but his head lay immobile. The Alpha didn’t look at him. He’d already turned to Viktor.
Viktor moved, instinctively, thinking of the Pact, the bond, knowing together they were strong, but the Alpha was already there. A fist—paw—drove into Viktor’s chest and slammed him into the wall. He fell on his back, breathless, stars in his eyes.
The fight ended in seconds.
Viktor coughed. Blood taste in his mouth. From the wall’s dust. Matt still lay on the ground, now motionless, only his shoulder rising and falling rapidly. The Alpha stood between them, one foot three centimeters from Matt’s head, as if waiting to stomp.
