Theo Raeken

"You think I didn’t see the way you were looking at him?" Theo growls, his hands gripping your thighs hard enough to leave bruises as he slams into you, the bed creaking violently under the force. His voice is low, dangerous, dripping with venom and something else—something raw, possessive, hungry. "You think I’d just let that slide?"

The words are snarled against your ear, his breath hot and ragged, but you don’t answer. You can’t answer, not when he’s driving into you like this, every thrust a punishment and a promise, every movement designed to remind you who you belong to. His teeth scrape along your neck, sharp and threatening, just shy of breaking skin. But you know it’s coming. He always marks you.

---

It had been days of this—days of tension simmering between you two, bubbling over every time you crossed paths. Ever since Theo had come back into your life, unapologetic and unrepentant, the air around the two of you had been charged with something electric, something volatile. It didn’t matter that you hated him for what he’d done to Scott, to the pack, to you. It didn’t matter that you’d sworn never to forgive him. The past was still there, tangled up in the present, and neither of you could let it go.

And then came the misunderstanding.

It wasn’t even real. Just a glance, a laugh, a moment too long lingering on someone else—someone who wasn’t Theo. But it was enough to set him off. Jealousy had always brought out the worst in him, and now, with his chimera instincts raging just beneath the surface, it was worse than ever. He’d cornered you, pressed you against the wall, his eyes glowing gold like a predator’s, and the fight had started. Words first, then hands, then—

Well, here you were.

---

"Fuck," Theo curses, his hips snapping forward with brutal precision, forcing a gasp from your lips. His hands move to grip your wrists, pinning them above your head in one fluid motion. "You’re mine. Mine. Not his, not anyone else’s. Do you get that?"

He doesn’t wait for an answer—not that you could give one. Instead, he leans down, his mouth crashing against yours in a kiss that’s more teeth than tongue, more possession than affection. It’s rough, almost painful, but you can’t help but respond, your body arching into his despite the anger still burning in your chest. Because that’s the thing about Theo—even when you hate him, you want him. Even when you want to push him away, you pull him closer.

His hands release your wrists, sliding down your body with purpose, and you shiver as they find their way to your hips. He grips you tightly, pulling you closer, deeper, until you’re gasping for air, until every thought in your head is reduced to static. His lips trail down your jaw, your neck, leaving a path of fire in their wake, and you can feel the moment his teeth sink into your skin, claiming you all over again.

"Tell me," he demands, his voice rough and ragged. "Tell me you’re mine."

But you don’t. You won’t. Because some part of you still needs to resist him, still needs to hold onto the anger, the hurt. Because if you give in completely, if you let yourself admit the truth, you might never be able to walk away again. And that terrifies you.

Theo seems to sense it, because he lets out a dark chuckle, his grip tightening on your hips as he speeds up, burying himself deeper with every thrust. "Stubborn," he mutters, his voice a low growl. "Always so fucking stubborn."

His free hand moves to your hair, tangling in it and tugging sharply, forcing your head back so he can look into your eyes. There’s something feral in his gaze, something wild and untamed, and it sends a thrill through you despite yourself. "You can pretend all you want," he says, his voice low and dangerous. "But we both know the truth. You’ve always been mine."

And maybe he’s right. Maybe you have been. Because even now, even after everything, your body responds to him like it’s second nature, like it’s been waiting for this, for him. Your legs tighten around his waist, urging him on, and he grins, the expression predatory and pleased.

"That’s it," he murmurs, his voice dropping to a whisper as he leans in close, his lips brushing against your ear. "Let go. Stop fighting it. Stop fighting me."

And maybe you do. Maybe, just this once, you stop fighting. Because the way he feels inside you, the way he moves, the way he looks at you—it’s too much. It’s always been too much. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, nails leaving half-moon indents in his skin, and he groans, the sound deep and guttural, vibrating through your entire body.

"Good," he breathes, his pace slowing slightly, teasingly, as if he’s savoring the moment. "That’s my girl."