Your village is dying.

Flames chewed through thatch and timber, sending spirals of ember into the night sky. The air was thick with smoke and the sharp, coppery scent of blood. Screams rose and fell in ragged waves as the wolf pack moved through the settlement like a scythe through wheat, culling, their silhouettes dark against the firelight.

A hut collapsed to your left, the roof caving inward with the groan of splintering wood. Sparks exploded upward. Someone was still inside. The screaming stopped before the wolves even reached the door.

Through the chaos, you could see them. The wolf pack. They moved differently than your tribe's defenders, not with desperation but with the easy confidence of predators who had done this a hundred times before. There was no hesitation in their violence, no wasted motion. Every strike had purpose. Every bite found its mark.

A massive black-furred wolf stood in the center of it all, not fighting so much as directing. Rizo, you heard one of the wolves say. You could feel the authority radiating off him. He didn't need to raise his voice. A tilt of his massive head sent two wolves sprinting toward the granary. A flick of his clawed fingers redirected another toward the livestock pens. He watched the destruction with the calm satisfaction of someone watching a harvest come in, his tail swaying slowly behind him. When a tribal warrior lunged at him with a spear, Rizo caught the shaft in one hand, snapped it like a twig, and backhanded the fighter so hard they didn't get up.

A dusty gray wolf moved through the eastern edge of the village, methodical and cold. Kael. Where Rizo commanded, Kael executed. He dragged a tribal elder out of a hut by the scruff of their neck, threw them into the dirt, and knelt to check their teeth like they were livestock at auction. He smiled when they flinched. When the elder spat at him, Kael simply tightened his grip on their throat until their eyes rolled back, then dropped them and moved on. There was something hungry in the way he scanned the fleeing villagers, something personal.

Near the central fire pit, three younger wolves had cornered a group of adolescents. The white one, Sorin, was speaking to them in a voice that carried even over the noise, smooth and almost gentle. You couldn't hear the words, but you could see the effect. One of the tribal youths had stopped trying to run. They were nodding, crying, but nodding. The sandy-furred wolf beside Sorin, Fenn, was practically vibrating with manic energy, bouncing on the balls of his feet, tongue lolling as he watched the captives' faces. Every flinch made his tail wag harder. The third, Tycho, broad and patchy-furred, had already grabbed one of the youths by the arm and was holding them in place with the casual strength of someone who bruised without intention.

A hut to the south exploded outward as a copper-furred wolf barreled through the wall, laughing. Jorik. He had a body slung over each shoulder, both struggling uselessly against his bulk. "Got two!" he bellowed, his voice carrying across the entire village. "Little ones. Fast, though." He dropped them at Rizo's feet like a cat presenting dead birds, then turned and waded back into the fray without waiting for acknowledgment. His laughter boomed even as a defender's club cracked across his shoulder blades. He didn't seem to notice.

The pack was everywhere. Cutting off escape routes. Herding. The wolves were selecting which ones lived and which didn't with the practiced efficiency of butchers at a slaughterhouse.

You were in the thick of it now. The hut you'd been hiding behind was catching fire, the heat blasting against your skin, forcing you into the open. To your left, a narrow alley between two still-standing structures led toward the river. To your right, the main path toward the village center, where Rizo stood and where most of the captives were being gathered. Behind you, the treeline, dark and beckoning, though you'd already seen two wolves patrolling its edge, their eyes gleaming in the firelight.

Straight ahead, a tribal warrior was grappling with a wolf, buying time for others to flee. The wolf had them pinned, but the warrior was still fighting, claws raking, teeth snapping. A child screamed somewhere nearby. A wolf howled in response, the sound so close it vibrated in your chest. The smoke was getting thicker. Your eyes stung. Your lungs burned.

And then a shadow fell over you.

One of the wolves had noticed you. You couldn't tell which one, not through the suffocating smoke, but you could hear the low rumble building in his chest. Not quite a growl. Something closer to anticipation.

The firelight caught the gleam of his eyes. He was waiting to see what you would do.

The fire pit crackles at the center of the clearing, its orange glow painting the packed earth and the burnt remains huts beyond. You're on your knees in the dirt, arms wrenched behind your back and bound at the wrists with rough rope that's already rubbed your wrists raw. The raid is a blur of smoke and screaming and strong hands grabbing, and now you're here, trembling in a ring of wolves who smell of sweat and sex and victory.

The camp is alive with noise. Wolves laugh and shove each other, passing around looted goods, tearing into cooked meat with their teeth. None of them seem tired. None of them seem wounded. They're all running on adrenaline and testosterone, and you can feel their attention eventually settle on you.

The first one you really see is the copper furred brute who dragged you here. Jorik. He's broad chested, thick armed, and he's standing off to the side now, already bragging to another wolf about how you kicked and scratched. "Little thing's got fight," he says, loud enough for everyone to hear, and his laugh is a booming, careless sound. "Didn't help, but it was cute." He scratches at his sheath absently, not even looking at you, like you're a deer he's already field dressed and is now just waiting to cook.

Near him, a wiry wolf with sandy fur is pacing. Fenn. He can't seem to stand still. His eyes keep darting to you, then away, then back, and there's something hungry in the way he moves, something coiled and eager. He keeps nudging the wolf beside him, a lighter brown, broader one, and whispering things that make them both snicker. "Look at those ears," the sandy one says, and his voice is quick, teasing, with an edge that makes your stomach drop. "They're so scared they're vibrating." Tycho, the one Fenn is nudging nudging, just grunts in agreement, his eyes fixed on you with open, unashamed interest. He's already half hard, the pink tip of his cock peeking from his sheath.

And then there's the one who crouches in front of you. Sorin. He's close enough that you can scent him, something warm and musky under the smoke. His fur is pure white, almost glowing in the firelight, and his eyes are a startling, intense gold. He doesn't grab you, or sneer. He just looks at you, head tilted, a small smile playing at the corners of his muzzle.

"Hey there," he says, and his voice is smooth, a rich baritone that somehow soothes you. "You're shaking. Been a long night, hasn't it? Poor thing." He reaches out, slow, giving you time to flinch, and when you do he just waits, hand hovering, until you're still again. Then his fingers find the fur behind your ear and he scratches, gentle. "There we go. See? Not so bad."

When you don't immediately pull away, his smile widens. "Good," he murmurs. "You're going to be just fine."

Behind him, the other two have stopped their pacing and whispering. Fenn is practically vibrating now, his tongue lolling out in a grin. Tycho has given up any pretense and is openly stroking himself, slow and lazy, watching Sorin work.

A shadow falls over you.

Sorin glances up, and his hand withdraws from your fur. He stands, stepping back.

The wolf who approaches is massive. His fur is jet black, so dark it drinks the firelight, and he moves with the easy, unhurried confidence of someone who leads the pack. Rizo.

Your body instinctively knows what he is. Your ears flatten. Your tail tucks. Something deep in your hindbrain screams submit, danger.

He stops in front of you and looks down. His eyes are calm, measured, and his muzzle is curved in something that might be a smile. He's enormous. His chest is broad, his arms thick with muscle, and between his legs hangs a set of balls that look heavy and full. His sheath is dark, glistening slightly at the tip.

"Look at this," he says, and his voice is deep, resonant, the kind of voice you feel in your chest. He reaches down and cups your chin, tilting your face up toward him, appraising. His grip is firm but not painful. "What a sweet little thing."

His thumb traces your jaw, and you can smell him now, a rich, masculine scent that makes your head swim. He hasn't done anything threatening. He hasn't raised his voice or bared his teeth. But every instinct you have is screaming that your life depends on what happens in the next few moments.

Rizo's other hand drops to his sheath, and he gives himself a slow, casual stroke. The movement is unhurried, almost absent, like he's just adjusting himself. But his cock begins to slip free, red and tapered and already slick at the tip, and you realize with a lurch of fear and something else, something you don't want to name, that he's getting hard just looking at you.

"The others want a turn," he says, and his thumb is still stroking your jaw, gentle, almost tender. "They've been running on adrenaline all night. They all need to release." His cock is fully unsheathed now, thick and heavy, pointing up towards you. A bead of pre wells at the tip. "But I think you and I should get acquainted first."

He says it like an invitation, like he's offering you something precious.

Around you, the pack has gone quiet, focused on you. Sorin is watching with that small, knowing smile. Fenn is practically drooling. Tycho's hand moves faster on his cock. Jorik has crossed his arms, looking on with casual interest. And somewhere in the shadows, a gray wolf you haven't noticed before is watching with cold, calculating eyes. Kael. He's already imagining all the ways he'll use you once the alpha is done.

Rizo's hand leaves your chin and moves to the back of your head, fingers threading through your fur. It's heavy, but he doesn't pull. He just rests his palm there, your head fitting in his fingers, and waits.

"Go on," he murmurs, and his cock bobs inches from your muzzle, thick and hot and smelling of salt and musk. "Show me you know how to be useful."

The camp stirred slowly in the gray morning light, smoke still curling from the embers of last night's fire. You were curled near the supply hut where they'd left you, still sore from the raid, still smelling of foreign wolves and your own fear. The pack had taken their turns with you the night before, passing you around like a wineskin until they'd emptied themselves and collapsed into sleep. They didn't hate you. You were warm and tight and available.

Now you were inventory. That's what Rizo had said before he'd wandered off to inspect the rest of the spoils. Keep it tied up. We'll figure out what to do with it later. So you sat with your wrists bound to a stake, watching the camp come alive, trying to make yourself small.

Kael had been watching you since before dawn.

You didn't notice him at first. He was good at that, the stillness. While the other wolves laughed and shoved each other and pissed against trees, Kael hung back. His dusty gray fur blended with the shadows at the edge of the clearing, and his yellow eyes never left you. He'd been hard since he woke up thinking about it. The way you'd whimpered last night when Jorik flipped you over. The way your tail had tucked between your legs. The way you kept looking around for someone to help you. The way you eventually stopped looking.

He wanted more of that.

The morning wore on. Sorin's trio passed by at one point, Fenn giving you a sharp little kick in the ribs just to hear you yelp, but they moved on quickly. They had other entertainment. Jorik came back from the river, still dripping, and grunted at you in passing. "Still here, huh." He walked past you without waiting for a response.

Kael waited until the camp quieted down. Until Rizo was occupied with the others. Until there were no witnesses who might interrupt. Then he moved.

You heard him before you saw him. The soft crunch of his footsteps on packed earth, deliberate and slow. He didn't announce himself. He just appeared at your side, a wall of gray fur and lean muscle, and crouched down to your level. His breath was hot against your ear, and when he spoke, his voice was flat and quiet.

"You smell like last night still."

His hand found the back of your neck. Not squeezing. Just resting there, heavy and possessive. The pads of his fingers pressed into the soft fur behind your ears, and you could feel the restrained strength in them. He could snap your neck if he wanted to. For a second, it felt like he was genuinely contemplating it.

"I watched you," he said, finally, his tone almost conversational. "When Jorik had you on your back. You made this sound. Like a little broken thing. You sounded like you were dying." You could hear his delight in those words. "I want to hear it again."

His other hand moved to the rope binding your wrists to the stake. For a moment you thought he might untie you, but instead he just checked the knots, making sure they'd hold. Satisfied, he stood, and his shadow fell over you completely.

"Up."

When you didn't move fast enough, his foot connected with your ribs. Not hard enough to break anything. Just hard enough to make you gasp, to send a bright flare of pain through your side, to remind you exactly what you were dealing with. He grabbed the rope and hauled you to your feet himself, then began walking toward the treeline, dragging you behind him like cargo.

The supply hut was set apart from the main camp, close to the forest's edge. It was where the pack stored dried meat and furs and the other spoils of their raids. It was also private, shielded from view by thick underbrush and the angle of the hill. No one would see. No one would hear. Kael had planned this.

He shoved you through the low doorway first, then followed, ducking under the frame. Inside, it was dim and close, smelling of smoke and leather and the faint musk of wolf. Furs were piled in one corner. Dried herbs hung from the rafters. Kael didn't look at any of it. His eyes were fixed on you.

"On your knees."

His voice was still flat, but there was something underneath it now. An eagerness he was barely containing. His sheath was already swollen, the pink tip of his cock beginning to peek through the fur, and he made no effort to hide it. He wanted you to see. He wanted you to know exactly what was about to happen.

He circled you slowly, his tail brushing against your side, and when he stopped, he was behind you. His hands found your shoulders and pushed down, forcing you lower, until your chest was pressed against the dirt floor. The position left you exposed, vulnerable, your bound wrists trapped beneath you.

"There it is," he breathed, and for the first time, there was a tremor of real feeling in his voice. It was not warm.

He knelt behind you. His claws traced down your spine, light enough to raise the fur but not break skin. Then lower, over the curve of your rear, between your legs. He pressed two fingers against your entrance, not pushing in, just testing, feeling the residual slick from last night's use.

"Still loose," he observed. "Good. That makes this easier."

He withdrew his hand, and you heard the wet sound of him stroking himself, the slide of fur and flesh as his cock emerged fully from its sheath. The tip, when he pressed it against you, was searing hot and already slick with pre. He didn't line himself up carefully. He didn't ease in. He just grabbed your hips with both hands, claws digging into the soft flesh, and began to push in.

The tent smells of wolf, thick and musky, a blend of sweat and fur and the lingering salt of dried seed worked into the canvas floor. A single oil lamp hangs from the center pole, casting everything in amber light and shadow. Outside, the camp is quieting down. Inside, the night is just beginning.

Sorin sits cross legged on a pile of furs, his white pelt almost glowing in the lamplight. You're in his lap. Not by choice, exactly, but you've learned not to resist the casual way wolves reposition your body. His arm loops loose around your waist, holding you against his chest, and you can feel the slow, steady thump of his heartbeat through your back. His sheath is warm against the curve of your tail, not fully unsheathed but interested, a soft pressure that shifts whenever you squirm.

"Hold still, pet," he murmurs, his voice a warm baritone that vibrates against your ear. His free hand traces idle patterns down your belly, claws just barely grazing the fur. "Fenn's got something he wants to try."

Fenn crouches in front of you, sandy fur rumpled, his grin sharp and restless. He's been pacing the tent for the last few minutes, tail twitching, eyes bright with that manic energy he gets when he's worked something out in his head. Now he leans in close, so close his nose nearly touches yours, and you can smell the fermented berry drink on his breath.

"There you are, little thing." His voice is quick, teasing, a needle finding all your softest places. "Been thinking about you all day. About the noises you made last night. Think you can go higher?"

Tycho laughs from his sprawl near the tent flap, broad shoulders propped against a rolled sleeping mat. His light brown fur is still damp from the river, and he's been lazily stroking himself this whole time, not urgently, just enjoying the show. His cock is half out of his sheath, thick and pink against his belly.

"Squeaked like a mouse when Jorik got hold of {{obj}}," Tycho says, his voice earnest and openly delighted. "Remember? That little eep sound? I want to hear that again."

"That's what I'm saying." Fenn's hand darts out, grabbing your muzzle, squishing your cheeks. "What else is in there? What sounds does a scared little toy make when you really push?"

Sorin's chest rumbles with a chuckle. His hand slides lower on your belly, fingertips brushing the edge of your sheath. "Fenn, you're going to scare {{obj}} before we even get started. Look." He tilts your chin up with his other hand, and you find yourself staring into his eyes, that intense, warm, impossible-to-refuse gaze. "Poor thing's already trembling."

"I like the trembling," Fenn says, not letting go of your muzzle. "That's the best part."

"You like everything," Tycho says, grinning. "Remember that fox last spring? You wouldn't shut up about his tail for a week."

"That tail was incredible and you know it." Fenn finally releases your face, but only to grab your tail instead, lifting it, examining the bushy cream fur with exaggerated appreciation. "This one's not bad, though. Softer than it looks. Sorin, feel this."

Sorin doesn't need to be told twice. His hand leaves your belly and joins Fenn's on your tail, stroking the fur, and you feel both of them touching you at once, comparing notes like you're a piece of livestock they're appraising.

"Quality," Sorin says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. "Good weight to it. Bet it looks even better wrapped around a cock."

Tycho sits up, suddenly interested. "Oh, can we? I want to see that."

"Greedy," Fenn says, but he's already positioning your tail, bending it forward between your legs, showing Tycho how it might look. "Nah, you're right, that would be good. Sorin, you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"I'm always thinking what you're thinking," Sorin says. "That's the problem."

"Liar. You were thinking about their mouth. I saw you staring at it during dinner."

Sorin doesn't deny it. His hand leaves your tail and comes up to cup your jaw instead, turning your head to the side so he can look at your profile. His thumb traces your lips, slow and deliberate, and you feel his cock twitch against your back.

"Guilty," he says, and his voice drops, that musical baritone going dark and tender. "Look at this mouth. Been thinking about it all day. The way it stretched around Rizo last night. You remember that, pet? The way you choked on him?"

His thumb presses past your lips, just barely, just the tip. You taste salt and wolf musk.

"I want to see that again," Sorin continues, speaking to Fenn and Tycho but looking only at you. "But slower this time. I want to watch every inch. Want to see their eyes when they realize they can't breathe."

Fenn makes a low, hungry sound. "Yeah. Yeah, that's good. But I want {{obj}} on {{poss}} back first. Tycho, you hold {{obj}} down. I want to see how many fingers I can fit before {{sub}} starts crying."

"Three," Tycho says immediately. "Bet it's three."

"No way. Look at {{obj}}. Two, tops. Thing's tiny."

"Wager?" Sorin asks, and his smile widens against your ear.

"Winner gets first turn," Fenn says, and his eyes lock onto yours, bright and sharp and full of terrible promise. "What do you think, little thing? You want to help us settle this?"

Sorin's arms tighten around you, pulling you closer, and his cock is fully unsheathed now, hot and wet against the small of your back. Tycho is already getting up, cracking his knuckles, broad and eager. Fenn hasn't stopped grinning.

The lamp flickers. The tent smells like wolf and anticipation.

And they're all looking at you, waiting to see what you'll do.

The river was cold this morning, fed by snowmelt somewhere deeper in the mountains, and it cut clean lines through the sweat and smoke that clung to your fur. You'd been given a brief reprieve, sent to wash while the pack stirred slowly in the camp beyond the treeline. The water rushed around your thighs, numbing your fingers as you scrubbed at the grime from last night, the dried spit and seed that had matted the fur of your belly and inner thighs.

You heard him before you saw him. Jorik moved through the forest like he owned it, which he did, in the way wolves own anything they can take and hold. Branches snapped under his heavy footfalls, and he was humming some tuneless hunting song, the sound carrying over the burble of the river. When he pushed through the last screen of ferns and saw you, he stopped.

"Well, look at that," he said, and his voice was a low, pleased rumble. "Already naked. Good."

He was still naked from sleep, his copper fur ruffled and dusty, and his sheath hung heavy between his thick thighs. He scratched at his chest, yawned wide enough to show all his teeth, and then waded into the water without asking if you wanted company. The river surged around his calves, then his knees, and he hissed at the cold before laughing it off.

"Fuck, that's brisk." He cupped water in both hands and splashed it over his face, scrubbing at his muzzle, then shook himself out like a dog, spraying droplets everywhere. His eyes found you again, and they lingered this time, tracing the lines of your body with the casual assessment of someone looking at a tool he'd used before and planned to use again.

Jorik was big. Not just tall, but dense, packed with the kind of muscle that came from hauling carcasses and wrestling packmates. His chest was broad, his arms thick as your thighs, and when he moved closer, the water seemed to part around him. His cock was already slipping free of its sheath, the tapered tip emerging pink and wet, and he didn't bother to hide it or hurry it along.

"Turn around," he said, before moving you himself. His hand found your shoulder, rough-padded and warm, and he spun you without waiting for compliance. The river rocks were slippery underfoot, and you stumbled, but he caught you with an arm around your middle, hauling you back against his chest. His fur was coarse against your back, still cold from the water, but the heat of his cock pressed against your lower back was furnace-hot.

"Been thinking about this all morning," he muttered, more to himself than to you. His muzzle dropped to the crook of your neck, and he inhaled deep, taking in your scent. "Still smell like the pack. Good. Like you belong to us."

His hands were everywhere, rough and impatient. One slid up your chest, fingers catching on a nipple, while the other pushed between your shoulder blades, bending you forward. You caught yourself on a boulder at the river's edge, the stone worn smooth by years of current, and Jorik made an approving sound in his throat.

"Yeah, just like that. Stay."

He kicked your feet apart with his knee, spreading you open, and then his hand was between your legs, not gentle, just checking. His fingers found you, pressed, tested, and he grunted at whatever he felt there.

"Still loose from last night. Good. Pack really worked you over, huh?" He laughed, a short, barking sound. "Lucky me."

He didn't spit on his hand. The river water was slick enough to him, and Jorik was never one for ceremony. He lined himself up with one hand fisted around the base of his cock, the tapered tip nudging against you, and then he pushed.

The first inch stole your breath. He was thick, thicker than you remembered, and he didn't stop to let you adjust. He just kept going, a slow, steady pressure that filled you up until you felt him in your belly. His hands clamped onto your hips, fingers digging into the soft fur there, and he pulled you back onto him until his sheath kissed your skin.

"There it is," he breathed, and for a moment he just stayed there, buried to the hilt, savoring the heat of you. Then he started to move.

The fire crackles low and lazy, orange embers drifting up into the dark canopy of pines. Night has settled fully over the camp, the kind of deep, comfortable darkness that comes with a full belly and a warm pelt. The hunt was good today. A stag, brought down by Jorik's spear and Fenn's quick flanking, now nothing but bones and scraps in a pile near the treeline. The pack is sprawled around the fire pit in various states of contentment, their bellies round, their tongues still tasting blood and roasted meat.

Jorik is the loudest, as always. He gestures broadly with one copper-furred arm, recounting how the stag nearly gored him before Tycho grabbed its antlers from the side. "And I said, you ugly bastard, those are my ribs you're aiming for," he booms, slapping his own chest. Tycho grins, broad shoulders shaking with laughter as he mimics the stag's dying bellow. Fenn is perched on a log, wiry frame practically vibrating as he interjects with his own embellishments, his sandy fur catching the firelight. Kael sits apart, back against a tree, his dusty gray muzzle tilted in something that might be amusement if you squinted. Sorin lounges on his side, white fur pristine even in the dirt, one hand idly stroking his sheath while he listens, his musical baritone occasionally cutting in with a dry observation that makes Fenn cackle.

And you. You are on your knees beside Rizo, where you belong.

The alpha's massive black-furred thigh is warm against your shoulder, a solid, grounding weight. His hand moves through your hair in slow, absent strokes, claws lightly scratching behind your ears in a rhythm that makes your eyes want to flutter shut. He doesn't look at you. He doesn't need to. His attention is on his pack, his deep voice occasionally rumbling approval or correction as the hunting story unfolds. But his fingers know you. They trace the shape of your skull, the sensitive base of your ears, the soft fur at the nape of your neck. Possessive. Casual. The touch of someone who owns something and no longer needs to check that it's still there.

You've been here for months now. Long enough that the scent of wolf musk and woodsmoke has soaked into your fur so deeply you can't smell yourself anymore. Long enough that the pack's rhythms feel like your own heartbeat. Wake when they wake. Eat what they feed you. Kneel when they reach for you. It stopped being terrifying somewhere along the way. Or maybe it didn't stop. Maybe the terror just changed shape, softened into something that makes your tail wag when Rizo's claws trace your spine.

The fire pops. Jorik is demonstrating something now, miming a tackle that sends Tycho stumbling backward with a laugh. Sorin's eyes glitter in the firelight, his hand moving a little faster on his sheath as he watches the roughhousing. Fenn is practically bouncing, adding sound effects. Even Kael's lip curls, a flash of teeth that might be a smile.

Rizo's hand stops moving in your hair.

You feel the shift before you understand it. The slight tension in his thigh. The way his fingers curl, not tight, just present, just guiding. He doesn't speak. He doesn't need to. His other hand drops to his sheath, and you watch his cock begin to unsheathe, the dark red tip emerging from the black fur, tapered and slick. He's half-hard already, the scent of his arousal rising to meet you, thick and musky and familiar.

The conversation doesn't stop. Jorik is still talking, his gruff voice carrying over the fire. But Sorin's eyes flick toward you, and his smile deepens. Fenn notices next, his manic gaze landing on the scene with obvious interest. Tycho elbows Jorik, and soon the whole pack is watching, their own hands drifting lazily toward their sheaths as the story winds down into comfortable silence.

Rizo guides you down. Not rough, not hurried. Just the steady pressure of his palm on the back of your head, tilting you toward his lap. His cock rises to meet you, fully unsheathed now, the knot at the base already beginning to swell. He's massive. He's always been massive. But your jaw knows him now, knows the stretch and the weight and the way he likes to be taken.

"Good pet," he murmurs, and the words are warm, almost distracted, as if he's commenting on the weather. His thumb strokes your cheek as you take him into your mouth.

The fire crackles. Sorin lets out a low, appreciative hum. "Look at that," he says, his voice like honey and smoke. "So eager. You'd think we starved the poor thing."

Fenn snickers. "Maybe it just likes the taste."

Rizo's hips shift, a slow roll that pushes himself deeper. His hand stays gentle on your head, but there's a growing tension in his thighs, a heat building under his black fur. His breathing deepens. The conversation resumes around you, the pack discussing tomorrow's hunt, whose turn it is to check the snares, whether the river will be high enough for fishing. Normal. Casual. As if you aren't kneeling there with your mouth full of alpha cock, your throat working around his length while his knot presses against your lips.

His fingers tighten just slightly. His hips roll again, a little faster now. A little less patient.

"There you go," he breathes, and his voice has dropped, rougher at the edges. His eyes are still on his pack, still half-lidded and calm, but his body is speaking a different language now. The language of need. The language of ownership. His knot bumps your lips with each slow thrust, and you can feel him getting thicker, hotter, closer.

The pack watches. Their hands move on their own cocks, lazy and expectant. They know it'll be their turn soon. They've learned to wait. But the hunger in their eyes says they're counting the minutes.

.