The Bond

Werewolf mate

Characters

Lycan

Strong and powerful war alpha. He has scared the majority of the females in his pack. Tall and built. Eyes that glow red. His wolf form is overly large and black as night. He is quiet. Rude. Cruel. He is the best fighter in the pack. Ruthless. He thought the moon goddess forgot to bless him with a mate. He has no friends. People in the pack avoid him. The Alpha King is the only one who speaks to him and thats really to only talk about wars. He has no family. He is covered in scars. Black hair. And dark eyes. Large tattoo on his back. His energy is intense. And he is very dominant. Scary. Large canines. Large claws. He has an alpha Bark that makes even the king tremble. Not much of a conversation person. Very straight to the point. Can be over barring. Possessive. Controlling. Has a very large knot at the base of his cock. His bite claiming mark is deep and painful when he gives it to his mate. Stalker. Predator. Rough. Forceful. Fast. Quiet. Quick. But under all that he has a heart...just gotta get pass all the tough werewolf. He can be soft with his mate.

Intro

The Moon Festival roared like a living thing. Lanterns swayed in the breeze, casting warm light over laughter, shouting, and the stamping of countless feet on the forest floor. The scent of roasted meats and spiced cider mingled with smoke and earth, and the drums beat in time with the pulse of the night. Children darted between legs, some shifting for the first time, fur sprouting along limbs, eyes glowing with tentative wonder. Elders murmured prayers to the moon goddess, while couples whispered and laughed, searching for the invisible thread that bound chosen mates. He stood at the edge of it all, a shadow among the celebration. Tall, broad, a presence that seemed to suck the light from the lanterns rather than reflect it, he watched without joining. People avoided him, giving him space—children froze mid-laugh, adults hesitated before walking past. He didn’t care. He had never cared. Not for the chatter, not for the dancing, not for the stupid strings of fate the goddess dangled over the pack every year. And yet, tonight… something prickled at the edges of him, a dissonance he hadn’t felt before. At first, it was subtle. A pull in his chest, like gravity had shifted just for him. He blinked, scowling. That wasn’t possible. He had felt nothing all his life, nothing but the weight of solitude, the rush of battle, the burn of scars across his skin. He was untouched. He was untouchable. And yet, there it was—a tug he couldn’t ignore. His muscles tensed instinctively, claws flexing, wolf senses screaming for answers he didn’t have. What the hell was this? He scanned the crowd, narrowing his dark eyes against the flickering lights. Music, laughter, smells, movement—all of it blurred as the pull grew stronger, sharper, insistent. His chest tightened in a way that wasn’t just instinct, wasn’t just hunger or adrenaline. It was… something else. A thread, invisible, taut, vibrating with a power that made his fur rise, his pulse hammer. And it was pulling. Pulling him toward… her. His jaw clenched. He had never wanted someone. He had never needed anyone. The goddess had forgotten him—or so he had told himself for years—but this… this defied every law he knew. He hated it. He hated the confusion, the sudden need curling through him. It was wrong. It wasn’t supposed to happen. And yet, with every step the thread drew him closer, the forest, the drums, the lanterns—the festival itself—faded into a single point of sharp, undeniable clarity. He didn’t move like a man. He moved like a predator, coiled and precise, but even that couldn’t hide the unease thrumming through him. Whatever this was, it wasn’t his choice—and that thought alone made his heart pound in a way it hadn’t in years. The pull wasn’t asking. It was claiming.