Ember 24, 2999 | 11:20 PM – Ironhowl Kin Territory, Duskhaven Outskirts
The wind in the Ironhowl territory carried the scent of smoke, pine, and raw earth—primal and alive.
Grakka passed through the shadowed tree line like a returning storm. The obsidian cliffs behind her shimmered in the moonlight, and the wide wooden gates of her tribe creaked open at her approach.
Two armored warriors stood on either side. They thumped their fists to their chests in greeting.
"Warlord Grakka."
She nodded, cloak billowing behind her. "Where's the fire, boys? I ain't been gone that long."
Children darted between houses as night settled deep. One spotted her and waved before scurrying off.
"It's late! Mama said the spirits walk if we stay out!"
Grakka chuckled, walking through the main village. Hunters sat by bonfires. Shamans stirred glowing brews. But all quieted as she approached the longhouse—her father's throne of bone and iron.
Inside, firelight danced across ancient banners. Her mother sat at the far side—petite, elegant for an orc, with smooth skin and amber eyes that always seemed to see right through her.
"Grakka," her mother greeted warmly, rising to embrace her.
"Ma," Grakka said softly, wrapping her arms tight.
Then came her father—Chief Brokk Stonecleaver. Massive, bearded, and scowling.
"Grakka."
She gave a lazy grin. "Hey, pops."
He narrowed his eyes. "No tribal salute?"
"C'mon. You know I don't do all that stiff-back chest-thumpin' when I'm home."
His brow twitched. "You're a warlord. And my daughter. Show some damn tradition."
"Later," she muttered, then sat with her mother while her father growled into his drink.
After a few sips and silence, Brokk spoke again. "It's the season. Mating rites begin soon. You plan to bond with anyone?"
Grakka blinked, mid-drink. "Damn, straight to it, huh?"
Her mother smirked. "She blushin'. Look at her."
Brokk leaned forward. "You got someone?"
Grakka fumbled her words. "I—I mean… maybe."
"Is it Gronn's boy?" Brokk asked.
"No."
"Zargh the Flame-Hand?"
"Ew. No."
"By the ancestors—don't tell me it's that one-eyed half-troll from—"
"It ain't an orc, alright?!"
Silence.
Her father's expression dropped into something unreadable.
Grakka stood abruptly. "Ma—come here."
She dragged her mother into the adjoining chamber like they used to when she was younger and overwhelmed.
"I ain't tellin' him yet."
Her mother touched her arm gently. "Who is he?"
Grakka exhaled. "Shiro."
Her mother blinked. "The beastman?"
"He ain't just a beastman, Ma. He's… different. Got these white dreads, gold fangs, tattoos that move when he fights. Cocky as hell. Stronger than anyone I ever met. He fights like he feel the world shift before it hits. Drives me crazy. Smells like heat and blood and…"
Her mom lifted a brow. "And?"
"…And he knows exactly how to touch me."
Her mother snorted. "There it is."
"I ain't never felt like this, Ma."
The older woman smiled softly, brushing Grakka's cheek. "Then that's your mate, baby. Don't matter where he from. What matter is how he make you feel."
They hugged.
Then—
Back in the longhall, Grakka stood tall.
"His name's Shiro. He's a beastman."
Brokk stood up slow.
"Ain't no orc?"
"No."
Brokk grabbed his sword. His armor clanked as he reached for his war cloak.
"Where is he?"
Grakka grinned. "Probably givin' some poor soul a reason to fear the dark."
—
11:44 PM | Velvet Spire, Belladira's Office
Their mouths collided again, hungry and hot. Belladira melted into the kiss, fingers tangled in Shiro's white dreads as his hands gripped her hips like he owned them.
She gasped when his lips trailed down her jaw, then to her throat. Her legs clenched tighter around his waist.
"I never felt this before," she breathed, voice raspy and thick with heat. "Ain't no other male made me feel like this…"
Shiro smirked, nipping her bottom lip. "That's 'cause they boys. I'm a beast."
Her chest rose and fell fast, nipples brushing against his skin, teasing, tempting. Her hands slid down between them, grabbing at him boldly.
"Mmm…" she cooed, licking her lips. "I can feel it, baby. All that heat. All that pressure…"
Her fangs peeked again as she kissed and licked along his collarbone. "Let me feed. Just a lil' taste. I need it."
Shiro grabbed her by the throat—firm, dominant. Not choking, but claiming.
"Not yet," he growled low. "Not till I say you can."
Belladira's eyes widened. Her body shivered.
She whimpered. "But I always get what I want."
Shiro tilted his head, gold eyes burning into hers.
"Not tonight."
With a smooth, brutal motion, he flipped her onto her velvet desk. She let out a breathless laugh—half defiance, half submission. Her hips rolled back against him, legs wide, ready.
He leaned down, brushing against her soaked core.
"Beg for it."
Belladira's pride snapped for a second—but her need overwhelmed it. She bit her lip hard, eyes hazy.
"Ohhh… Daddy, yes," she whispered, voice barely a breath. "Please… stick it in."
Shiro grinned. "That's more like it."
He slid in deep.
Her back arched. Her eyes flashed crimson. Her nails dug into the velvet as she cried out—long, guttural, desperate.
"F-fuck, baby… you feel too good," she moaned, grinding back.
Her body trembled, overwhelmed. She leaned up, panting against his ear. "Please… now can I drink? Please baby… lemme bite…"
Shiro finally gave a slow nod.
"Go ahead, Belle."
She sank her fangs into his neck—and everything exploded.
His muscles tensed. A wave of dizzying heat surged through him like her bite triggered every nerve in his body. Her feeding wasn't violent—it was erotic, drawn-out, and dripping with satisfaction.
He stroked deeper as
She drank like she'd been starving for him.
And when he slammed into her again, she lost control.
"Yes, Daddy—more!" she cried, riding waves of ecstasy, her hips meeting every thrust with wild hunger.
She was no longer in control.
And that made her fall even harder.
She wasn't just fed.
She was claimed.
In blood.
In heat.
And in every breathless moan she gave to the beast between her legs.
"Mine…" she whispered, even while still trembling. "All mine."