The lost mate
Chapter 92: Claimed

Chapter 92: Claimed

Anne shifted back into her human form. The transformation left her breathless for a moment, but it wasn’t the shift that had her reeling—it was the sensation of Damien’s bite still tingling on her neck. Her fingers instinctively went to the spot, grazing the tender skin where his teeth had sunk just moments before. She could feel the energy of the bond pulsing beneath her fingertips, as though it were alive, binding them in a way that transcended words.

She turned to Damien, who had already shifted back, his tall, powerful form glowing faintly in the silvery light of the moon. His eyes were on her, intense and unwavering.

"You marked me," Anne whispered, her voice filled with wonder and the slightest edge of disbelief. Her fingers pressed against the bite mark again, as if to confirm the reality of it.

Damien took a step closer.

Yes," he said, his voice low. He reached out, brushing a strand of hair away from her face, his fingers lingering on her cheek before trailing down to the mark on her neck. "I didn’t want to wait for some ceremony, for a crowd, or for anyone else to decide when the time was right."

There was something so raw, so possessive in the way he spoke. He had marked her not out of control or impulse but out of love, out of a desire to protect her from everything that threatened to pull them apart.

"Damien..." she began, but he cut her off, his voice firm yet gentle.

"You’re mine, Anne," he said, his hand now resting on her shoulder, thumb grazing the mark. "I needed everyone to know that. I couldn’t stand the thought of someone like Jessica challenging you, questioning your place by my side. Marking you like this... it solidifies your position. It shows everyone, even the pack, that you’re my mate, and no one can challenge that."

She hadn’t realised just how much tension had been building in her since the moment she’d arrived, since Jessica’s biting words and the sharp judgement from the other women. She had felt like an outsider, even if Damien had tried to shield her from it. But this... this mark was a declaration. A claim.

"But," Anne hesitated, her voice soft, "your mother..."

"She will understand. I wanted to protect you," Damien continued, his voice growing more serious.

Anne’s fingers brushed over the mark again. She looked up at him, her eyes locking with his, and in that moment, there was no doubt, no fear, only a deep sense of belonging. "Thank you."

Damien smiled softly, the tension in his body easing as he cupped her face with both hands. "You don’t have to thank me, Anne. You’ve always been mine. Now, everyone knows it."

Anne leant into his touch, her heart swelling with love for this man who had claimed her not just with his bite but with his heart. "And you’ve always been mine," she whispered.

Damien lowered his head and kissed her, slow and tender, sealing the promise they had just made to each other. When they pulled apart, Anne could feel the shift in the air around them.

"Let’s go back," he whispered.

"Do you have any clothes stashed around here ?" Anne asked, since they were naked and far away from the car where they had left their clothes.

"Let’s find out," he chuckled and kissed her again, this time more hungrily. They collapsed on the grass.

"Do you know what you make me feel, Anne ?" He said while kissing her neck.

"Desire, I hope," she answered him, waiting impatiently for him to enter her.

"Anne, relax,ll show you,’ he said sounding a little exasperated.

He entered her, and when he thrust, she felt like she was Damien. She could feel his heartbeat and the warmth. She wrapped her legs around him, pulling him closer as they moved together in perfect rhythm. The moon began to set, casting a warm glow over their entwined bodies as they lost themselves in each other’s embrace.

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Emily let out an exasperated sigh as she hurried down the cobbled path back to her cottage. It had been one of those days—long, exhausting, and capped off by a persistent homeless man who wouldn’t take the hint that she didn’t want to chat about his conspiracy theories involving pigeons. But he had followed her down the street anyway, rambling on about tracking devices hidden in breadcrumbs.

Now, finally at home, she kicked off her shoes and collapsed onto the couch, determined to spend the rest of the evening binge-watching a trashy TV show and ignoring the world outside. Now that Heather was recovering nicely, Emily felt a lot better. She tossed a blanket over herself.

Emily had just dozed off when she heard something. A faint thump coming from the direction of the kitchen. She groaned, reluctantly peeling herself from the couch, blinking blearily into the darkness.

Probably just the wind, she told herself. But the noise came again—a soft shuffling, followed by what sounded suspiciously like a muttered curse. Her heart skipped a beat. Someone was in her house.

Barefoot and still half asleep, she grabbed the first thing she could find—a trusty wooden spatula from the kitchen counter. It wasn’t exactly a weapon, but it would do the job if it came to that. She crept towards the noise, holding the spatula out in front of her like a sword. As she rounded the corner, she spotted a figure hunched over, fiddling with something near her bookshelf. Without hesitation, Emily lunged forward, whacking the intruder in the back with all the force she could muster.

"Take that!" she hissed, raising the spatula again for a second strike.

"Ouch! Emily! It’s me!" came a familiar, painful groan.

She froze, spatula mid-air, and quickly switched on the light. There, standing awkwardly in her living room, rubbing his back where she had just struck him, was Chris. His expression was somewhere between apologetic and painful.

"What on earth are you doing sneaking into my house in the middle of the night?!" Emily demanded, lowering the spatula but not entirely ready to drop her guard.