The Gilded Shackle

“Say my name, Commander. Say it before I sink my teeth into your neck.” Rafael Cruz has spent five years dreaming of ripping Kaelen Sokolov apart. He remembered every sharp angle of the general’s body, every cold glare from those glacial blue eyes, and the silver hair that smelled like arctic frost. But he never imagined he’d hold Kaelen like this: weaponless, flushed with fever, and desperate for an Alpha’s pheromones. Trapped in Rafe’s private lair, Kaelen tries to fight the agonizing craving burning through his veins. He bites his own lips till they bleed to hold back his groans. He scratches at the titanium collar around his throat, trying to erase the mark of the man standing over him. But Rafe is a patient predator. He pins Kaelen’s hands above his head, traces the blood dripping down his collarbone, and whispers wicked promises into his burning ear. Kaelen wants to cut Rafe’s throat. Rafe wants to break Kaelen’s mind. But when their scents collide—scorched teakwood melting into frozen roses—the line between torture and desire turns dangerously thin.