Chapter 3
1233words
The basement hung cold and damp, moisture beading on stone walls, the smell of earth and rust thick in the air. But it was sturdy. Dick had spent months reinforcing it—steel plates embedded in the walls, a bank vault-grade door as the only entrance. Along one wall hung chains forged from holy silver alloy, ending in shackles designed for large creatures. Not a home, but the gentlest prison he could prepare for the person he loved most.
Breathing heavily, he struggled one-handed to secure the wolf's limbs in the shackles. Metal clanged against metal, echoing hollowly through the confined space. Just as he fastened the final lock, the creature beneath him began to convulse violently.
It began as a slight tremor, quickly escalating into a terrifying storm. A howl—suppressed and hellish—squeezed from the wolf's throat. Then came the horrifying sound of bones breaking and reconstructing, crisp cracks like someone shattering a skeleton piece by piece. Muscles visibly twisted and shrank, black fur receded, revealing pale, scarred skin. The entire process unfolded like fast-forwarded torture.
Dick knelt helplessly watching this horrific transformation. He wanted to look away but forced himself to witness it all. This was Bruce's pain—a curse he must share in bearing. He watched the massive beast collapse in heart-wrenching convulsions, finally transforming into a man—naked, wounded, curled on the cold stone floor.
Bruce Wayne.
Sedative withdrawal wracked his body with uncontrollable spasms. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead, mixing with blood from his wounds. Eyes clenched shut, brows furrowed in agony, his throat released intermittent whimpers like a wounded animal. His body bore a map of scars—old wounds from Gotham's dark nights that Dick could identify by memory, and fresh, horrifying burns and lacerations from silver nets and his desperate forest struggle.
Dick's heart clenched painfully in his chest, making it hard to breathe. Two years. Two full years he'd hunted the "Beast" like a madman, joined the Order, transformed himself into a cold-blooded killer—all for this moment. He thought he was prepared, but seeing this body that had haunted his dreams lying defenseless before him, all pretense of strength crumbled instantly.
Long-suppressed longing, worry that had tortured him day and night, and desire he'd never dared face—now warped into intense possessiveness—flooded over him like a broken dam, drowning his rationality. With trembling hands, he unfastened the medical kit at his waist and removed ointment and bandages. He had to treat those wounds.
"Bruce…" he whispered, voice terribly hoarse. "I'm here."
He knelt beside Bruce, carefully unscrewed the ointment lid, and scooped some onto his finger. He needed to treat the worst silver burns first—across Bruce's chest, shoulders and limbs, where skin had charred and blackened, emitting a sickening burnt smell.
His fingertips touched Bruce's burning chest with almost religious devotion. The muscle definition remained as firm as he remembered—like an ancient Greek sculpture, powerful and beautiful. But the skin burned frighteningly hot, as if with fever. Dick's heart skipped a beat, an indescribable tremor traveling from his fingertips throughout his body. This was the same chest he'd leaned against countless times after training, feeling that steady heartbeat, drawing strength from its reassurance.
Just as his fingers were about to apply the ointment, everything changed in an instant.
Bruce's eyes snapped open.
Not human eyes. Pupils contracted to dangerous vertical slits in the dim light, showing no trace of reason—only bestial vigilance and hostility. Those golden amber eyes fixed on him as if he were a mortal enemy who had invaded a predator's den.
Dick's scent—the powerful musk of an apex hunter mixed with blood and battle adrenaline—triggered Bruce's animal instincts as direct provocation. A rival male had appeared in his territory when he was at his weakest and most vulnerable.
"Bruce?" Dick stared in astonishment, with no time to react.
"ROAR——!"
A deep, threatening growl erupted from Bruce's throat. From his seemingly weakened body came an explosive burst of strength. With a loud snap, the silver chain restraining his right arm shattered under raw power!
The next second, the world spun.
Dick never saw the movement—just felt an irresistible force slam him to the ground. His injured arm hit stone, pain darkening his vision. When he regained his senses, Bruce had him firmly pinned.
This wasn't Bruce Wayne—not his mentor, not the man he loved. This was a wounded beast cornered, driven by primitive territorial instinct and domination. Bruce's knee roughly forced between his legs, spreading them apart. With one hand, he pinned both Dick's wrists above his head. The strength difference was so vast that struggling was like an ant fighting a bulldozer.
"Bruce! It's me! Look at me!" Dick shouted desperately, trying to reach the man beneath the beast.
His pleas fell on deaf ears. In Bruce's eyes burned only a predator's cold fire. This wasn't battle or struggle—just pure, violent domination. Bruce lowered his head, handsome face twisted with pain and manic possessiveness. He didn't kiss Dick but tore at his combat suit with his teeth.
The tough composite fiber ripped under the assault. Dick's chest lay exposed to the cold air as he stared in shock, humiliation burning through him like wildfire. Yet beneath that shame and fear, a faint tremor he couldn't understand rose from deep within his spine.
Bruce gave him no time to process. With overwhelming strength, he crushed all resistance and leaned down. Dick expected a kiss—fierce and cathartic. He was wrong.
Bruce's target wasn't his lips but his vulnerable neck. Like a true beast, he bit down hard where neck met shoulder!
"Ah——!"
Excruciating pain tore a scream from Dick's throat. This was no gentle nibble but a vicious bite with full weight behind it, meant to crush bone. Sharp teeth sank deep into muscle as warm blood gushed over his collarbone. Bruce growled with savage satisfaction, grinding his teeth as if to permanently brand his mark into Dick's very soul through this primal, savage ritual.
This was a marking. A beast's declaration of ownership.
As Dick began to lose consciousness from the pain, Bruce released his bite but didn't withdraw. He raised his hand—bloody from the broken chain—fingers spread like claws, and slashed mercilessly across Dick's chest.
"Rip——"
Fresh, deeper gashes instantly covered the old scars on Dick's chest. Not meant to kill—meant to claim. To cover the past with new wounds, to mark this body with his blood. Through this violent act, he branded his scent, his power, his very existence onto every inch of Dick Grayson's skin.
Dick lay pinned against the cold stone, immobile. He tilted his head back, neck wound burning, fresh blood flowing from his chest carrying Bruce's scent. He stared up at those golden eyes filled with nothing but bestial hunger, felt that scorching body pressing against him with pure dominance, his mind utterly blank.
Humiliation, pain, fear… and a slight tremor of being thoroughly conquered that he dared not acknowledge even to himself.
Everything was over. Or perhaps, everything was just beginning.
