Chapter Text
Muir woke up in warmth like no other—a deep, soul-soothing heat that wrapped around him like a cocoon. He felt fully rested, utterly content, and for the first time in his life, he never wanted to move again. Soft furs cushioned him beneath, but it was the intense, familiar heat at his side that held him captive. Comforting. Powerful. Unmistakable.
A slow, satisfied smile stretched across his lips.
Ophelia.
His mate.
The realization settled deep in his chest, a sense of triumph and fulfillment unlike anything he had ever known. He had thought it would take years to earn this privilege—to fight for her approval, to prove himself worthy of standing by her side. But he had been blissfully, unexpectedly wrong. She had chosen him. He had become her first mate.
A pleased groan vibrated in his chest as he instinctively shifted closer, burying his face in the warmth beside him and breathing in her intoxicating scent. She smelled like power, like something untamed and ancient, but beneath it all was a softness only he was allowed to witness. The sheer heat of her body enveloped him entirely, making him drowsy with comfort.
Then, clawed fingers threaded through his short hair, sending a shiver down his spine.
"Muir," she murmured, amusement lacing her voice.
He cracked open one eye and was greeted by the sight of her—well, her chest, where his face had happily landed. Tilting his head up, he met her gaze, those draconic purple eyes filled with warmth and mischief.
"How did you sleep?" she asked.
Muir let out a satisfied sigh. "This was the best night of my life."
The cave around them remained unchanged—dimly lit by the glow of countless crystals embedded in the walls, their gentle luminescence casting a dreamlike glow over the space. The world outside did not exist in this moment. There was only her, only them, wrapped in a stillness so absolute that he could almost believe it would last forever.
Until Ophelia’s curious tone interrupted their cozy bliss.
"Muir… are you supposed to wake up with a tattoo? Or… a marking?"
At that, Muir bolted upright, completely unbothered by his nakedness as he immediately began searching her body for his mark. His hands skimmed over her chest, down the flawless expanse of her skin, his heart pounding. He needed to see it—to confirm that she bore his claim. But… nothing.
His frown deepened as he traced along her sides, only to come up empty-handed. Was it possible… he hadn’t been able to mark her?
Laughter rang out, bright and teasing.
"Muir," Ophelia said, shaking her head, "not on me. Look down at yourself."
He blinked at her, uncomprehending—until realization struck. Slowly, he lowered his gaze.
There, sprawled across his chest, was an intricate, bold white marking. A dragon. Majestic, powerful, massive—just like the real thing. The design wove around his skin in elegant, commanding strokes, covering his heart in a breathtaking display of dominance.
Shock flared through him first, confusion swirling in his gut. But then, just as quickly, pride took its place.
She had marked him.
His fingers traced the dragon’s head, feeling the faint warmth it emitted. The horns—sharp, curved, and identical to Ophelia’s own—framed the image perfectly. The dragon’s half-lidded eyes exuded a presence so commanding that aggression was unnecessary. No need for a snarl, no need for a threatening glare—this was Ophelia. The clawed hand gripping his shoulder, the way the design curved over his ribs… it was hers.
Still, a flicker of unease gnawed at him. Shouldn’t she have a mark too?
His gaze lifted back to hers. "Do you… have one as well?"
Ophelia tilted her head, considering. "Not that I know of."
Then, without a second thought, she rose gracefully to her feet. Without hesitation, she shed her clothes in one fluid motion, unbothered, regal. She turned in place, allowing him a full view of her body, her expression open, curious.
"See?" she mused. "Not a mark anywhere."
Muir’s sharp eyes roamed over her, drinking in every inch of flawless skin, searching—hoping—but it was true. There was nothing.
A strange mix of emotions swirled inside him, but before he could sort through them, Ophelia sank down behind him, her long legs bracketing his sides as her warmth pressed against his back. Her arms draped lazily over his shoulders, her fingers tracing the curve of his collarbone.
"You can’t see it," she murmured, her voice rich with amusement, "but I can describe it to you."
Her claws found his skin, featherlight at first as she traced along the back of his shoulder. Muir shivered, every touch leaving behind an awareness that sent heat curling in his gut.
"The wings spread here," Ophelia murmured, dragging her fingers outward in slow, deliberate strokes. "They fold over your back like they’re sheltering you… keeping you within my reach."
Muir’s breath hitched as her touch glided lower, over the dip of his spine.
"And the tail," she continued, voice softer now, more intimate. Her fingers trailed down, following the winding length of inked scales. "It coils around your side, the tip curling just above your waist. Almost as if…" She let her claws scrape lightly against his skin, making his muscles twitch beneath her touch. "I’m holding you close."
Muir swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry.
Ophelia’s touch lingered as she hummed thoughtfully. "Does it bother you?"
His brow furrowed. "What?"
"That I don’t have your mark," she clarified, her voice quieter now, her fingers momentarily still against his skin. "That only you bear one."
Muir turned his head slightly, just enough for their gazes to meet. His blue eyes were steady, unwavering. "No," he admitted honestly. "It doesn’t bother me at all."
Ophelia studied him for a long moment, searching for any trace of hesitation. She found none.
A slow, pleased smile curved her lips. "Good," she murmured.
Then, without warning, she leaned in, pressing a lingering kiss against the side of his neck. Her lips were warm, soft, and when she pulled back, she parted them just enough for her tongue to flicker out—longer now, more serpentine.
Muir shuddered as she dragged it in a slow, heated trail over his shoulder and along the inked claw gripping his skin. A quiet, pleased rumble escaped her as she tasted her mark on him, savoring the proof of her claim.
"You wear me well, Muir," she murmured against his skin.
Muir exhaled shakily, his hands curling into fists against his thighs. He had thought claiming her would be the greatest victory of his life.
But being claimed by her?
That was something else entirely.
Muir exhaled shakily, his hands curling into fists against his thighs. He had thought claiming her would be the greatest victory of his life.
But being claimed by her?
That was something else entirely.
For a long moment, neither of them moved, content to exist in the quiet warmth of their shared space. Ophelia's arms remained draped lazily over his shoulders, her lips still ghosting over his skin where her tongue had traced the ink of her mark. Muir could feel her smile against him, her breath steady and content. He wanted to stay like this. Forever, if possible.
But then, Ophelia pulled back, stretching her arms above her head with a languid ease that sent a ripple of movement through her muscles. "Time to get up," she said, voice warm but firm.
Muir groaned and immediately slumped back against her, tilting his head to nuzzle into her shoulder in protest. "We could stay here instead."
Ophelia huffed in amusement. "Tempting, but I do have guard duty."
Muir grumbled something incoherent into her skin, wrapping his arms around her waist like an overgrown cat refusing to be moved. His sharp blue eyes flicked up to hers, full of reluctant longing. "Just a little longer?"
She snorted and patted his head like he was some sulking fledgling. "Muir."
He sighed dramatically before finally, reluctantly, pulling away. Ophelia stood smoothly, stretching once more before reaching for her discarded clothes. Muir remained where he was, watching her with unabashed appreciation.
"You could always stay naked," he mused as she fastened the clasps of her attire.
Ophelia arched a brow, her smirk pure mischief. "You first."
Muir chuckled, shaking his head as he grabbed his own clothes. He caught Ophelia watching, her gaze darkening for a moment before she turned away, as if she’d caught herself.
As she finished dressing, she moved toward the entrance of the cave, wings flexing slightly as if eager for the open sky. But before she stepped out, she glanced back at him. "I'll grab you a bite while I'm out."
Muir, who was fiddling with his clothes, gave her a look. "I can hunt for myself, you know."
Ophelia winked, her tail giving an idle wag from side to side. "No, let me. You did a good job appearing with that mark, after all. It made me very happy."
Muir's chest warmed at her words, though he rolled his eyes to cover it. "Glad to know I have my uses."
She laughed and stepped past him, brushing a hand along his shoulder in passing. "Do what you want for the morning," she murmured. "I’ll come find you with food."
Muir narrowed his eyes at her playfully. "And how exactly are you going to find me?"
Ophelia smirked, her draconic eyes gleaming. "I just will."
And with that, she turned on her heel and strode toward the entrance, her movements fluid, effortless. In a single motion, she leapt into the darkness of the tunnel, wings snapping open as she shot upward.
Muir followed her retreating form to the entrance, watching as the flickering light of the cave barely caught the edges of her wings before she disappeared into the abyss. A moment later, a powerful gust of wind ruffled his hair, and then—
A roar.
Loud. Powerful. Reverberating through the stone walls like thunder.
Then came the heavy, unmistakable sound of colossal wings beating against the air, sending dust and loose pebbles skittering across the cave floor. Muir stood at the entrance, listening to the deep, rhythmic hum of Ophelia’s flight, a sound that belonged to something massive, something ancient.
A slow smile tugged at his lips. He shook his head, amused.
"I thought I was the male," he muttered to himself, crossing his arms. "Aren’t I supposed to be the one doing the hunting?"
Still, the gesture brought warmth to his chest, and the smile on his face lingered.
Muir exhaled slowly, feeling the warmth of Ophelia’s lingering presence even as she had already flown off. His body still thrummed with satisfaction, his mark still pulsing with a heat that wasn’t entirely physical. He flexed his fingers before rolling his shoulders, testing the new weight on his skin.
A smirk played on his lips.
No cape today.
He had originally planned to dress as usual—his leather skirt, arm bracers, and cape—but after seeing the way Ophelia looked at his mark, the way her gaze had lingered, something possessive and pleased in her expression… Why cover it?
Besides, what was the point of bearing such a mark if he didn’t let the entire city see?
So, he left his cape behind. His chest, shoulders, and back were bare, displaying the full stretch of the mark across his skin. The black and white dragon coiled across him in intricate strokes, its head and horns displayed proudly over his heart. He knew exactly what kind of reaction this would cause.
And he welcomed it.
Spreading his wings, he took a few quick strides before launching into the air, his powerful limbs propelling him upward.
The sky above Beast City was never empty—hawks, falcons, and other aerial beastmen often soared in loose formations, calling out to one another as they hunted or patrolled. But as soon as Muir entered their airspace, something changed.
There was a pause.
A double take.
Then—
The sky erupted in squawks, screeches, and indignant cries.
“Muir?!”
“That bastard—he—he actually—”
“The beastwoman marked him?”
“What kind of joke is this?!”
Jealous, enraged, admiring, the cacophony of voices filled the sky as Muir passed them, their reactions playing like music to his ears. He didn’t acknowledge them, but he did straighten his posture, puffing his chest ever so slightly as he flew. He didn’t need to say anything—the proof was on his skin.
His mark.
Ophelia’s mark.
By the time he reached the market, the murmurs had already spread below, beastmen pausing in their trading and conversations as they caught sight of him descending. The marketplace was always lively, but today, there was an undeniable tension in the air as countless eyes landed on him, wide with disbelief.
He landed smoothly, adjusting his braces before making his way through the crowded space. The beastmen, whether predator or prey, parted slightly as he walked, their eyes locked onto the mark stretched over his chest. Some whispered. Others scowled. A few looked begrudgingly impressed.
Muir welcomed all of it.
Let them talk. Let them stare.
He had won.
Still, he had something else to do today besides basking in their envy. He had come for Ophelia’s new clothes.
He stepped into the shop where Esko, the peacock beastman, worked. The space was well-lit with bolts of fabric stacked neatly along the walls, rolls of leather hanging from hooks, and measuring tools scattered over Esko’s workstation.
Esko, standing behind the counter, turned at the sound of a new customer entering. “Welcome—”
His words died in his throat as he caught sight of who had walked in.
And then, for a second time, he froze.
His eyes widened, his sharp gaze snapping to the mark on Muir’s chest. His vibrant tail feathers, usually so composed and elegant, gave an involuntary twitch as he took in the sight before him—something completely unheard of.
A male bearing a mating mark.
Esko blinked, his mouth slightly parted as if trying to form words.
Muir smirked, stepping forward. “You look like you’ve seen a spirit.”
Esko finally moved, shaking his head quickly, his tail feathers fluffing out in visible agitation. “You—you actually did it?” His voice was a mix of incredulity and thinly veiled jealousy. “You mated with her?”
Muir tilted his head, his smirk deepening. “Is that so hard to believe?”
Esko scoffed, crossing his arms. “I thought you’d attempt to court her. That much was obvious. But actually succeeding?” He exhaled sharply, his eyes still flicking to the mark. “And—this? I’ve never seen a male get marked before.”
Muir rolled his shoulders, letting the movement subtly emphasize the ink on his skin. “Well, now you have.”
Esko clicked his tongue, his sharp gaze dragging over the intricate details of the dragon sprawled across Muir’s chest. “Ridiculous,” he muttered. But despite his obvious jealousy, there was something else in his tone. Something begrudgingly intrigued.
Muir let him stew in silence for a moment before getting to the point. “I’m here for Ophelia’s new clothes. Are you finished?”
Esko exhaled, running a hand through his hair before shaking off his lingering shock. “One,” he admitted, turning toward a nearby rack. “The others aren’t finished yet.”
Muir nodded. “I’ll take it to her.”
Esko retrieved the completed garment—dark leather, simple yet undeniably fitted for someone with Ophelia’s stature and wings. But even as he handed it over, his sharp eyes were still glued to Muir’s skin.
Then, without warning, he stepped closer.
Muir didn’t move as Esko studied the mark more intently, his eyes narrowing as he followed the lines of ink stretching toward his back. He shifted slightly, trying to see—
And then, realization dawned on his face.
His mouth parted slightly. “Wait.” His voice lowered, his curiosity overcoming his jealousy. “Does the mark… does it go further?”
Muir stiffened slightly. He couldn’t see it himself, but he knew Ophelia had traced her claws over his back, describing the wings, the tail curling around his side.
Esko’s gaze locked onto him. “You don’t even know what it looks like back there, do you?”
Muir narrowed his eyes. “Does it matter?”
Esko let out a slow, envious huff. “You lucky bastard.” He stepped back, shaking his head as he retrieved the garment. “This is unfair. A beastwoman finally appears, and of all people, you get marked first?” He let out a short laugh, but there was no true malice behind it. Only disbelief.
Muir only smirked, taking the completed outfit from his hands. “Guess you’ll just have to deal with it.”
Esko rolled his eyes, still grumbling under his breath, but waved him off. “Go on, then. I have work to do.”
Muir turned, his wings shifting slightly as he stepped toward the entrance, fully aware of the envious gaze still lingering on his back.
And for the first time in his life, he didn’t mind one bit.
Muir inspected the dark leather dress in his hands, running his fingers over the sturdy yet supple material. It was well-crafted, built to accommodate Ophelia’s wings, tail, and power. Esko had done good work—though Muir would never say that aloud.
Just as he was about to turn the outfit over to check the back, the air outside shifted.
A gust of wind, sharp and forceful, slammed against the shop, rattling the fabric rolls and sending loose scraps flying. Muir’s head snapped up, instincts screaming as he caught the faintest tremor in the ground beneath his feet.
Then, a deafening whoosh.
A booming, high-pitched roar tore through the marketplace.
Muir and Esko froze, wide-eyed, before looking sharply at each other. That sound—
A dragon.
But not just any dragon.
A second powerful downstroke of wings sent a pulse of wind surging through the market, scattering debris, flipping small merchant stands, and darkening the sky. The world dimmed under the sheer size of the massive form above.
Muir barely had time to move before his instincts kicked in, and he ran toward the entrance. Esko, just as curious and alarmed, rushed out beside him.
The moment they stepped into the open, they were engulfed in shadow.
The dragon above them was enormous. Endless. Her white-silver scales gleamed even in the faint morning light, her massive wings blotting out the sun, her powerful limbs tensed as if in search of something.
The beastwoman.
Their protector.
And then, her piercing purple gaze locked onto him.
A deep, rumbling coo—a sound so foreign coming from such a terrifyingly large creature—rumbled from her throat, vibrating through the ground itself.
Muir’s breath caught.
Esko swallowed audibly beside him.
Then—light.
A sudden flash overtook the sky, and the great dragon form twisted, shrinking before their very eyes. Wings folded in, limbs compacted, scales softened into skin. The monstrous presence that had cast its dominance over the market disappeared in mere moments.
And in its place, Ophelia.
She hovered for a split second, fully humanoid once more, her draconic eyes still gleaming with a flicker of her true form’s might. But even more striking were the two dark blurs falling with her.
With effortless precision, she caught them midair, one in each hand, their bodies limp.
Muir blinked, his mind still catching up.
Dead animals.
She had been carrying something in her dragon form, and now, in her smaller humanoid one, she held them by their scruffs with ease.
The wind around her stilled as she quickly dressed mid-air, her tail flicking contentedly behind her. Only when she was fully clothed did she descend, landing lightly on the ground with a smile.
She lifted the now fully recognizable animals.
Two rare boars, thick with muscle and known for their incredible taste.
“Muir,” she said, eyes alight with excitement, “do you like these?”
Muir’s mouth was still slightly ajar.
Esko, standing beside him, was equally stunned.
Both of them slowly nodded.
Ophelia beamed, entirely pleased with herself, her tail swaying like a pleased predator. But before she could revel in the moment, her gaze flicked down to what he was holding.
Her expression brightened even more.
“Is that for me?” she asked, stepping closer, excitement unmistakable in her tone.
Muir stiffened.
He had seen that look before.
She was pleased. Happy. And about to strip in the middle of the marketplace.
Absolutely not.
Before she could so much as reach for the dress, Muir moved.
Without hesitation, he grabbed her elbow—not harshly, but firmly, possessively. Before mating, he would have never dared such a familiar gesture, but now, something had shifted.
She was his.
And he was hers.
He had no fear of touching her now.
So, with a decisive pull, he guided her back into the shop.
Esko, still in a daze, followed them inside, his gaze flicking between the two of them, his peacock mind still catching up to everything he had just witnessed.
The moment they were inside, Muir swiftly turned his attention back to Esko—who, unfortunately, had not yet stopped gaping at his mate.
More specifically, at Ophelia’s body.
Muir scowled.
Muir’s scowl deepened as he took in Esko’s tail.
The peacock beastman, despite his outward attempt at composure, was fighting against pure instinct. His extravagant plumage—normally tucked away in casual settings—had fanned out just slightly, shimmering under the shop’s lantern light.
Vivid iridescent blues, deep emerald greens, and hints of gold shimmered along the intricate patterns of the long, elegant feathers. The eye-like markings at the tips seemed almost alive, shifting with every minute movement as if testing the waters, waiting for an opportunity to fully spread.
Esko hadn’t flared them entirely—he wasn’t that reckless—but they were certainly too full. Too vibrant. Too much like a beastman on the verge of courting display.
Muir’s narrowed gaze snapped back to Esko’s face.
The peacock hadn’t even realized what he was doing.
Ophelia was here. Ophelia, the only beastwoman. His body had reacted before his mind could catch up.
But Muir caught it.
And he wouldn’t allow it.
With one smooth motion, he flared his own wings wide, the dark, powerful span cutting Esko’s view of Ophelia completely. The motion was subtle, calculated, and entirely territorial.
Esko blinked, startled out of his trance, and finally seemed to realize what his tail had been doing. He glanced down at himself, then exhaled sharply through his nose, visibly forcing his tail feathers to lower.
He gave Muir a flat look.
Muir didn’t answer.
The only one who got to display for Ophelia was him.
The peacock blinked, startled.
Muir didn’t say a word.
But he glowered.
Esko, to his credit, was intelligent enough to pick up on the warning.
Still, he let out an exaggerated sigh. “Relax, hawk. I wasn’t about to try anything.” His tail feathers gave a slight twitch, but they did settle down, no longer looking quite as full as before.
Muir narrowed his eyes.
Not on my watch.
Esko clicked his tongue. “You’re insufferable.”
Muir didn’t respond. Instead, he kept his stance firm, his wings remaining where they were until Ophelia was fully changed. Only then did he finally fold them back in, satisfied that no unwelcome eyes had wandered where they shouldn’t.
Esko only rolled his eyes. “Possessive much?”
Muir didn’t bother answering.
Because the moment Ophelia turned around, fully dressed and pleased, her tail flicking happily behind her, all he could focus on was how perfect she looked in that dress.
Ophelia looked stunning.
The black-dyed leather dress hugged her strong, curvaceous form in a way that was both practical and undeniably alluring. It cinched semi-tight at her waist, accentuating the natural dip before flaring slightly at her hips. The skirt flowed freely but ended mid-thigh, leaving her long, toned legs on full display—perfect for movement, perfect for a warrior.
The back was completely open, allowing her large, majestic wings the space they needed to spread without restriction. Her tail, always full of life, swayed lazily beneath the skirt’s hem, the movement effortless, as if she were already comfortable in her new attire.
But the neckline…
It was dangerously loose.
The soft leather draped rather than clung, falling just enough to highlight the swells of her chest without being indecent. It exposed a tantalizing amount of skin—just enough to tease, just enough to tempt. And her arms? Bare. Uncovered, unrestrained, her powerful muscles shifting with every little movement.
It was an outfit clearly designed for ease—something she could slip in and out of effortlessly. And yet, despite its simplicity, it suited her perfectly.
Muir watched, enthralled, as she twirled in place, inspecting how it fit. Ophelia was clearly pleased.
Esko, ever the professional despite his earlier instincts, snapped out of his trance and immediately got to work, stepping closer as he asked, “Does the fit feel right to you? Any tightness? Any discomfort?”
Ophelia stopped twirling, placing a hand on her hip. “It feels good—breathable, easy to move in. It doesn’t restrict my tail or wings, which is nice.” She stretched, rolling her shoulders, before glancing down at herself. “I like how it falls here,” she added, plucking the loose neckline slightly.
Muir, who was still trying to recover from watching her spin, felt his eye twitch.
Esko hummed, thoughtful. “May I check the fit?”
Ophelia, completely unbothered, nodded. “Go ahead.”
Muir barely contained a growl.
The peacock beastman stepped in close, his sharp eyes sweeping over Ophelia’s frame in a purely professional manner—but Muir didn’t believe it. He watched as Esko’s fingers just barely grazed along the hem of the skirt, testing the way it moved. He took in every inch of how the leather molded to her body, his gaze lingering a second too long on how it dipped at her lower back before he nodded, satisfied.
“In a week’s time, I should have the rest ready,” Esko announced, stepping back.
Ophelia gave a pleased hum, stretching her arms over her head before nodding. “Perfect.”
Muir, who had been scowling the entire time, immediately placed a possessive hand around her waist as they turned to leave.
The stink-eye he shot Esko was nothing short of murderous.
The peacock beastman merely smirked, the faintest flick of his tail feathers betraying his amusement.
Muir held back a snarl.
Not on my watch.
As they stepped back out onto the main street, Ophelia still held both boars in her grip, their limp bodies swinging slightly as she walked. Her tail flicked in contentment, pleased with her outfit, pleased with her hunt, pleased in general.
Muir, still unwilling to relinquish his claim, kept his arm wrapped firmly around her waist, his grip undeniable.
The second they stepped into public view, the staring began.
It wasn’t unusual—Ophelia was always stared at. But this time? The gazes were different.
Some beastmen gawked at her. Others? At him.
Muir felt the weight of their eyes, some filled with curiosity, some burning with jealousy. The more dominant ones, the ones who had still clung to the delusion that they had a chance, glared openly at him.
He met their stares head-on, unbothered, unwavering.
Some had the audacity to keep looking.
The weaker ones? They looked away first.
Ophelia, completely oblivious to the unspoken battle occurring around her, turned her head toward Muir.
“Do you want to eat at our den?” she asked, adjusting the weight of the boars. “Or would you rather eat by the clearing?”
Muir’s brain stalled.
Not because of the question—no.
Because of the way she said it.
Our den.
Not his den. Not her den.
Theirs.
A strange warmth bloomed deep in his chest, something he had never quite felt before. Something that settled right next to the pride of wearing her mark.
“…Our den,” he repeated softly, almost like a reverent whisper.
Ophelia tilted her head. “Hmm?”
Muir cleared his throat, masking the emotion before it could show. “The den’s fine.”
He barely registered her pleased nod.
Because his attention had already shifted.
More beastmen were staring. Too many.
Muir’s expression darkened. Anyone who dared to linger too long on his mate was met with an unrelenting, piercing glare.
Some continued. Others immediately averted their eyes.
Either way?
Muir didn’t care.
Because at the end of the day—
Ophelia was his.