A/N: *skulks in, like Santa Claus*

*stuffs the newest chapter into your stocking*

*prances away*

Happy Holidays, everyone!

xx-Kitten.

Hold Me Down

By Kittenshift17

Chapter Seven

Fenrir just barely managed to snag hold of his witch before she could crash into the coffee table. Catching hold of her and contorting his own body to cradle her into his arms as they both fell, he growled at the bite of the coffee table corner into his hip before he slid to the floor with the unconscious witch sprawled across his lap.

"Well… fuck," Fenrir cursed, eyeing the little witch worriedly. "You can take the rutting, and the pregnancy, and the shock of finding me naked under the couch, but hearing you're my wolf-mate is too much? Really, girly?"

Granger offered no answer, given that she was passed out, and Fenrir frowned, wondering what he was supposed to do now. He didn't imagine it could be very good for a pregnant witch to faint, even if he had caught her and prevented her from injuring herself.

"Bloody hell," he grumbled to himself, wriggling around until he could haul her more fully across his lap and into his arms.

Fenrir carefully rose to his feet, clutching the small witch in his arms and thinking to himself that he was never going to hear the end of it if he tried anything other than laying her on the sofa. He was sure that if he tried to put her to bed, she would flip out when she woke up. He got the feeling it would be too much of a violation at this stage of their acquaintance to invite himself into her bedroom. Sighing, Fenrir tipped his head back and glared at the ceiling for a long moment as he grappled with his wolf over what was appropriate, and what was wildly out of order. His wolf, it seemed, was wholly of the opinion that this would be a perfect time to put her into bed, strip her, and begin learning her taste and her feel while she wasn't able to put up a fight or go growling at him.

"We're not doing that," Fenrir growled at his wolf through gritted teeth before looking back at the prone form of the tiny witch in his arms.

She really was young, he realized as he got his first good look at her from so close without her scowling at him, trying to fight him off, or just looking like the weight of the world was on her shoulders. Her cheeks were pale thanks to the fainting spell, revealing a small spattering of freckles on her nose and cheeks that he'd never noticed before. She seemed almost fragile as he carefully lowered her down to lie lengthways on the sofa and Fenrir frowned as he traced his eyes over her, noting that she was young, petite, and almost frail following the ravages of the war.

It surprised him because ordinarily, when she was awake, she seemed so very fierce. The way she carried herself and the way she held herself leant itself to age, wisdom, and power that he was beginning to think she might not have in quite so much abundance as he'd first imagined.

"So small, girly," he muttered to her, smoothing a few wayward curls back from her face and eyeing her curiously.

There could be no doubt that she was his wolf-mate, he realized as he touched her so gently. When he was in her presence, his wolf wanted to behave. Any other witch before she'd come along would've been in the most danger right in that moment, unconscious in his presence. But not this one. This fierce little witch carrying his pup was as safe as could be despite the presence of the big scary werewolf and Fenrir wasn't quite sure he liked the idea of going soft over a bloody female. Just what he needed with the few surviving members of his pack ruthless, hungry, and out for revenge.

Before he could worry too much about being followed back to his little witch and the pup in her womb, she gasped awake. Her cinnamon eyes snapped open and she screamed, almost deafening him as she attempted to awkwardly backpedal across the couch away from him. Fenrir winced, recoiling and clapping his hands to his sensitive ears, growling at her in frustration when the ache of his eardrums sparked a headache behind his eyes.

"Blimey, Granger," he complained, frowning at her in annoyance.

"Get back!" she gasped, her eyes wide with terror as her hand groped blindly for her wand, as though that might save her. "Don't touch me!"

Fenrir wanted to growl all over again, but rather than arguing, he let himself roll out of his crouch and backward to sprawl on his bum in the middle of her living room. She was still trying to scramble away from him, but her back had hit the cushions, and there was nowhere else to go.

"You fainted," he informed her despite the rapid breathing and wide eyes she was practicing. "I bloody caught you before you could crack your head on the table, girly. Calm down."

"Calm down?" she hissed. "The last time you were this close to me, you raped me, Greyback."

"And I bloody apologized for you seein' it that way, didn't I?" he growled, losing patience with her. "You're my thrice damned bloody wolf-mate, witch! You're lucky I didn't have you that day we snatched you at Christmas before dragging you off to Malfoy Manor. And you're sodding lucky I'm a patient wolf, or I'd have had you hundreds of times by now, girl. You're my mate. My witch. My bloody territory, and you're carrying my pup."

"I'm not your anything," she denied vehemently, looking ready to curse him into a coma. Again.

"Yes, you are," Fenrir bit out, his fangs lengthening and his claws prickling at the denial. "And you will be until the day you die. No matter how far you run, or where you hide, I will find you. No matter how many of my pups you murder, I'll rut another one into you. You're it for me, witch. Get used to it!"

She reacted by scrambling awkwardly over the back of the couch and landing on her feet, skittishly looking about her small cottage. Fenrir rose to his feet slowly, recognizing the look of a flighty hind about to make a run for it. And it would be the very worst thing she could do.

"Don't run," he warned her quietly.

She glared at him.

"Don't," he cautioned a second time, his toenails lengthening to claws that threatened to rip holes in her carpet in preparation to spring after her. "I'm a predator, Hermione. And if you run, you become my prey."

"I'm already your prey," she hissed. "I have been since you caught a whiff of me that day with the Snatchers."

"Mmmm, you ran from me then, too," he hummed, recalling that day with alarming clarity. "And look what it got you."

She curled her lip away from her teeth hatefully in a silent snarl like any wolf and Fenrir responded in kind, knowing it would likely frighten her all the more, but unable to resist his instincts.

"I'm not your mate," Hermione insisted, taking a measured step backward.

Fenrir mimicked her, taking one step forward for every step backward that she took.

"Yes, you are," he growled at her. "And if you run from me, I'll run you down and prove it. This close to the moon, I bite, girly."

"As though that's something to fear?" she hissed, reaching up and pulling aside the neck of her shirt to reveal the scar left behind from when he'd bitten her while he'd rutted her last time they'd been in such close quarters. Fenrir narrowed his eyes on the mark for a long moment before huffing out a breath in annoyance.

"Do you want me to bite you again?" he asked seriously.

She frowned at him like he was a moron and Fenrir scowled.

"What would ever possess me to want that?" she sneered. "Frankly, Greyback, if I never see you again, it'll be too soon."

"I'm not leaving," he warned her quietly. "And you'll be begging me to bite you, and to fuck you long before that pup is born, girly."

"I most certainly will not," she disagreed, drawing herself up a little higher and looking both disgusted and indignant at the very suggestion.

"No?" Fenrir asked, forcing the itch of tension between his shoulders to relax, his wolf hungry to remind her that she was his mate and would be until the day she died. "Then tell me something, girly… why've you been calling out for me in your sleep?"

Her eyes narrowed.

"If you can't tell the difference between wanton cries of need and shrieks of terror, Greyback, then you're even further gone than I thought," she sneered coldly, backpedaling a few more steps and forcing him to dog them across the room until his knees hit the front of the sofa.

"You keep telling yourself that, little witch," he said quietly, regarding her coolly and beginning to think that it might've been a mistake to ambush her so soon. Maybe she needed longer to warm up to him.

"Why are you here, Greyback?" she demanded, her wand gripped tightly in her closed fist and her eyes fixed on him, just waiting for him to spring at her.

"You know why," he said. "You're my mate, and you're carrying my pup. And as a result of both of those things, you're going to need me before the next full moon."

"I'll never need you," she hissed meanly and, unbidden, Fenrir snarled at her ferociously.

She flinched back in surprise and he knew in a heartbeat that he'd pushed her too far. Even as she began to turn, intent on running, he sprang at her, his powerful legs propelling him right over the top of the sofa. She barely got three steps – not even really what could be considered having run from him, which worked in her favor – before he barreled into her from behind. She screamed as she stumbled forward, his arms coming up to cage her petite frame against his chest and lifting her right off her feet.

She screamed, and she flailed violently in his hold.

"GET OFF ME!"

Fenrir's ears were ringing, and he was going to have to teach the bloody woman to use her inside-voice, or she was going to permanently deafen him.

"I warned you," he growled, his lips by her ear.

She was trembling violently as she struggled, trying desperately to get away. Her nails slashed against the skin of his arms, cutting ribbons into his flesh as she tried to fight her way free and it occurred to him that having him wrapped around her from behind must be too reminiscent of what he'd done to her in the forest when he'd rutted her.

Spinning her quickly, he dug one hand into her thick curls, clutching the back of her head and forcing her face against his bare chest while his other arm looped around her lower back, gripping her so tightly, he was sure he might be hurting her. She continued to scream, the sound growing ragged as her emotions reached their tipping point. The fear and pain and rage pouring off her was palpable, stinging his nose and making his wolf was to curl into a ball and whine to know he'd been the one to inspire this in his own mate.

"Come on, girly," he muttered into the top of her head, still holding her snugly while she clawed at him viciously, drawing blood and marking his flesh with her talons. "Easy, now. Come on. I'm not going to hurt you. Shhhhh."

"ARRGGHHH!" she shrieked again, flailing harder and Fenrir gritted his teeth against the sound, his head pounding and his ears ringing.

"Shhhh. You're alright, Hermione," he crooned to her softly, just knowing he might live to regret what he was doing, but unable to help himself with his wolf guiding his actions. "Come on, girly. Shhhh. I've got you. You're safe. I won't hurt you."

"You hurt everything you touch," she accused thickly, her voice ragged and croaky as tears began streaming down her face. She writhed in his grip, surprising him with her show of strength when she managed to force him back a half-step before she began beating her tiny fists against his chest in her fury.

He could smell her hatred for him and Fenrir sighed softly, slowly releasing his hold on her as she continued striking him again and again for what he'd done. He didn't blame her, even if his wolf couldn't understand this kind of outrage over being rutted. The human side of his consciousness could understand and even rationalize that what she was doing was likely cathartic, and that he'd terrified her when he'd grabbed her that day in the forest.

She sobbed as she struck him over and over, punching and punching her tiny fists against his bare chest, wearing herself out as she cried out her fear and her pain until she couldn't lift her arms anymore. When her knees gave out under her, Fenrir caught her, scooping her up into his hold and cradling her like she was a bride on her wedding day. She wiggled impotently for a few moments before all the fight went out of her and she put her hands over her face, crying softly.

Carrying her around the sofa, Fenrir carefully sat upon it. He cradled her in his arms and sat her in his lap and she tensed at the feel of so much of his body pressed against hers, but she didn't stop crying and he didn't release his hold enough that she could move off him.

"Why are you here, Greyback?" she asked thickly. "Why me? Why couldn't you have just stayed away?"

Fenrir sighed heavily, his breath stirring her wild curls and he shrugged his shoulders.

"Because you're my witch," he told her quietly. "Believe me, girly, I'm no happier about it than you."

She choked on a sob and lifted her eyes to stare into his face, apparently shocked to hear him say so, and Fenrir regarded her coolly. Before she'd come along smelling so bloody enticing, he'd managed to avoid being tied down by the complications of having a mate or letting women get into his head. He'd fucked more that his fair share during the years he'd been on this Earth, but he'd never given a single one of them more than a passing thought. They scratched the itch when it arose, and then they each went their separate ways.

"You…?" she began, looking confused before seeming to realize just how close she was to him.

She wriggled off his lap and crawled to the far end of the sofa, pulling her knees to her chest and making herself as small as possible, though she never took her eyes off him. Fenrir let her, even though his wolf was snarling inside his head about missed opportunity to properly mark her as his mate and to begin convincing her that she would really be more comfortable moving forward in her pregnancy if she let him make her feel good.

"You didn't have any hand in choosing me as your mate?" she asked in a small voice when she'd gotten herself situated and was able to articulate her thoughts without her voice cracking thanks to her tears.

"Believe me, girly, I had no intention of ever being bloody well tied down like this," Fenrir admitted, eyeing her guardedly and wrestling with his wolf's urge to reach for her all over again, part of him just dying to take hold of her ankle and drag her back across the couch so that he could have his wicked way with her.

"Then why come here?" she frowned at him. "Just because I have this unwelcome tattoo on the back of my neck and this… this… thing in my womb doesn't mean you need to be here, Greyback. Why threaten to hunt me down or re-impregnate me if I terminate? I can be rid of the baby, you can go back to… whatever it is you were doing before the war, and I can get back to living my life as any regular, war-ravaged, probably-suffering-PTSD, high-school-dropout eighteen year old should and we can just pretend none of this ever happened."

Fenrir growled at her and she flinched.

"What?" she demanded. "Why are you growling? I'm not ready for a child, Greyback. I haven't even finished school."

Fenrir paused at her words, frowning at her. "You're only eighteen?" he asked, unsure how to feel to learn that she was so very young.

"Yes," she nodded. "Why? How old are you?"

Fenrir wasn't sure he should tell her. In truth, he wasn't wholly sure he knew. He'd been infected with lycanthropy at a very young age. Before he turned five, in fact. Perhaps younger. He only had very vague memories of the time before that.

"That's… not important," he said evasively.

"Uh… yes, it is," Hermione protested. "How old, Greyback? Just tell me. I'm already having a bloody shite evening, you might as well lay it all on me, now. I know you're much old than me – and much older than you look. You were an adult when Remus was just a child, so I know you're at least… what… late fifties? Early sixties."

Fenrir frowned.

"Pretty sure I'll be eighty-three next month," he admitted begrudgingly when she looked so beseeching.

She gasped in surprised, eyeing him like he must be some decrepit old man and Fenrir growled at her all over again, annoyed with her for asking, and with the bloody Fates for dealing him such a hand as to pair him with someone so much younger. Being immortal was beginning to blow.

"Pretty sure?" she frowned after several long minutes of silence, as though she'd needed time to let that sink in.

"Got bitten before I was old enough to form real memories," Fenrir shrugged, frowning at him. "Went feral. Don't even rightly know if Fenrir Greyback is my real name."

"How could you not know?" she frowned. "Who raised you? Didn't they tell you your name and your birthday?"

Fenrir curled his lip away from his teeth, though he wasn't sure if he was annoyed or amused.

"Girly, I've been living feral… all wolf… since I was bitten. Nobody 'raised' me. I just… survived."

She looked utterly horrified, her eyes going wide with something akin to pity glittering in them.

"How?" she breathed.

"What do you mean, 'how'?" Fenrir frowned at her.

"How did you survive? Most children begin forming lasting memories at three or four years old, some even younger. You'd have been too young to fend for yourself."

Fenrir's laugh was low and bitter when it sounded.

"You think a wolf can't fend for himself?" he asked.

"Well, of course he can," she said. "But even wolf pups need the care of the pack. Did you have a pack to raise you?"

"Had a pack hunting me," he said, frowning. "First coherent memory I've got is of being bitten. And I've been learning to fight, and to survive, ever since. Never had anybody helping me."

"But you'd have been so young… why didn't your parents do anything to help you?" she asked, and Fenrir began to think she'd been raised by two loving muggles who'd doted on her and protected her from the world.

"Who do you think chained me up as werewolf bait, girly?" he asked, raising his eyebrows. "It was no accident that I was bitten, I know that much. I almost chewed my right foot off when I was bitten and the wolf took me, only to find me chained. Back then they thought the best way to protect from werewolves was to sacrifice to them at full moons. Give the hungry beast something to snack on that's easy pickings and he won't go prowling, see?"

"And they chained a child up as bait?" she asked, looking a bit like she was going to be sick.

Fenrir couldn't help it. He laughed.

"You didn't think they'd be safe chaining up livestock, did you? Come on, girly. I know you're a smart one. The werewolf responds only to the call of its own kind, and rabidly seeks human flesh at the full moon. I might run down a deer or a boar when I'm peckish outside of the full moon but make no mistake that every living werewolf craves human flesh at a full moon."

"So, they just… chained up a toddler?"

"It was the early 1900s, Granger. Children were abundant and often unwelcome, additional mouths to feed. I'm lucking I lived long enough to be bitten at all and survive the bite. Figure I'd have been four or five by then. Maybe."

"So, you're… sixty-five years older than me?" she asked, looking rather horrified by the gap. Fenrir didn't blame her. He certainly didn't look or feel his age, but he knew that to the young and the immature, age seemed vitally important. And being raised by muggles, who often only lived to be between sixty and ninety, or so, she would be attuned to thinking his age was old.

"Don't worry, girly," Fenrir said quietly. "In lycanthrope years, I haven't even hit my prime, yet."

"What?" she gasped, her eyes widening.

"You heard me," he said.

"You… what is considered to be 'prime age' in werewolf years?" she asked, clearly baffled.

"Usually about a hundred and fifty or two hundred," Fenrir shrugged his shoulders idly. "Even with the age gap, I'll outlive you, Hermione. At least, I will unless I bite you."

Her eyes widened, and Fenrir suspected she could tell that he had every intention of biting her. If he had to be saddled with a wolf-mate, he wasn't about to go losing her to some spell, or sickness or run of the mill old-age.

"I don't want you to bite me," she said quietly, frowning at him when she realized he had every intention of it. "And I'm fairly certain that doing so would have a negative on the baby."

Fenrir nodded slowly, a wolfish grin curling across his lips and causing the fear and nervousness permeating her scent to spike.

"Oh, don't worry, girly. I'll give you a few pups and a few years before we think about giving you a wolf all your own," he promised quietly.

He wondered if he was as much a monster as they claimed when her nervous and audible gulp made him chuckle wickedly

NOTE: I have recently published an original novel featuring werewolves on Amazon. If you like my stuff, check out my author profile or hit me up on FB for all the details.