He shoved my legs apart with his knee, his body covering mine completely, overwhelming me with sheer size and strength. His hand gripped my jaw, forcing me to meet his burning gaze.
“One last time, Sorcha. Say it.”
The fire in my blood was unbearable, the ache inside me screaming for release. My pride cracked under the weight of it, my voice breaking as the words tore out of me.
“I’m yours,” I gasped. “I’m fucking yours.”
His snarl was victory and need all in one as he slammed into me in a single brutal thrust, filling me to the hilt. My scream turned into a sob of relief, my body clenching around him like it had been waiting only for him.
He drove into me relentlessly, the rhythm punishing, his hands gripping me hard enough to bruise. The leather bit my wrists, every movement a reminder of his control, of the power I’d surrendered even as I fought him. And God help me; it felt like salvation.
“Mine,” he growled into my throat, each thrust a brand, burning his claim into me. “Every inch of you. Every breath. Every fucking thought is mine.”
I shattered around him, screaming his name, the orgasm ripping through me so violently it felt like I’d been torn apart and remade. He didn’t stop, didn’t relent, pounding into me until I came again, until my body was limp and trembling, until all I could do was cling to him.
When he finally spilled inside me with a guttural roar, his fangs sank into my shoulder, sealing his vow in blood. My world went white-hot, every nerve lit with fire, until there was nothing left but him.
When it was over, he freed my wrists, his hands suddenly gentle as he pulled me against his chest. His lips brushed my temple, his voice a low vow.
“You’ll never question me again in public.”
And God help me, I believed him.
The room was thick with the smell of sex, and blood. My body was limp, trembling from the storm he’d dragged me through, but Lucien didn’t move away. Instead, his mouth pressed to the spot where his fangs had pierced my shoulder, his tongue laving gently over the bite until the sting dulled, until the ache became something softer, something intimate.
“Easy,” he murmured against my skin, as though I hadn’t just been pinned and punished within an inch of my sanity. His hand, the same one that had bound me and held me down, now smoothed slow strokes down my spine, steadying me like I was fragile glass.
I wanted to hate him for it, the sudden tenderness after the brutal way he’d claimed me, but I melted into it instead, too wrung out to resist, too raw to pretend it didn’t soothe something deep inside me.
When I winced, trying to shift my wrists, he caught my hands, pulling them to his lips. His mouth brushed over my wrists reverently, like an apology without words.
“Does it hurt?” he asked, his voice low, rough, but stripped of the earlier edge.
“A little,” I admitted, surprised by how small my voice sounded.
His eyes softened, only slightly, but enough to unravel me all over again. “Good.” He kissed the inside of my wrist, lingering. “A reminder.” Then his expression darkened, as though he could hear my protest building. “But I won’t let them scar.”
He moved with a strange precision, lifting me as though I weighed nothing, carrying me to the bathroom. The mirror caught us, my face flushed, his skin still slick with sweat, tattoos winding over hard muscle. The contrast between the predator and the man who now knelt to run a warm cloth over my thighs left me dizzy.
“I should hate you,” I whispered, unable to tear my gaze from him.
His mouth curved in that dangerous almost-smile. “You will. And then you’ll love me harder.”
He cleaned me with care that shouldn’t have been possible after the savagery of minutes before. Every touch was deliberate, unhurried, as though he was stitching me back together after tearing me apart.
When he finished, he carried me back to the bed, pulling the blankets over us both before tucking me against his chest. His fingers traced lazy circles on my arm, grounding me, tethering me to something I didn’t understand but couldn’t deny.
“You’re shaking,” he murmured.
“You scared me,” I admitted before I could stop myself.
He kissed the crown of my head, his voice quiet but fierce. “Good. Then you’ll never forget what happens if you defy me.But…” his hand tightened, almost protective, “you’ll also never forget that I’ll always put you back together again.”
The contradiction, punishment and comfort, fire and gentleness should have broken me. Instead, it made me feel like I was his in ways deeper than my body. And that terrified me more than anything.
Wrapped in his arms, warmth and danger coiled around me like chains. His chest rose and fell steady beneath my cheek, every inhale carrying that faint, dark scent of smoke and steel that was uniquely him. It should have calmed me. It should have made me feel safe. Instead, my mind turned restlessly, caught between the memory of the woman’s desperate eyes and Lucien’s warning growl.
Her daughter was still so young, only sixteen. She was all alone, maybe waiting, maybe mourning thinking that something had happened to her mother.
