Devoured (Alpha’s Claim #6)

Chapter 1

Bernard Dome

Drowning in one man’s phantom pleasure while filled with another man’s cock… that was how Brenya Perin would perish.

Blown apart, eclipsed, ground into powder and brushed away like dust.

Around her the Red Room burned under the setting sun, light slanting through its towering windows, lacquered walls catching slanted beams of gold and throwing them back tinged crimson.

The dying light made everything shine as if wet, bloody.

On the table, dinner grew cold. Stew abandoned in its bowl, bread uneaten beside a half-empty cup of cool water.

Condensation gathered on that glass, trailing slowly down the side, one bead after another, like the sweat on her brow.

Brenya missed all of this. Her eyes locked on the unnervingly composed man standing over her.

Like her, Jules wore a black button-down shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow, exposing the intricate black marks decorating strong forearms. The same shirt he stripped from his body each night to dress her in after she’d bathed.

One he pulled over her shoulders before buttoning her up slowly from hem to collar.

Fabric always warm from his skin, rich with comforting Beta scent.

He’d trained her to associate the delicious smell of him with safety. Built a life around her where his presence was always sanctuary. And then he’d done this to her.

Left her at the mercy and cruel whims of another.

Reminded Brenya of her place as an Omega claimed by two dangerous males in a twisted three-way pair-bond she could only ever run from…

but never escape. Reinforced the sad reality that it was futile to try.

Trapped, as she was, in the clutches of an Alpha monster who was now awake and reaching for her through their link.

Sheltered in the Red Room by a Beta villain who watched her flounder.

Owned by both.

Those limpid blue eyes stared down at her helplessness.

Unnaturally bright, so vivid… yet impossible to read.

His still, engulfing presence one she’d used to flee Jacques’s violent, manipulative pull more times than she could count.

Jules’s mental ocean of unending darkness, his calm sea, nowhere to be found now.

And she tried. Reached for his sanctuary with her mind as he denied her.

Staring. Waiting. Palm open. Demand made.

Did the Beta feel elation to have her wriggle on his hook? Know sadness to see her suffer? Was a man like Jules capable of feeling anything other than the desire for her he claimed consumed him?

He’d placed Jacques in a medically induced coma for weeks so the Alpha could not torment her while she’d healed. Mentally. Surgically.

Repaired the damage Jacques’s cock had done to her when he’d raped her in the street. Gave her back a fully functioning vaginal canal.

Waited until her body had responded on its own to truly tempt.

And it had. Slicking. Seizing. Begging. A drenched, eager reaction to nothing but the imprisoned Alpha’s distant, furious rut and his manipulation of the pair-bond… forcing her to feel every bit of male pleasure. Her cunt ripening, salivating for a knot only an Alpha could give her.

And Jules was a Beta. A Beta who had put her in this humiliating position.

Wide-eyed, Brenya’s expression twisted into heartbroken betrayal as her body pitched toward the cusp of climax against her will.

Fingers gripping the edge of the polished wooden chair beneath her, knuckles bone-white, her insides flipped and convulsed, acting out orgasm, though her body remained empty and untouched.

All while Jules stood silently over where she writhed in her chair, his fixed gaze a ruthless anchor, arm still outstretched… waiting for her to take his hand.

To invite him into her nest.

The Beta, her husband, absorbed every tic, each helpless twitch and spilled tear, witnessing the dying of a star as Brenya failed in her instinctual, pointless effort to disconnect.

Only to explode again with another orgasm as every part of her she had so carefully patched together in the quiet weeks in Jules’s gentle captivity was torn apart.

Somewhere tucked away, Jacques Bernard was fucking Lucia.

And he was suffering at the feel of another’s cunt.

The Alpha hated it.

Yet relished each sensation. Desperate to bury his guilt and shame as he chased every scrap of pleasure through furious friction against the womb of another.

Rage burning hot through the pair-bond. A building whisper in her thoughts tickling corners of her mind she’d thought free of him in her foolish complacency while he’d slept.

“Brenya… come to me.”

And it grew. The bond stretching awake with him, snarling to life with every minute he was parted from sedation.

An Alpha threat that no matter the distance between them, no matter who he fucked, he was inside her.

That they were still one.

Forever.

And that he was coming to collect what was his.

That he would make her come over and over until she remembered who she belonged to. Until she obeyed. Until she stopped pulling away and reached for him through the bond and took all he gave.

And then he would make her come some more. Until it was her cunt he felt, not Lucia’s. Until the bond swallowed the difference, and the pleasure belonged to them alone.

Mounting cramps, deep discomfort coiling tighter around empty pleasure, Brenya trapped in a grotesque simulation of sex while Jacques forcefully flooded her with him. And still, Jules held out his hand.

Casting long shadows across the Red Room, the setting sun’s amber light bathed her in an orange glow. Caught on the curve of her breast beneath Jules’s borrowed black shirt. Lit the side of her tan throat in gold.

The same gold as her tormented eyes.

Still coming. Her insides compressed, muscles grinding delicate tissues against one another, driven to over-tighten in their desperation for seed, as there was no knot to milk.

Twisting atop that puddling slick, the seat beneath her thighs and seizing cunt slimy with it, fat drops slipped off the chair’s edge to dribble down in threads to the floor.

“Come to me, mon chou.”

That voice—Jacques’s voice—wasn’t memory. It inhabited the air, slid down her spine, coiling against her clit as if his tongue lapped her juices.

“No!” she sobbed, jolting hard. Folding forward, she gripped the chair like it might anchor her.

A moan rose, trapped behind grinding teeth, as she fought with everything not to heed his call or feel his pleasure.

And failed.

A hissing, wet suck of air. Her breath snagged, morphed into a strained, reedy wail as blinding, painful orgasm peaked. Legs trembled, cunt manically wrenching around nothing.

No reprieve. No ebb. Just endless throbbing need.

Adrenaline shivers left her teeth chattering, another wave of climax already building too quickly for her to brace.

The mind knew it wasn’t real, but her body did not understand what was taking place.

Cunt tightened in confusion, grasping for a knot that wasn’t there and wouldn’t come without an Alpha to fuck her.

No stretch to soothe the muscles. No fullness to trigger her relief. No cum flooding inside her where it was needed. Just empty friction and sick dread.

She seized again under Jules’s unblinking gaze. Stuck, trembling, beautiful.

Bernard Dome’s museum boasted an exhibit of colorful, rare insects pinned to velvet. Beetles and butterflies that had not been invited into her Dome’s curated ecosystem. Delicate, pretty things.

And in that moment of ecstatic pain, that’s what she became. Twitching. On display. An invisible needle lanced through her center, pinning her to the sopping chair, even as she wanted to drag her body into a dark corner to hide.

She could taste Jacques in the back of her throat… hear the grunts and moans, the frustrated snarls and the passionate cries.

Worst of all… under the horror, Brenya felt wronged by Jacques’s use of another woman.

Betrayed.

The cum he pumped into Lucia was hers… Brenya needed it with a desperation that outstripped any craving she’d ever felt—even for Beta rations in her deepest moments of withdrawal.

And Jacques knew…

The Alpha knew every slippery, unfocused spasm in her mind. Including how frightened, how humiliated, she was.

“I’ll help you, Brenya. Find me. Come now.”

It was her nightmare all over again, and now he could do these things to her… and he was not even in the room.

“I won’t!” Bloodless fingers pried away from the chair’s edge with effort.

Stiff, aching, curled from how hard she’d clung to her soaked seat.

On panicked instinct, Brenya shoved at the table.

Her chair scraping back, wooden legs sliding through the mess of slick pooling beneath her.

Dishes clattered. Her sweating glass of water toppled.

She collapsed forward, elbows locking, fingers clawing at the edge of the table as if it could hold her upright.

Spine coiled tight, a cramp pulled her into a sick, folded arch.

She was trying. Gods, she was trying. Every spasm, every gasp, every weak shove of her hands said no—but it wasn’t enough. Not against an insidious pair-bond wielded by a man hellbent on enmeshing himself into her very soul.

The harder she resisted, the more fiercely Jacques rebelled, his influence escalating into an unbearable onslaught until, panting, she looked up at Jules, his hand still extended, unchanged, as if he’d known it would come to this.

Her voice cracked, low and broken. “Please… make it stop.”

With a single touch, Jules Havel granted her wish.

By reaching forward and closing his hand around her throat.

Gently forcing her spasming body to uncurl, articulating each vertebra against the solid back of her chair. Applying just enough pressure to assure he had her complete, undivided attention, even if another had her cramping womb.