Epilogue
CAINE
TWO YEARS LATER
“Fuck,” Dylan gasped, his head resting against my shoulder, his mouth slack with pleasure.
He was in my lap. His back to my chest, his knees hooked over my legs, splayed wide.
One of his hands stretched behind him, fingers buried in the hair at my nape, clasping tight.
The other was braced on the arm of my office chair, his knuckles white as he used it for leverage to grind my cock inside his hot, slick hole.
“Is this what you wanted, hm?” I purred in his ear, eliciting a shudder. “Coming in here wearing nothing but my shirt, taunting me with your scent? You were just desperate to be fucked.”
He nodded. “Need it.”
I hummed. “Wanton little thing. Do you really think you could be stuffed any fuller?”
My hand was cupping the underside of his swollen belly, two months away from capacity.
A possessive rumble vibrated in my chest, my fingers flexing in the fabric of my shirt as my hips bucked upward once.
His brows scrunched, his lips thinning as if holding back a whimper.
He was expressive, beautiful, and he loved taking me deep.
Not even riding or bouncing, just filled to the brim and rocking me against all those spots inside that had his eyes rolling back.
The shirt drowned him, reaching the bottom of his thighs, making it all the more enticing.
He wore my shirts for comfort, he’d said, to ease the graze on his overstimulated skin, but it was also an instinct.
A need to feel covered in me, being so close to his due date.
It aroused me, witnessing him dressed in my clothes, looking all soft and round and bred full.
He’d shown up here to seduce me, but I’d been rock hard from the moment I’d observed him on the CCTV, sneaking along the corridors, flaunting his bare legs and the silhouette of his bump and tits.
My sentinels knew to avert their eyes. I would’ve been fucking him in a pool of their blood otherwise.
I’d already torn apart the top buttons to get to his neck, biting into his mating gland to remind him who he belonged to.
It draped off his shoulder now, revealing one of his pecs, plump with milk.
They were leaking, a puddle already soaked into the cotton when he’d sauntered in here, smelling of pregnant and horny omega.
I craved to put my mouth on them, suck them, make him whine and thrash from their sensitivity.
I’d have to be satisfied with kneading them in my palms, flicking my thumb over the pebbled nipple to make him squirm.
His back arched. “Caine . . .”
“Hm?” I mouthed at his collarbone, biting at the small black dragonfly tattoo there.
“I’m close.”
“I know, I can smell it,” I growled, my balls throbbing. “Can feel you clamping down on me, your pulse stuttering. Do you want my cum inside you? Would that satisfy your ache?”
“Yes,” he moaned. “Want it dripping out of me.”
“You’re going to have to move faster,” I teased, a rasp against his skin. “Ride my cock properly if you want it.”
Without a single attempt, the cunning little shit peered up at me before leaning in to kiss my jaw. “Please, Alpha,” he murmured, a playful glint in his eyes. “Come inside me. I’m carrying your baby, it’s the least you could do for me.”
“Such a fucking brat,” I hissed through gritted teeth, thrusting up. He gasped, the sound filtering off into a laugh.
“And you fall for it. Every . . . damn . . . time.”
I snarled and gripped under his thighs, lifting and dropping him onto my cock like a man possessed, using his soft, wet hole like a sleeve to get myself off. “Is this what you needed, hm? To be taken?”
“Harder.”
“Fuck,” I bit out, obliging him, my hips smacking against his arse with force, my release coiling taut. His fingers tightened in my hair, and his jaw fell lax, making room for the moan tumbling off his tongue, resembling more of a shout.
He was coming, his hole constricting around my cock, his legs crushing my hands under his thighs as he tensed.
He was fucking beautiful.
My hips faltered, and with a grunt against his throat, I spilled deep inside him.
My knot wouldn’t inflate, my body attuned to his, knowing I’d already achieved that objective—though instinct wouldn’t prevent me from grinding into him until my skin was oversensitive, filling him with only one purpose in my mind.
He slumped against me, eyes closed while he caught his breath. I lowered his legs to dangle over mine again. My hands tucked under his belly, cradling the weight to allow an extended reprieve through the afterglow. I kissed his shoulder. “Better?”
He nodded. “Hm, yeah.”
“You’re insatiable.”
“I’m pregnant,” he grumbled as if I wasn’t astutely aware of the fact. “It happens. Besides, the doc said it was good to mix scents regularly. To reduce stress, and whatever.”
“I don’t believe he meant every five minutes.”
“Fuck off,” he said, sounding mildly offended. “I waited at least ten that time.”
I huffed. “Would you like to be carried to the bath?”
“Not yet.” He removed his hand from the chair arm, resting it on his protruding belly. His other one was still in my hair, scratching lightly. He nuzzled closer, his nose pressed into my throat. “I want to keep you inside me for a bit longer.”
My cock twitched. “No work being done today, then?”
“Nope,” he confirmed. No remorse. “Gotta dote on your omega. This is your fault.”
“Are you certain?” I said, cocking my eyebrow. “I seem to recall you asking me not to take preventive measures because you wished to ‘expand our pack.’ You then proceeded to taunt me into hunting you through the woods and breeding you once our cycles aligned.”
“Nah, don’t remember that.”
His hole clenched, proving him a liar. “Convenient.”
“Pregnancy fog is a real bitch,” he justified, maintaining feigned ignorance.
“You had plans to bake today, did you not?” I reminded him. “I suppose you decided tormenting me was more fun?”
The extension I’d suggested had been built onto the back of the house: a kitchen purely for Dylan to use as he pleased.
Initially, it was where he would go to de-stress.
His sanctuary. A place that held no expectations, no pressure.
Though once his confidence had grown and he’d familiarised himself with the space—reorganised it to his own liking—he began to fulfil orders for a café in district forty-two twice a week.
The same café he’d passed by on Cycero Street when he still lived there, out of sentimentality, but couldn’t bring himself to visit. His grandmother’s favourite place.
He’d mentioned it felt like honouring her dream, in some capacity.
That as an omega supplier, and with her name on the packaging, he was able to share the influence she’d had on him.
It was only part time, as he didn’t wish to taint his hobby by overworking the novelty, or for Minseo—now much older and much more aware—to feel as if he was replacing her in his attention with a job he didn’t actually need.
He would wait until she was at nursery and we had no other plans to fit it into his schedule.
The profits were stored in a bank account for Minseo’s future. He was determined to contribute however he could, even if it wasn’t necessary. An act of independence. A resistance.
I understood.
“Am I going crazy, or was it not Edith I mentioned my plans to?” He aimed a disapproving look my way. “You absolute stalker.”
“Precaution,” I reiterated. He didn’t believe me.
“Well, having to angle myself or bend over to avoid bumping my belly against the counters bugs the shit out of me. It makes my de-stresser stressful.” He rotated his feet, lifting them into view.
“Plus, my ankles are swollen, so standing kinda hurts. This was the alternative. No standing—or even brain power—needed.”
“Pleased to hear that I’m second best,” I deadpanned.
“Aw, don’t pout,” he cooed, tapping my cheek. “Sammy wanted honey cakes, so . . . it was outta my hands.”
Our son, Samuel. Dylan had chosen the name. I’d suggested it after he vetoed every other option on his list, though he was convinced it was his idea all along. I wouldn’t correct him. Not until after the birth, at the very least.
“Hm, as stubborn as his father,” I said, nipping at his jaw, earning a soft chuckle. “Luckily, Brian is already on the hunt for honey cakes.”
“Always one step ahead, aren’t you?”
“It is my duty to keep my omega content, is it not?”
“Too right.” He nodded, resolute, before his eyelids fluttered shut and he sighed contentedly. “What nefarious plans am I disturbing, then?”
“Signing the bill for an omega’s right to own property.”
His eyes shot open. He twisted to face me. “Really?”
I hummed.
Progress was being made in how omegas were perceived in society.
Minor alterations to certain customs and protocols, which seemed insignificant to a man like me but Dylan had expressed were monumental.
The lower districts had adapted to the change with less hesitation, as if all they’d needed was permission.
It was a delicate subject within our social circle, a more gradual process of unweaving thousands of years of obstinate tradition.
Though it was heading in the right direction.
Many were relieved, and assisted in the efforts.
First was ensuring Minseo would become my successor with no dispute.
The newly ascended Prescotts had originally been the only receptive voice, whilst the other four elite families had opposed.
They soon changed their tunes with a reminder of who I was and what our pack was capable of.
The rest happened naturally, with a little diplomatic persuasion.
My daughter would grow up in a world where she was regarded as an equal.
Or the world would burn.
Pride and appreciation surged through our connection. Dylan’s pupils had dilated. “You get more and more attractive every day, you know.”
“Oh? I’m not a ‘heartless prick’ today?” I asked, repeating the words he’d sobbed last night when I’d taken an apple from the fruit bowl, leaving only one.
He’d stared at it, his eyes glazing and bottom lip wobbling.
It was now lonely, he’d wept, since its “family” had all been eaten, and it probably felt abandoned.
He hadn’t spoken to me for an entire hour, until I’d replaced the apple with two new ones.
“Not today, no,” he confirmed, an embarrassed flush rising on his cheeks. “Tomorrow might be a different story. Hormones will decide.”
I lifted a hand to his chin, steering his face toward me again.
“Your fickleness does not deter me,” I said, and he rolled his eyes, though the gesture lacked any indication of actual annoyance.
I closed the gap between us, nudging his lips into parting, and capturing his moan on my tongue as I kissed him deeply.
It was indulgent, unhurried, though Dylan’s hips stirred again, a subtle shift.
His arousal spiked.
“Fuck,” he gasped, parting from me, head tipping onto my shoulder again. His lips were spit-slick, the surrounding skin red from the graze of my stubble. “Has your dick always felt this good? I really can’t remember it feeling this good.”
“Brain fog again? You’ve been a slut for my cock since the day we met, darling.”
He scoffed mildly. “Such vulgar language toward the father of your children.”
“If I believed for a second you didn’t enjoy it, I wouldn’t use it.
” I gently released my hold on his belly, and my hand swept up to his neck, my thumb stroking over the raised mating scar.
“You forget I sense every uptick in your scent, your heartbeat. Your emotions. I know you now. Better than I know myself.”
He used his grip on my hair to angle my head, brushing our lips together, his breath wavering. “You always have.”
This kiss was desperate, a mess of tongues, teeth, and groaning. It was wet, clumsy, and my dick was at full mast in seconds. He bit into my lip, evoking a hiss as he peeled it back before letting it go. “Make me come again before I have to pee for the gazillionth time.”
My head tilted, considering his demand—and the possibilities it invoked.
“Don’t even think about it,” he cut in firmly. I smirked.
“I said nothing.”
“To repeat your words, I can feel you, and I know you.”
I hummed, wrapping my fingers around his soft prick, stroking glacially.
He shivered, his hips churning, matching my pace.
“Then you know how much I treasure you, and everything you have given me?” The bonds in my chest flared at my acknowledgment.
Mate. Father. Leader. I traced his tattoo, a symbol of his integration into the pack.
He was a Devereux. He was mine. As I was his.
“A reason I would crawl through the seven rings of hell for, and drown myself in blood before existing without.”
Adoration softened Dylan’s expression and he nodded, ducking forward to rest his head against mine. “Our unconventional little family.”
Unconventional . . .
Perfect.