Chapter 17
Lucien
My eyelids flutter, opening a crack and stinging. I hiss at the light streaming into the room and blink several times to restore some semblance of order to chaos. I lick my cracked lips and swirl my tongue around my mouth, attempting to swallow down acrid dryness.
The room spins nauseatingly when I attempt to sit up.
Something is amiss. I’m in my bed—the bed in the room with the nice view, not in my nest. The sheets are fresh, and I have a blanket draped over me.
Something is off. The air is different. No, I’m different.
The burning heat that has seared me for days has lifted.
I’m under the covers, and I’m not hot at all.
The temperature is perfectly comfortable.
Around me and inside me. The air in the room is light, not heavy or pungent.
There’s a brightness to it, an absence of horny haze that I haven’t been aware of for a very long time.
I cast my eyes around the room and find that I’m alone. The curtains are open. The closet doors are closed. There’s no alpha in bed with me.
There’s no alpha in the room, or anywhere near me for that matter.
I can’t feel his presence.
I can’t hear his breathing.
I can’t even smell him.
A terrible, pathetic panic curdles in my belly and makes me whine.
I push it down hard and try to get up again.
This time, I manage to pull myself into a sitting position.
My entire body objects. My abs pang as though I’ve been worked over by a deeply sadistic personal trainer, and my lower back humbly suggests that I take it to see a physiotherapist posthaste.
My legs are wobbly as hell, and my inner thighs and hamstrings are on fire.
My shoulders are tense and my throat hurts when I swallow.
All of that pales in comparison to how my ass feels.
I notice a pile of clothing, my clothing, neatly folded and placed on the end of the bed, so I get up and get dressed, putting on layers in an order that feels strangely unfamiliar.
The fabric of my pants is scratchy, but I’m suddenly uncomfortably aware of my nudity.
I struggle with my socks, wincing every time I lean forward, straighten, or make the mistake of clenching my hole even slightly.
I limp down the hall, socked feet a flight risk on the polished timber floor. My gait is slow and very, very careful. As I walk, I am assaulted by what I can only describe as every emotion in existence.
Relief hits first. Blooming in my upper chest and warming me. I’m relieved, obviously, that my heat is over. I’m relieved that I survived in one piece and lived to tell the tale. Of course I’m happy about that. Anyone would be.
I’m also confused, and that’s normal too.
The last thing I remember was being knotted to within an inch of my life and laughing my head off about it.
I’ve lost time. Serious time. I have no idea when I took that knot, or how much time has passed since then.
I have no idea what happened between receiving that first knot and waking up in my own bed a few minutes ago.
Physically, I’m weakened, which is to be expected. I’m lightheaded and dizzy. I have no idea how long it’s been since I’ve eaten anything, but I’m trembling in a way that lets me know my mood is likely to suffer if I don’t eat something fast.
Emotionally, I’m weakened too. I must be because it’s taking everything I have to hold tears back.
My heart is sore. My chest is heavy. There’s a weight on my sternum that’s making it hard for me to get a good breath.
I’m sad. Inexplicably sad. Sadder than I can ever recall being, and even sadder because I know that what I’m sad about makes absolutely no sense at all.
I’m sad my heat is over, and that’s so stupid that I have to lean against the wall for a moment as I reel from shock and wipe my eyes.
They feel normal again, my eyes. My eyelids aren’t puffy anymore, and that makes me sad too.
It’s ridiculous. I didn’t even want to go into heat. Why on Earth am I upset that it’s over?
On top of all that, I’m angry. There’s a hot ball of rage forming under my ribs that grows a little more with each step I take because I can’t help noticing that the cabin has been thoroughly cleaned.
It’s spotless. Absolutely spotless. The floors have been mopped.
Surfaces have been wiped down. Windows have been opened, and the place has been aired out.
My blood boils.
How dare Branson wash away the signs of my heat? How fucking dare he?
And how dare he put me to bed in my room, not in his?
Most of all, how dare he leave me to wake up on my own?
My heart thumps angrily as I walk. I trail a hand along the hallway wall for balance as I move, pausing every few steps when the pain in my ass trips me up.
How fucking dare Branson for that too.
My fingers run lightly over plaster and paint, and suddenly, I’m transported. I’m somewhere else. I’m not here. I’m in the past. Naked, in this exact spot in the hallway. I’m on my feet, hands braced on this exact spot on the wall, saying, “Oh God, yes, alpha. Give me that knot.”
Bright images flash before me like a movie, and I stand frozen as I watch the scene play out in my mind’s eye.
I see my fingers. Blunt nails clawing at the wall as Branson thrusts into me. I see Branson’s hands on my hips. Big hands, tan skin, holding me firmly. I see my bare feet planted on the floor, shoulder-width apart, as Branson’s massive dick plunges in and out of me.
“See,” says the past version of myself with a carefree laugh. “Told you I could take it standing.”
The vision, or memory, or whatever it is, changes, and I’m not viewing what happened through my own eyes anymore.
I’m viewing it from above. I’m floating above us, watching as Branson fucks my sloppy hole with abandon.
I see his head, tilted back, neck straining, as he reams me.
I see his hips cant, his teeth clench, his slick, slippery dick splitting me in half.
Most of all, I see myself, delirious and euphoric, loving every inch, every second of having my ass mercilessly pounded.
I close my eyes to shake the flashback away. It doesn’t work. I not only see the scene before me now, but I can feel the impact of Branson’s body slamming into mine as if it’s still happening.
I feel the deep, intense shift as my insides are forced to accommodate him.
I hear the sounds of our fucking, loud and messy, as he loosens me.
I watch as my knees give way.
I see Branson follow me to the floor, not slowing his pace even a little.
The flashback shifts again, and I’m not looking down from above anymore.
I’m back in my body. I’m not in my mind though.
I’m in my groin. I’m between my legs. I’m the thick band of muscle that is pulled tight as Branson’s knot splits me in two.
I’m the beginning and the end. The place where we joined.
Jesus.
I am my own asshole?
No!
That’s taking it too far.
If anything, I’m still delirious.
I blink furiously and press my cheek against the wall. It’s cool to the touch, which is a blessing. It brings me back to myself. My real self.
I get to the entryway and notice that my snow boots have been placed by the door.
One of Branson’s jackets hangs on the door handle.
I step into the shoes, annoyance building.
I’m not a fan of this kind of shit. I’m really not.
I don’t need an alpha putting clothes out for me and deciding what I should wear. Who does he think he is?
I’m perfectly capable of choosing my own fucking clothes, thank you very much.
As I shrug the jacket on, I peer through one of the sidelights and see Branson trudging through the snow as he approaches the house. I throw the door open, ready to give him a big piece of my mind.
“Where have you been?” I demand. Or at least, that’s what I mean to do. What actually happens is that my lips move accusingly, and no sound comes out of my mouth.
Great. Just great. On top of everything else, I’m hoarse.
Heat hoarse. It’s a common condition that often follows heat.
It’s caused when omegas are subjected to excessive screaming orgasms. The cure is to stop having screaming orgasms, and I’m in luck because I definitely won’t be having more of those anytime soon.
“How’s your…?” Branson’s voice fades and his eyes flick to the general vicinity of my crotch and quickly back up again. “I, er, I mean, how are you feeling?”
There’s something not quite right about him. He’s wearing too many clothes, for one thing, and for another, his eyes keep skidding off mine. There’s this weird tension around the corners of his mouth that I don’t like at all.
“How’s my ass feeling?” I mouth furiously.
“Is that what you wanted to say?” He doesn’t nod or shake his head, but he does press his lips together in a way that provokes me.
“Well, I’ll tell you what my ass feels like—it feels like someone tried to park a freight train up it, repeatedly. That’s how it feels.”
“Sorry,” he says, showing me a row of incisors and canines.
I shrug his apology away. Of course it’s mainly his fault, but I did forget to pack my suppressant, so I can’t place all the blame on him.
As I raise my shoulders, the collar of his jacket briefly covers the bottom half of my face, and the rich, homey scent of Branson hits my olfactory system, washing over me in thick, heavy waves.
Ligaments loosen.
Tension leaves me.
My shoulders drop and my hands fall to my side.
“Where were you?” I rasp. “I woke up, and you weren’t here.”
I’m upset that I’m upset about this, and I’ve even more upset that I seem hellbent on telling Branson about it. Fortunately, he’s too pleased with himself to notice. He smiles broadly and raises his arm to show me what he has in his hand.
“What the fuck is that?” I croak, a tiny sliver of sound scraping roughly over my voice box and booming out of it on every second word.