Chapter 4
four
Clark
I pace the length of my bedroom, checking the time again. Eight minutes since I last looked. The waiting is excruciating, but I won't rush this. For nineteen years, Emilia has belonged to herself, to her responsibilities. Tonight, she belongs to me. My body hums with anticipation, cock already half-hard just thinking about what's to come. I've changed the sheets, set out water, dimmed the lights. Like I'm preparing for a fucking date instead of claiming what's mine. It's ridiculous—I've never given this much thought to fucking before. But she's different. Untouched. The weight of being her first presses on me, a responsibility I didn't expect to care about. But I do. I want to ruin her for anyone else, yes. But I also want her to remember this night with something other than regret.
The compound is quiet. I made sure of it, sending the boys out on various errands, ensuring we'll have privacy. No interruptions. No witnesses to whatever weakness I might display in the face of her innocence.
I catch my reflection in the mirror—a hardened man in his thirties, scarred by a life of violence, undeserving of something as pure as Emilia West. For a moment, I consider calling the whole thing off. Letting her go, finding another way to ensure her silence. It would be the decent thing to do.
But I've never claimed to be decent.
I’m standing outside her door My heart rate spikes, anticipation coursing through me like a drug.
I adjut my cock and open it. She's still wearing the same clothes from yesterday—that oversized cardigan that hides too much of her from my view, jeans that have seen better days. Her hair falls loose around her shoulders, chestnut waves catching the low light. She's been crying. I can see the slight redness around her eyes. But her chin is lifted, her posture straight. Brave little librarian.
"Are you ready?"
"I keep my promises," she replies, and the quiet dignity in her voice hits me like a physical blow.
I cross the room slowly, not wanting to frighten her. When I reach her, I lift a hand to brush her hair back from her face, tucking it behind her ear. She flinches slightly but doesn't pull away.
"Are you afraid?" I ask.
She meets my eyes directly. "Yes."
"Of me?"
A small pause. "Of how you make me feel."
The honesty in her answer stirs something dangerous in my chest. I trail my fingers down her neck, feeling her pulse jump beneath my touch. She's wearing a delicate silver chain with a tiny book charm—the kind of sentimental jewelry a young girl would cherish. I rub the charm between my fingers.
"Tell me about this," I say, needing to ease her into what's coming, to build a bridge between her world and mine.
She looks surprised by the question. "My father gave it to me, before he left. I was twelve." Her hand comes up to touch the pendant, brushing against mine. "It's from 'The Little Prince.' It was our favorite book to read together."
I nod, filing away this piece of her history. "And now you surround yourself with books. Building walls of words between you and the world."
Her eyes widen slightly. "I've never thought of it that way."
"Haven't you?" I step closer, invading her space deliberately. "Safe inside your library. Everything categorized, understood, contained. Unlike real life. Unlike me."
She swallows hard. "You're definitely not contained in any category I understand."
I smile at that, a real smile that feels strange on my face. "Good."
I take her hand and lead her to my room. She looks around when we step inside, eyes wide. Her gaze meets mine, and she swallows.
Fuck, she’s beautiful.
My hands find her waist, and I guide her deeper into the room, toward the bed. She moves with me, trembling slightly but not resisting. When the backs of her knees hit the mattress, she stops, uncertainty flashing across her face.
"I don't—I don't know what to do," she admits, voice barely above a whisper.
"You don't have to do anything," I tell her, my own voice rougher than intended. "Tonight is about what I'm going to do to you."
Her breath catches, cheeks flushing with that pink I'm already addicted to.
"Can I—" She hesitates. "Can I touch you?"
The request nearly undoes me. I've had countless women, experienced hands that knew exactly what I like, how to please me. None of them affected me like this simple question from Emilia's lips.
"Yes," I manage to say. "Wherever you want."
Her hands come up hesitantly, fingers brushing across my chest, exploring tentatively. She's wearing a curious expression, like she's reading a new book, trying to decipher its meaning. Her touch is light, almost reverent, tracing the contours of muscle beneath my shirt.
"You're so strong," she murmurs, more to herself than to me.
I capture one of her hands, bringing it to my lips, kissing her palm. The gesture is oddly intimate, more tender than I intended. Her eyes dart up to mine, surprise and something deeper reflected there.
"Tonight," I tell her, "I'm going to show you what it means to belong to someone. To belong to me."
She shivers, but not from fear. "Is that what this is? Belonging?"
"Yes." I reach for the hem of her cardigan, slowly pulling it up. "Arms."
She raises her arms obediently, letting me draw the garment over her head. Beneath it, she wears a simple t-shirt that clings to modest but perfect curves. Her bra is visible beneath—white cotton, practical, innocent. The sight of it makes my cock throb.
I let my hands slide down her sides, feeling the warmth of her through the thin fabric. "You're beautiful."
She looks down, disbelieving. "I'm not?—"
"Don't," I cut her off. "Don't contradict me. Not tonight." I lift her chin with my finger, forcing her to meet my gaze. "Tonight, you're exactly what I say you are. And you're beautiful, Emilia. Perfect."
Something shifts in her expression—surprise giving way to wonder, to the first hints of desire. Good. I want her willing. Want her desperate.
I pull her against me, one hand tangling in her hair, the other pressed to the small of her back. Her body is soft against mine, yielding. I lower my head slowly, giving her time to process what's happening, then press my lips to hers.
The kiss starts gentle, a question rather than a demand. Her lips are soft, tentative, inexperienced. But when I deepen the kiss, sliding my tongue along the seam of her mouth, she responds with unexpected hunger, opening for me, a small sound catching in her throat.
The taste of her hits me like lightning, sharp and sweet. My control slips, grip tightening in her hair, pulling her head back to give me better access. I devour her mouth, claiming her with a thoroughness that surprises even me. She clings to me, fingers digging into my shoulders, body arching instinctively toward mine.
When I finally break the kiss, we're both breathing hard. Her lips are swollen, eyes glazed. I've barely touched her, and already she looks halfway to ruined.
"Do you want this?" I ask, needing to hear her say it. "Say it, Emilia. Tell me you want me."
"I want this," she whispers. Then, stronger: "I want you, Clark."
My name on her lips snaps something inside me. I lift her, laying her down on the bed, coming over her like a shadow. Her hair fans out across my pillow, and the sight of her there—in my bed, willing, waiting —nearly breaks my self-control.
I pull my shirt over my head, watching her eyes widen as she takes in my bare chest, the tattoos that mark my skin, the scars from a violent life. Her gaze lingers on a knife wound just below my collarbone, then travels lower, to the trail of dark hair disappearing beneath my jeans.
"Can I?" she asks again, hand hovering above my skin.
I nod, not trusting my voice. Her fingers trace the tattoo that covers my right shoulder, a stylized wolf—the mark that earned me my nickname in the MC. Her touch is feather-light, curious, sending sparks across my skin.
"This is why they call you The Wolf," she says.
I'm startled that she knows this. "Who told you that name?"
"I heard the others say it." Her fingers continue their exploration, moving to a scar on my ribs. "How did you get this?"
"Knife fight. Five years ago." I capture her hand, pressing it flat against my chest, over my heart. "Feel that? What you do to me?"
My heart is racing, a fact she can surely feel beneath her palm. Her eyes widen slightly, understanding dawning.
"No more questions," I tell her. "Not tonight."
I reach for the hem of her shirt, drawing it upward slowly, giving her time to object. She doesn't. She raises her arms again, letting me pull it over her head. Her bra is as simple as I imagined—white cotton with a tiny bow between her breasts. The sight makes my mouth water.
"Perfect," I murmur, running a finger along the edge of the fabric, watching goosebumps rise on her skin.
I take my time undressing her, savoring each new revelation—the constellation of freckles across her collarbone, the gentle curve of her waist, the soft swell of her breasts. By the time she's naked beneath me, I'm painfully hard, every muscle tense with the effort of holding back.
She tries to cover herself, arms crossing over her chest, but I gently pull them away.
"Don't hide from me," I say. "I want to see all of you."
Her blush spreads down her neck, across her chest. I follow it with my lips, tasting the salt of her skin, the rapid flutter of her pulse. She gasps when I take a nipple into my mouth, back arching off the bed.
"Clark," she breathes, the sound somewhere between a plea and a prayer.
I've never been a patient man, never cared much for foreplay. But with Emilia, I find myself wanting to extend every moment, to draw out her pleasure until she's mindless with it. I worship her body with hands and mouth, learning what makes her gasp, what makes her moan, what makes her say my name in that broken, desperate way that drives me crazy.
By the time I settle between her thighs, she's trembling, wet and ready for me. I take her hands, pinning them above her head, needing her completely at my mercy.
"Look at me," I command softly. "I want to see your eyes when I make you mine."
She obeys, those hazel eyes locking with mine, trust and desire warring in their depths. I position myself at her entrance, feeling her heat against the head of my cock. The urge to thrust forward, to claim her roughly, is nearly overwhelming. But I hold back, pressing forward slowly, giving her body time to adjust to the intrusion.
The tight heat of her is exquisite torture. I watch her face carefully for signs of pain, ready to stop if it's too much. Her expression tightens momentarily as I breach her barrier, a small sound of discomfort escaping her lips. I freeze, waiting, fighting every instinct that screams at me to move.
"Don't stop," she whispers, surprising me. "Please, Clark. Don't stop."
I capture her mouth in a deep kiss as I push forward, swallowing her gasp as I seat myself fully inside her. The sensation is overwhelming—tight, hot, perfect. Mine. She's mine now, in the most fundamental way possible.
I remain still, letting her adjust, my forehead pressed against hers, our breath mingling. "Are you okay?"
She nods, shifting experimentally beneath me, causing a friction that makes me grit my teeth.
"It hurts," she admits. "But I like it. I like feeling you inside me."
Her words nearly undo me. I begin to move, slowly at first, shallow thrusts designed to ease her discomfort. But soon her body responds, hips lifting to meet mine, small sounds of pleasure escaping her throat. I increase my pace, still mindful of her inexperience but unable to hold back completely.
The sight of her beneath me—flushed, eyes half-closed in pleasure, lips parted—is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. I've taken what no one else has had, claimed her in a way that has marked us both.
"Mine," I growl against her neck, the word torn from somewhere primal inside me. "Say it, Emilia. Say you're mine."
"Yours," she gasps as I thrust deeper. "I'm yours, Clark."
The admission pushes me closer to the edge. I slide a hand between us, finding the bundle of nerves that will send her over, circling it with my thumb. Her reaction is immediate—back arching, a cry escaping her lips as her inner walls tighten around me.
"That's it," I encourage her. "Let go for me, beautiful. Let me feel you come."
Her orgasm takes her by surprise, her body clenching around me, face transformed by pleasure. The sight of her coming apart beneath me triggers my own release, and I bury myself deep inside her, groaning her name as I empty myself.
In the aftermath, we lie tangled together, her head on my chest, my arms around her. I stroke her hair absently, mind racing. One night, I told myself. One night to get her out of my system.
But as her breathing evens out, as she drifts toward sleep in my arms, my suspicions are confirmed. I know it was a lie. One night will never be enough. Not with her.
I've had countless women, seeking pleasure without attachment, satisfaction without complication. But none of them crawled under my skin like this librarian with her quiet strength and surprising passion. None of them made me want to be better than I am, made me imagine a different kind of life.
Emilia shifts in her sleep, pressing closer to me, trusting in her vulnerability. Something protective and possessive surges through me. The world I inhabit is dangerous, violent, not made for someone like her. But I can't let her go. Won't let her go.
My life has been built on taking what I want without apology. And I want Emilia West—not just her body, but all of her. Her mind. Her heart. Her future.
Our deal was one night for her freedom. But as I watch her sleep, peaceful in my arms, I know I'll break that promise. The risk she poses to my operation is too great—or that's what I'll tell myself, what I'll tell the crew.
The truth is simpler, more frightening: I'm keeping her because I can't imagine letting her walk away.
In one night, this innocent librarian has done what no one else has managed in all my years of violence and power.
She's made The Wolf want to be tamed.