Chapter 4 Feral Release
Feral Release
Some people collect stamps. Some people train for marathons. I, apparently, provoke supernatural predators for fun and profit.
The armory had become my unwitting stage for this particular brand of insanity.
I'd discovered it during my ongoing campaign to "improve" the manor's aesthetic—a campaign that had earned me glares from Lucien, bemused tolerance from Darius, and enthusiastic support from Selene, who kept leaving little enchanted trinkets in the rooms I'd redecorated.
The armory was a narrow, windowless chamber lined with racks of gleaming blades, their edges catching the lamplight like liquid silver.
It smelled of oil and metal and something older, something that reminded me of Lucien's wild forest scent.
I'd wandered in looking for inspiration—maybe a decorative sword for the sitting room?
—but I'd stayed because the space hummed with a dangerous energy that made my pulse quicken.
Every blade in this room had a history. Every edge had tasted blood.
And standing among them, running my fingers along the cool steel, I felt a thrill that was becoming disturbingly familiar.
I was still aching from Azrael's torment.
It felt like it had been years since the demon had left me trembling and unsatisfied in the ledger room, and my body hadn't forgotten a single phantom touch.
Every brush of fabric against my skin sent sparks through my nerves.
Every pulse of my heartbeat seemed to echo between my legs.
I was a live wire, desperate for grounding, and the armory's violent beauty called to something primal in me.
I'd chosen a slender dagger from the rack—black hilt, silver blade, perfectly balanced.
It wasn't decorative. It was a weapon, meant for cutting and killing and drawing blood.
I turned it over in my hands, watching the light play across its surface, and wondered what it would feel like to wield this kind of power.
To be dangerous instead of merely endangered.
"You have a death wish."
The voice came from the doorway, low and rough, and I didn't need to turn around to know who it belonged to.
Lucien's presence filled the room like a storm front, all pressure and electricity and the promise of violence.
I could feel him behind me, could smell him—leather and steel and that wild, rain-soaked forest scent that made my thighs clench.
"Maybe," I said, not turning around. "Or maybe I just have good taste in interior design. This room is very moody. Very atmospheric."
"You're in my space." His footsteps were silent on the stone floor, but I felt him moving closer. "Playing with my blades."
"Borrowing," I corrected. "I was thinking of adding some decorative weapons to the sitting room. Really lean into the whole 'supernatural mafia' aesthetic."
He was right behind me now. I could feel the heat of his body, the barely contained energy vibrating through him. His reflection appeared in the blade I was holding—amber eyes burning, jaw tight, hair falling across his forehead in disarray.
"Put it down," he growled.
I turned slowly, the dagger still in my hand.
Up close, he was devastating—black t-shirt stretched across his chest, jeans riding low on his hips, stubble dark along his jaw.
His eyes were wild, pupils dilated, and I could see the wolf lurking just beneath his skin.
He looked like he hadn't slept. He looked like he was holding himself together by the thinnest of threads.
"Make me," I said.
The words hung in the air between us, a challenge and an invitation.
I watched his control fracture—a muscle ticking in his jaw, his hands clenching at his sides, his nostrils flaring as he scented the air.
Scented me. And I knew what he was smelling: the lingering arousal from Azrael's edging, the fresh wave of desire that his presence always triggered, the unmistakable evidence that I wanted him despite every rational thought screaming at me to run.
"You don't know what you're asking for," he rasped.
"I know exactly what I'm asking for." I lifted the dagger, turning it so the blade caught the light. Then, holding his gaze, I brought the flat of the blade to my lips and licked it.
The steel was cold and tasteless, but the effect on Lucien was instantaneous. His eyes flared—amber bleeding into something darker, something other. A sound ripped from his throat, half growl and half groan, and before I could draw another breath, he was on me.
He didn't push me to the wall this time. He threw me.
I landed on a low couch pushed against the far wall—more of a padded bench, really, probably used for cleaning weapons or catching a few minutes of rest between patrols.
The impact knocked the dagger from my hand, sent it clattering across the stone floor.
Before I could orient myself, Lucien was on me, his body covering mine, his weight pinning me to the cushions.
"Mine," he snarled, and the word vibrated through my chest, settled low in my belly.
His hands found the waistband of my leggings and tore—the sound of ripping fabric obscenely loud in the quiet room.
Cool air hit my exposed skin, and then his hand was there, cupping me through my soaked underwear, his fingers pressing against my clit with rough, unerring precision.
"So wet," he growled, his breath hot against my ear. "Been walking around like this all day, haven't you? Dripping for me. Teasing me."
"Maybe," I gasped, arching into his touch. "Maybe I like teasing you."
He made a sound that wasn't quite human and ripped my underwear away with the same brutal efficiency. Then his fingers were inside me—two of them, thick and rough and perfect—curling against that spot that made stars burst behind my eyelids.
"This what you wanted?" He pumped his fingers hard, fast, his thumb grinding against my clit. "Walking into my armory. Touching my blades. Licking them like a little whore."
"Yes," I sobbed, because it was true, all of it.
I'd wanted this since the moment he'd pressed a knife to my throat in the forest. Since he'd rutted against me in the hallway and left me aching.
Since I'd first looked into his amber eyes and seen the predator lurking beneath the surface. Damn I was a whore.
"Say it." His fingers curled deeper, hitting a spot that made my vision white out. "Tell me who you belong to."
"You," I gasped. "Yours. I'm yours."
Something in him snapped completely. He withdrew his fingers, leaving me empty and desperate, and I heard the sound of a zipper—rough, hurried.
Then he was flipping me over, dragging my hips up, positioning me face-down on the couch with my ass in the air and my cheek pressed against the worn leather.
"You want to be treated like prey?" His voice was a growl, low and dangerous, and I felt the head of his cock pressing against my entrance—hot and thick and big. "Then take it. Take all of it."
He thrust into me in one brutal motion, burying himself to the hilt.
I screamed. The stretch was intense—he was bigger than anyone I'd ever been with, and he didn't give me time to adjust. He just started moving, his hips slamming against my ass with a rhythm that was more animal than human.
One hand fisted in my hair, yanking my head back, and the other gripped my hip hard enough to bruise.
"Look at you," he snarled, his voice ragged. "Taking my cock like you were made for it. So tight. So perfect."
I couldn't speak. I could barely breathe.
Every thrust hit something deep inside me, pleasure and pain blurring into a single overwhelming sensation.
The couch creaked beneath us, the sound mixing with his growls and my broken moans and the obscene wet noise of his cock driving into me again and again.
"Smelled you," he panted, his rhythm growing more erratic. "In the forest. Knew you wanted this. Wanted me. Even with a knife at your throat, you were soaking for me."
"Yes," I sobbed. "Yes, Lucien, yes—"
He pulled out abruptly, and I cried out at the loss.
But before I could protest, he flipped me onto my back, his body covering mine, his weight pressing me into the cushions.
His cock was slick with my arousal, the head swollen and flushed, and when I looked down, I saw something that made my breath catch.
The base of his shaft was thickening—swelling into a knot that hadn't been there before.
"Look at me," he commanded, gripping my chin and forcing my gaze to his. His eyes were pure amber now, glowing faintly in the dim light, and his face was a mask of feral hunger. "I want you to watch. Want you to see what you do to me."
He positioned himself at my entrance again, the swollen knot pressing against my slick folds. I was stretched, sensitive, and the pressure of it made me whimper.
"It won't fit," I breathed. "Lucien, it's too—"
"It'll fit." His voice was a growl, low and possessive. "You'll take all of me. Every inch. And then I'm going to knot this pretty pussy and fill you up until you're dripping with me."
He pushed. The knot stretched me impossibly wide, a burning fullness that teetered on the edge of pain.
I cried out, my hands flying to his shoulders, my nails digging into his skin.
He didn't stop—just kept pressing forward, slow and inexorable, until the knot popped past my entrance and locked inside me.
The sensation was overwhelming. I was so full I couldn't breathe, couldn't think, could only feel—the thick heat of him buried to the hilt, the pulsing pressure of the knot stretching me from the inside, the way his hips ground against mine in small, desperate circles.
"Fuck," he groaned, his forehead dropping to mine. "Feel that? Feel how deep I am? You're mine now. Mine."