Day Five
Nika
The Alpha said it would be the last day. He mentioned something about scent. I couldn't remember because I’d been occupied in other matters. When the words sank in they left me feeling jittery—and not in a good way. Change was coming and I was hesitant to allow it entry.
Yet everything else has entered us, Bad Girl snickered.
You’re a bad bitch, I retorted affectionately.
More, Alpha. Give me more, she mimicked.
You’ve chilled out. Didn’t you want to kill him?
He grew in me.
I chuckled. Conrí stirred behind me.
After five days he was beginning to resemble an unwelcome protrusion from my body. Albeit one that had taken every ache and pain away without complaint. We were completely satisfied—all four of us, in our own specific and entirely unhinged ways.
??
??
??
This time when the food arrived I slipped out from behind Conrí to get a look at his pack members.
One dark. One fair.
They sniffed the air the moment they clocked me standing behind him—and then, with impressive efficiency, shoved the bags at Conrí and turned their backs on him entirely.
“What are you doing?” he demanded.
Then he sniffed.
Then he turned around.
The door shut.
The bag hit the floor.
He moved too fast for me to avoid—his arms wrapped around my bare legs and I was airborne before I’d fully processed what was happening, tossed over his shoulder like I weighed nothing at all.
“Bad girl,” he growled, marching back toward the bedroom. “Bad fucking girl.”
I like him like this, Bad Girl drawled. Ask him which one was the handsome one.
I was still considering this when I landed on the decimated nest—and then his weight followed immediately, and buttons went flying from the shirt I was wearing.
His shirt.
I didn’t particularly care.
“Didn’t you want me to meet your pack members?” I asked innocently.
The flaring nostrils and the vein pulsating at his temple suggested he did not find the question as reasonable as I intended it.
His response was to whip his shorts off.
As if that was supposed to be a threat.
“They looked nice,” I added, purely in the interests of conversation.
The growl that followed was low, vicious and long. All it did was make me drip like a faulty faucet.
He dove for the bed and I rolled to the side. His hand caught my hip—I moved again. One more roll and I was sitting on his back.
“What’s wrong, Alpha?” I murmured against his ear.
Another growl.
He twisted—and before I could fall his hands locked onto my hips.
His eyes flashed from green to gold. His chest rose and fell. Feral for us. Completely, entirely feral.
His shirt slipped down my shoulders and his eyes dropped to my breasts.
I tilted over him.
He didn’t disappoint. He never had.
His mouth closed over one peak—no gentleness in it, his teeth cutting around the sensitive flesh before he groaned and sucked deep and hard until my hips jerked in response. Until my scent coated his skin.
I wrestled the shirt off and tossed it somewhere and grabbed a fistful of his hair.
Food forgotten. Water forgotten.
I had to have him.
I reached between us and gripped his cock—hard, warm, smooth. I pumped once. Twice. By the third stroke he was groaning against my breast. I rose on my knees and guided him to my entrance.
It was a miracle I wasn’t aching after days of this—but that was Bad Girl’s gift. Her bloodline. Her resilience running through both of us.
I began to sink down his length. His hands on my hips slowed the descent considerably.
His head fell back. His eyes found mine.
“Mine,” he growled.
Not a question. A statement. A claiming.
In this room that smelled entirely of us—that singular, irreplaceable scent that only he could produce, layered into every surface, every breath—and that feral gold burning in his eyes.
I saw what he was searching for.
My answer was to take his head in both hands and turn it—slow, deliberate—exposing his neck.
Bad Girl knew.
She was ready.
We sank our fangs deep into his flesh.
His groan was low and long. He slammed my hips down and drove his own up until I felt the heat of his knot press against me.
Yes.
It felt right to taste his blood mixed with his scent. Right to sit above him like a queen with his fingers biting into my flesh.
Mine. Ours. Alpha.