Chapter 4
Julian woke not to the shrill cry of an alarm, but to the heavy, suffocating weight of a possessive arm draped across his chest and the dull, throbbing ache that permeated every muscle in his body.
He kept his eyes closed for a long moment, clinging to the last vestiges of sleep, trying to ignore the way the silk sheets felt alien against his skin, or the way the air smelled distinctively of him—cedar, ozone, and the musky aftermath of sex.
It was a scent that had been branded into his very DNA over the course of the stormy night, a scent that whispered mine with every inhale.
Memory flashed in hot, technicolor bursts: the rug in front of the fireplace, the cold marble of the desk, the shower wall where Damien had pinned him during the second round.
His body had been used thoroughly, stretched and filled in ways that his suppressants had never allowed him to imagine.
He had begged. He had cried. He had screamed the Alpha's name like a prayer.
Julian's eyes snapped open, panic replacing the lingering haze of pleasure.
The penthouse bedroom was a cavern of modern luxury, bathed in the pale, gray light of a storm-breaking dawn.
The rain had stopped, leaving the city skyline glittering and washed clean beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows.
The glass was still beaded with droplets, catching the first weak rays of morning sun and scattering them like diamonds across the hardwood floors.
And right next to him, dead asleep, was the enemy.
Damien Wolfe lay on his stomach, one arm possessively hooking Julian's waist, his face turned toward Julian on the pillow.
In sleep, the ruthless CEO looked younger, the harsh lines of his face softened.
His dark hair was a messy tangle, falling over his forehead.
He looked like a fallen angel, beautiful and terrifying in equal measure.
His breathing was deep and even, the broad expanse of his back rising and falling with a rhythm that should have been soothing but instead set Julian's nerves on edge.
Julian's heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs. Get up. Get out.
He moved slowly, holding his breath, sliding inch by inch toward the edge of the mattress.
His body protested every movement. His hips felt bruised, his inner thighs chafed, and there was a lingering, sticky wetness between his legs that made him flush with a mixture of shame and lingering arousal.
The False Heat had broken sometime in the early hours of the morning, leaving him exhausted, hollowed out, and terrifyingly clear-headed.
He managed to slip out from under Damien's arm.
The Alpha grunted in his sleep, his hand groping blindly at the empty space Julian had vacated, but he didn't wake.
His fingers curled into the sheets, pulling them closer, and Julian watched with bated breath until Damien's breathing evened out again.
Julian stood on shaky legs, his knees threatening to buckle.
He looked down at himself and winced. His pale skin was a map of the night's debauchery—dark hickeys bloomed across his collarbones and chest, fingerprint bruises circled his hips, and his wrists bore red marks from where Damien had pinned him down.
There was a bite mark on his shoulder, not deep enough to bond, but deep enough to scar, deep enough to mark.
He looked ruined.
And worse, he felt it. That was the part that made his stomach twist into knots.
He didn't just look ruined; he felt fundamentally altered, as if Damien had reached inside him and rearranged something essential.
The heat was gone, but the echo of it remained—a phantom ache in his bones, a persistent thrum of satisfaction that he desperately wanted to ignore.
Spotting his clothes in a discarded heap near the door, Julian scrambled toward them.
His shirt was a wrinkled mess, missing two buttons, and his trousers were stained with unspeakable things.
He dressed with frantic, clumsy movements, his fingers fumbling with his belt.
The fabric felt rough against his sensitized skin, and he had to bite his lip to keep from making a sound as he pulled up his zipper.
He needed to leave. He needed to get back to his apartment, scrub his skin raw, take a double dose of suppressants, and pretend this never happened. He had a board meeting at noon. He had a company to save. He had a reputation to maintain. He couldn't do that smelling like the Wolf's bed warmer.
He was halfway to the bedroom door when a low, sleep-rough voice stopped him cold.
"Running away, Julian?"
Julian froze, his hand hovering over the doorknob.
He didn't turn around. He couldn't. If he turned around, he would have to face what he had done, and he wasn't ready for that.
Wasn't ready to see the triumph in those golden eyes, the satisfaction of a predator who had successfully cornered his prey.
"I have work," he said, his voice hoarse. He sounded wrecked, even to his own ears.
"You can barely walk," Damien observed, the rustle of sheets indicating he was sitting up. "And you reek of me. You really want to walk into your office smelling like my cum?"
The crude words made Julian's face burn. He spun around, fury giving him the strength to stand tall, to square his shoulders despite the ache in his body. "You did this on purpose. You triggered the heat to force my hand."
Damien leaned back against the headboard, the sheet pooling low around his waist, exposing the sculpted terrain of his chest and abdomen.
He looked entirely too comfortable for a man who had just committed what amounted to corporate espionage via sexual conquest. His dark hair was sleep-tousled, his jaw shadowed with stubble, and his eyes were sharp, alert, tracking Julian's every movement.
"I didn't force anything," Damien said calmly. "Your biology responded to its match. It's nature, Julian. Stop fighting it."
"We are not matches," Julian hissed. "We are rivals. This was... a biological malfunction. A mistake. Brought on by stress and proximity and—" He gestured vaguely, his hands trembling. "It won't happen again."
Damien's eyes darkened, the gold sharpening to molten amber. He moved then, a blur of motion that was terrifyingly fast for a man who had just woken. He crossed the room, not bothering with clothes, and intercepted Julian before he could reach the door.
He didn't grab him; he simply stepped into his space, using his larger frame to crowd Julian back against the wall.
The sudden proximity made Julian's breath hitch.
The scent of Alpha was overwhelming this close, triggering a phantom pang of need in Julian's lower belly, despite his exhaustion.
His body remembered that scent, craved it, and that terrified him more than anything else.
"A mistake?" Damien murmured, reaching out to brush a thumb over the dark bruise on Julian's neck. The touch was gentle, possessive, claiming. "You didn't sound like it was a mistake when you were screaming my name. When you begged me to knot you. When you cried because it felt so good."
Julian swallowed hard, his resolve crumbling under the weight of the memory. He could still feel it—the stretch, the fullness, the overwhelming rightness of being claimed. "Stop."
"You're sore," Damien said, his voice dropping to a low rumble that vibrated through Julian's chest. "You're leaking. You need to be cleaned. Let me take care of you."
"I don't need your help," Julian spat, though his voice lacked conviction. His body was already leaning into Damien's touch, betraying him as it always did.
"You do," Damien countered. "And you want it. You're trembling, Julian. Not from fear. But because your body knows you belong to me now."
Before Julian could protest, Damien hooked an arm under his knees and lifted him.
"Put me down!" Julian yelped, instinctively wrapping his arms around Damien's neck to steady himself. The position was humiliating, being carried like a bride, like something fragile and precious.
"No," Damien said simply. He carried Julian effortlessly across the suite, bypassing the bedroom and entering a bathroom that was larger than Julian's entire apartment.
It was a sanctuary of white marble and glass, lit by soft recessed lighting that gave everything a dreamlike quality.
A massive walk-in shower dominated the space, equipped with multiple showerheads and a built-in bench.
A deep soaking tub sat in the corner, big enough for two.
The counters were pristine, dotted with expensive-looking bottles and neatly folded towels.
Damien set Julian down on the bench and turned on the water, adjusting the temperature until steam began to fill the room. The sound of running water was soothing, a stark contrast to the chaos in Julian's mind.
Julian sat there, shivering in his ruined clothes, watching the Alpha move.
Damien was magnificent, unashamed of his nakedness.
His cock, even soft, was impressive, hanging heavy between his thighs.
Julian hated that his mouth watered at the sight of it, hated that his body remembered the weight of it inside him, the way it had stretched him open and filled him so completely.
"Strip," Damien ordered, stepping under the spray.
"I'm not showering with you," Julian said, trying to muster his dignity. "I can shower at home."
Damien turned, water sluicing down his chest, highlighting every ridge of muscle. "You are showering here. I need to wash my scent off you so you can function today. Unless you want your driver to know exactly what we did? Unless you want your board to smell me on you from across the room?"