I know what you need. #2
I can still feel the ghost of his cock inside me, still feel the stretch and the fullness and the way my body shaped itself around him like it was made for exactly that purpose.
I can still hear myself begging—please, Alpha, please let me come—and the worst part is that I meant it.
Every desperate word. Every shameful plea.
I meant all of it, and I would have said worse if he’d asked me to.
I wanted him. I still want him. Even now, even sore and exhausted and hollowed out, some part of me aches for his hands on my body, his voice in my ear, his cock filling the emptiness that seems to have taken up permanent residence in my core.
The bond pulses with his presence, and I feel my pussy clench in response.
Traitor, I think. But I’m not sure if I mean my body or my heart.
I find the bathing chamber and spend a long time in the water.
It’s hot, fed by the mountain’s thermal springs, and I sink into it until only my face is above the surface.
The heat seeps into my aching muscles, loosening knots I didn’t know I’d been carrying.
His seed keeps leaking out of me—I can feel it, a slow trickle that reminds me with every movement of what we did.
What I did. How I spread my legs and begged and came so many times I lost count.
I press my hand to my belly, feeling the slight swell that might be fullness or might be something else entirely.
You might already be carrying my child.
The thought should terrify me. Should send me spiraling into panic, into desperate plans for escape or prevention or something, anything to stop this from becoming even more permanent than it already is.
Instead, I feel… nothing. A strange numbness where the horror should be.
Or maybe not nothing. Maybe something buried so deep I can’t name it yet. Something that stirs when I imagine a child with bronze skin and gray eyes, something that feels dangerously close to—
No. I’m not going to think about that.
I stay in the water until my fingers prune and the heat has seeped into every sore muscle. Then I climb out, dry myself with the soft cloths left beside the pool, and face the mirror.
The woman looking back at me is a stranger.
Not because of the marks—though there are plenty of those, a map of his possession written across my skin in bites and bruises. Not because of the dark circles under my eyes or the swollen lips or the tangled mess of my hair.
It’s something in my expression. Something softer than I’ve ever seen there before. The hard edges I’ve carried since I was sixteen—since I picked up a sword and became Ironhold’s protector—have been worn away, leaving something more vulnerable underneath. Something that looks almost… peaceful.
I hate it.
I turn away from the mirror and go to find clothes.
There are dresses laid out on the bed when I return.
Soft fabrics in deep jewel tones—sapphire, emerald, garnet. Nothing like the practical fighting leathers I’ve worn my whole adult life. These are clothes for a lady. For an omega who belongs to a powerful male and wants everyone to know it.
I stare at them for a long moment, then pull on a simple shift instead. It’s meant to be worn under the dresses, barely decent on its own, but it covers everything important and doesn’t make me feel like I’m playing dress-up in someone else’s life.
Small rebellions. It’s all I have left.
The door to the chamber opens.
Karax fills the doorway—all eight feet of bronze muscle, his golden eyes finding me immediately. I feel the bond pulse between us, feel his satisfaction at seeing me awake and moving. Feel the spike of hunger when he takes in the thin shift clinging to my body, hiding nothing.
“You’re awake.” He crosses the room toward me, and I have to fight the urge to back away. Also fight the urge to move closer. Both impulses war inside me, and I end up frozen in place while he stops in front of me, close enough that I have to crane my neck to look up at him. “How do you feel?”
“Sore.” My voice comes out rough, wrecked. “Used.”
“Good.” The satisfaction in his voice makes something clench low in my belly. “You should feel used. You were. Thoroughly.”
I should be angry. Should snap back at him, remind him that I’m not his property, that what happened during the heat doesn’t change who I am at my core.
But the words won’t come. Because some part of me—some traitorous, broken part—likes hearing him say it. Likes the reminder that I was thoroughly claimed, thoroughly fucked, thoroughly owned for three days straight.
“I see you didn’t care for the dresses.” His eyes travel over the shift, lingering on the places where the thin fabric clings to my curves. “We’ll have more appropriate clothes made. Something that shows what you are.”
“And what am I?”
“Mine.” The word lands like a brand. “The Guardian’s omega. The woman who drew my blood in the arena. Both of those things—the warrior and the omega—are part of you now. The Court will see both.”
“And if I don’t want to be seen at all?”
“That’s not an option.” His hand comes up to wrap around my throat, fingers curling around to brush my spine, palm warm against my pulse. The grip isn’t tight—he’s not restricting my air—but the weight of it makes my whole body go quiet. Still. Obedient.
I hate how much I need this. Hate how the tension drains out of my shoulders the moment he takes control.
“You’re mine,” he continues, his thumb stroking along the side of my neck.
“That means you stand where I put you. It means you attend Court functions and training sessions and meals where everyone can see what you’ve become.
It means you stop hiding in this chamber and start learning what your life looks like now. ”
I should be arguing. Should be fighting this.
Instead, I feel my eyes flutter closed, my breath slow, my resistance melt away under the pressure of his hand.
“There it is,” he murmurs, satisfaction rumbling through his voice. “That’s my good girl.”
I shudder as the praise washes through me, warm and sweet, making my cunt clench around nothing. I hate how much I need to hear those words. Hate how my body responds to them like they’re a drug I’ve become addicted to.
“I’m going to take you out of this chamber today,” he continues, his hand still warm around my throat. “Show you Stone Court. Introduce you to the people who will serve you. And you’re going to walk beside me with your head high, because hiding isn’t something I’ll permit.”
“And what happens if I refuse?”
His grip tightens—just slightly, just enough to make my head swim.
“You won’t refuse. Because you know what happens when you’re good for me.
” His other hand slides down to rest on my hip, pulling me closer until I’m pressed against the solid wall of his body.
“And you know what happens when you’re not. ”
Through the bond, I feel his certainty. His patience. His absolute confidence that I’ll do exactly what he wants, because I’ve already proven that I will. Three days of heat taught him every way to break me, and we both know he’ll use that knowledge without hesitation.
“Get dressed,” he says, releasing my throat. I sway toward him, chasing the contact, and I see the flash of satisfaction in his golden eyes. “Something practical. We have a lot of ground to cover.”
He leaves me standing in the middle of the chamber, my heart pounding and my pussy aching and my mind spinning with everything I’ve lost and everything I might have gained.
I look at the dresses laid out on the bed. Then I look at the fighting leathers I wore before the heat—still draped over a chair in the corner, still carrying the scent of who I used to be.
I reach for the leathers.
If I’m going to face Stone Court, I’m going to do it as a warrior. Even if I’m also something else now.
Even if that something else makes my knees weak and my cunt clench every time he calls me a good girl. Chapter 16: Karax
She walks beside me like a warrior going into battle.
Her spine is straight, her shoulders squared, her gray eyes scanning the corridor ahead with the tactical awareness I’ve watched her hone in our training sessions.
She chose the fighting leathers over the dresses I provided, and I find I don’t mind.
The soft leather hugs her curves, reminds everyone who sees her that she’s not just an omega—she’s a fighter who drew blood from the Guardian of Stone Court.
The first person to do so in seven hundred years.
The servants we pass bow deeply, their eyes flickering between us with undisguised curiosity.
Word has spread through the fortress—of course it has.
Stone Court thrives on strength and combat, and the story of a human woman who cut me in the arena is the most interesting thing to happen here in centuries.
Hannah notices their attention but doesn’t shrink from it. She meets their gazes directly, acknowledging their bows with small nods that carry the dignity of someone who knows her own worth.
Pride swells in my chest. Mine. This fierce, beautiful warrior is mine.
“The great hall,” I tell her as we approach the massive stone doors. “Stone Court’s lords and warriors gather here each morning to report and receive orders. Today, they meet you.”
“And what exactly am I to them?” Her voice is steady, but I feel her tension through the bond.
“The Guardian’s omega.” I stop before the doors and turn to face her, tilting her chin up with one finger.
She’s so small compared to me—the top of her head barely reaches my chest—but she doesn’t cower.
Never has. “The woman who drew my blood. They’ll respect both of those things, or they’ll answer to me. ”
Her scent shifts—arousal threading through the anxiety—and I feel her pussy clench through the bond. Good. Let her remember what waits for her when we’re alone.
“Ready?”
She takes a breath. Squares her shoulders. “Ready.”
I push open the doors.
The great hall falls silent the moment we enter.