Chapter 37 Alaric
ALARIC
He knew the exact moment the room shifted.
Elara lifted her head from his shoulder and looked at him, really looked, like she had stepped across some last small edge inside herself and found steady ground.
Afternoon light had gone soft, the fire working at a new log.
Snow feathered the window. He felt his heartbeat take on her rhythm.
“Come here,” he said quietly.
She turned on the couch and swung one knee across his lap.
He cradled her injured shoulder without being told, palm wide and careful, and used his other hand to frame her face.
Her pupils were dark, the green around them bright as glass.
When he kissed her, she answered like an oath, not rushed, not timid, but sure.
The kiss lengthened until he had to break for breath.
He held her gaze. “Tell me if anything hurts.”
“I will. Keep going.”
He kissed her again, slower, learning the small sounds she made when he tugged her bottom lip, the way her body softened when he slid his hand down her side.
He kept a gentler grip on the shoulder that Freya had wrapped, and Elara leaned into the pressure like it soothed instead of strained.
He lifted the throw and tucked it aside, then eased her back enough to peel her coat away.
She let him. He unbuttoned her shirt one button at a time, brushing his knuckles over the warm skin he revealed.
The fire caught at her collarbones and the line of her throat.
“You are beautiful,” he said.
She laughed softly, then sucked in air when he drew her shirt off and set it neatly on the arm of the couch. The bandage under her camisole pulled tight when she moved. He checked her face. She shook her head.
“It’s fine,” she said. “I want you.”
He eased the thin strap down her good shoulder and pressed his mouth to the new skin he found.
She tipped her chin and offered more. He took his time.
Each kiss said I see you, I am here. He slid his hand under the camisole and felt the flutter of her stomach under his palm.
When he pushed the fabric up, she raised her arms and let him lift it over her head.
He worked around the bandage, never tugging what Freya had anchored.
“Tell me what you want,” he said.
“You,” she said simply. “All of you. Slow.”
“Slow is all I have.”
He unhooked her bra and eased it away. Her breasts lifted in the warm air, nipples tightening.
He cupped one gently, then the other, not squeezing, just holding the weight as if it were a secret he was trusted to keep.
She arched a little and dragged her nails over his shoulder.
He kissed the soft curve above his hand, then lower, then lower still, and the breath she let out turned him inside out.
“Bed,” she whispered. “Please.”
He stood and scooped her up without asking, his arm firm around her waist, his other arm under her thighs, careful of the injured side. She made a small sound of protest that died when he said, “Let me carry you.” The sound became something like yes.
He laid her on the bed, fresh sheets cool under her fever-warm skin.
He stoked the fire in the bedroom stove with his free hand until it flared and sent a deeper glow through the small room.
She watched him strip off his shirt and boots, watched him pause and ask with his eyes before he unbuttoned her jeans.
She nodded. He slid them down her legs, slow enough to make her shiver.
Her panties were damp, a soft blue that did nothing to hide how turned on she was.
He brushed his knuckles along the edge and felt her thighs tremble.
“Look at me,” he said.
She looked. He drew the panties down, kissed the inside of her knee, and moved up the length of her, reverent.
He did not put his mouth where he knew she wanted it.
That was not what tonight was for. Tonight was for the long line of kisses along her abdomen, the soft teeth on the dip of her hip, the warm breath at her navel, the quiet admission that he could spend an hour kissing the inside of her arm and count it a victory.
“Take yours off,” she said, eyes low and dark.
He obeyed, unbuckled and pushed his jeans down, stepped out of them, and then eased his briefs over his thighs. His cock sprang free, heavy and ruddy in the firelight, the sight of her making him ache. He felt cruder when she looked, felt proud when she bit her lip.
“Touch me,” she whispered.
He crawled up the bed and braced on one elbow to keep pressure off her shoulder.
He ran his palm down her belly and lower, over the soft curls and into heat.
She was slick and ready, pussy wet for him, the feel of it dragging a sound from his chest he did not plan.
He stroked her slowly, watching her face for every small yes, mapping the angle that made her thighs twitch.
She moaned when he circled her clit with the lightest pressure.
“How is this,” he asked.
“Perfect,” she said. “You feel like you were built to find me.”
He groaned. “I was.”
He kept his fingers shallow, just enough to open her, just enough to prepare her for what came next.
When her breath went ragged and she tried to push his hand deeper, he pulled back and reached to the nightstand, taking a condom from the drawer.
Her eyes widened with something like gratitude when he rolled it down his length.
He lined himself up and paused, cock nudging her entrance, thick head sliding through wet heat. She shifted and caught her breath at the stretch.
“Wait a second,” he said, voice tight. “Breathe with me.”
She did, chest rising slow. He held her leg over his hip with one hand, used the other to keep her injured shoulder anchored against the pillow.
He eased forward, stopped, eased forward again, every inch a conversation.
The heat of her, the tight clasp around the tip of his cock, the way her body learned and let him in, it all hit him at once.
“Talk to me,” he said, almost hoarse. “Tell me what it feels like.”
“Full,” she said, honest and wrecked. “Stretching me. It burns a little, then it melts, then it feels right.”
He pushed deeper. Her mouth fell open and she grabbed his forearm. He watched her eyes go glassy and tender at the same time.
“More,” she whispered.
He sank the last of the way in, slow as prayer.
The heat shivered through him when their hips met.
He froze and breathed through the raw rush of it.
Her body clutched around him, testing his control.
He pressed his forehead to hers and saw himself reflected there.
Wolf and man. Lover and protector. Hers.
“Are you okay,” he asked.
She nodded, eyes wet for no reason that hurt. “You’re so deep.”
“I feel you everywhere,” he said. “I can feel your heartbeat on my cock.”
She laughed, then gasped when he rocked his hips an inch, then another, using his weight and not speed.
He slid out just enough to make her ache and then in again, each stroke sure and patient.
He kept his hand on her shoulder and kissed her brow, her cheek, the corner of her mouth.
He set a rhythm that asked as much as it took.
“You’re doing all the work,” she whispered, breathless.
“I said I would,” he answered. “Let me.”
She let him. He moved, long and slow, filling her and retreating, finding that thoughtless place where her body met his without hesitation.
The friction grew slick and hot. The sounds of them were intimate and quiet, wet and steady.
He felt when she started to climb, the muscles inside her fluttering around him, her hand catching at his back.
“Right there,” she said, voice a thin thread. “Please, right there.”
He adjusted his angle, shallow and deep in turn until he found the stroke that hit the spot that made her eyes lose focus.
He held it, steady and relentless, and brought his thumb to her clit with careful pressure, because he knew how sensitive she was after the battle, after the bandage, after too many sharp edges.
“Alaric,” she breathed. “I’m going to…”
“Give it to me,” he said. “It is yours and mine. Take it.”
She came with a quiet cry, body seizing and then rolling, pussy clenching around his cock in pulsing waves that made his vision stutter.
He held his rhythm through it and kissed her, swallowed the sounds she could not help.
The heat of her orgasm washed over him, the grip on his length tightening, and he had to clench his jaw not to drive harder.
“Beautiful,” he said. “So beautiful when you break for me.”
She shook, then softened, then blinked at him like she had come back from somewhere bright. He did not move until her hand slid to his cheek and she smiled.
“Don’t stop,” she said. “I want more.”
“You get everything,” he said.
He set a deeper pace, still gentle, but with a weight that said he was here to stay.
The bed creaked in small, honest noises.
He felt the burn start in his spine, the pull low in his belly, the heat that told him he was close.
He forced himself to hold and kept his attention on her, on the way her mouth parted when he hit the right place, on the way her nails dragged down his shoulder in a line that would show later in the mirror.
“You feel so good,” she said, words slurring with pleasure. “I can feel you everywhere. I can feel you in my ribs.”
He groaned and thrust a little deeper, a little firmer. “You’re going to make me lose my mind.”
“Then lose it,” she said.
He almost did. He dropped his mouth to her neck and breathed her in, then lifted and looked at her again because he wanted to see her when she came.
He moved his thumb again, slow circles, and kept the stroke that made her tremble.
She climbed faster this time, the build not a climb so much as a lift, and then she arched, eyes wide, a second orgasm breaking through her with a shock that pulled a gasp from both of them.
Her pussy squeezed his cock hard, milking him, and he let go with a groan, hips pressing deep.
Heat flashed through him as he came, pulse after pulse spilling into the condom while her body pulled at him like it never wanted to let him go.
“God,” he said, voice broken. “Elara.”
She held his face and kissed him while he shuddered through the last of it.
He stayed inside her as long as the tenderness would let him, unwilling to lose the perfect fit even for a moment.
When he eased out, he did it slow, watching for any flicker of pain.
She sighed, sensitive and sated, and pulled him down to rest against his chest. He stripped the condom and tied it off, dropped it neatly in the small bin, then pulled the covers up and tucked her against his side with her injured shoulder supported by a pillow he had slid into place earlier.
“Any hurt,” he asked, voice soft again.
“No hurt,” she said. “Just the good aches.”
He smoothed hair off her forehead and pressed a kiss there. “I’m not going to mark you. Not until you ask me to.”
“I know,” she said. “Thank you. Tonight was for us.”
“It was.”
She traced the scar along his jaw with a lazy finger. “The fire makes you look almost gentle.”
“I can be gentle,” he said. “With you I always will be.”
They lay quiet and let the room settle. Snow brushed the window in soft whispers. The stove breathed. Her breath warmed his chest through the slow return of calm. He felt the contentment in his wolf, not claiming, not pushing, only circling them and laying down around the bed like a guard.
“I love you,” she said, voice sleepy.
“I love you,” he said back. He meant it in every language he had, man and wolf both.
She tipped her face up and kissed him one more time, sweet and unhurried. Then she tucked in and closed her eyes. He watched her a long minute, then closed his too, holding her like something sacred, every scar and every soft place lit by the fire and by the simple truth of what they had chosen.