Chapter 9 Bleed, Bite, Belong #2
A growl that starts deep in his chest and rumbles up through his throat, vibrating against my inner thighs where they bracket his hips. His hands tighten on my waist—bruising, possessive, fingernails digging crescents into flesh that will mark me as his long after this night ends.
"Fuck, Seraphine." His voice is gravel and want. "The way you look right now—head back, tits bouncing, taking my cock like you were made for it—"
"Maybe I was," I gasp out, grinding down harder. "The universe spent years breaking me just so I'd fit you perfectly."
The words are insane.
Romantic in the most fucked-up way possible.
But they feel true.
His hips thrust up to meet my downward motion, driving him impossibly deeper, and I scream—a high, broken sound that echoes off the walls and probably alerts the entire residential block to exactly what's happening in townhome number thirteen.
Let all the neighborhood hear for all I care.
Assume that the packless, crazy Omega is getting fucked by someone who actually wants her.
She’s not some lonely bag of damaged goods not savored by anyone…
"That's it," Sage encourages, his grip guiding my movements now, faster and harder than I was moving before. "C’mon, Sweets. Use me. Fucking wreck me."
I do.
I ride him like I'm trying to merge our bodies into one entity, like if I move fast enough and hard enough, we'll become inseparable. My slick coats his shaft, his thighs, probably the sheets beneath us—obscene and excessive and proof that my body wants this even more than my broken brain does.
The sounds we're making fill the room.
Wet, filthy sounds of flesh meeting flesh.
My moans, his groans, the breathless laughter that keeps bubbling up from my chest because this is insane, this is perfect, this is everything I never knew I needed.
"You know what I think?" I manage between gasping breaths, still moving, still chasing the building pleasure that's threatening to consume me. "I think you might be a killer, Sage Wilder. I think you might have bodies buried somewhere, blood on your hands, darkness in your soul that matches mine."
His eyes flash—something predatory and pleased.
"And if I am?" He thrusts up hard, making me cry out. "If I told you I've killed, that I'm dangerous, that I'm exactly the kind of monster your brother probably warns people about?"
I laugh.
Breathless, unhinged, absolutely delighted.
"Then I'd tell you to spill all the blood you want." I lean down, getting close to his face, my hair creating a curtain around us. "For me. Only for me. Paint this whole fucking academy red if it makes you happy."
He groans—a sound of pure want mixed with something darker.
"Don't say shit like that unless you mean it, Sweets."
"I mean it." I straighten back up, head falling back again as I increase my pace even more. "I mean every fucking word. You could tell me your whole pack are murderers and guess what?" I giggle, the sound manic even to my own ears. "I wouldn't give a fucking damn."
His cock twitches inside me.
Hard.
His grip on my hips turns punishing.
"Don't tempt me with a good fucking future, Sweetness," he threatens, but there's something almost reverent in his tone. "Don't make me want things I can't have."
"Who says you can't have them?" I'm moving faster now, my movements turning erratic as the pressure builds to unbearable levels. "Who says we can't be exactly what we want—two broken people who found each other and decided to burn the world down together?"
"Seraphine—"
"I'm serious." Another giggle escapes, high-pitched and slightly deranged. "I'm so fucking serious. I'd run away with you right now. Tonight. Leave all of this behind and never look back."
His response is lost in a groan as my pussy clenches around him, milking his length greedily.
I'm so close now—so impossibly close that every nerve ending in my body is screaming, every muscle pulled tight in anticipation of the release that's building like a tidal wave.
I can feel his knot.
Starting to form at the base of his cock—a subtle swelling that presses against my entrance with every downward thrust, threatening to lock us together, to bind us in the most primal way possible.
The danger of it should make me stop.
Should make me pull off, lift away, protect us both from a bond neither of us planned for.
But I don't stop.
Can't stop.
I'm chasing something bigger than logic, bigger than self-preservation—I'm chasing the feeling of being wanted, being claimed, being someone's first choice instead of their last resort.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck—" The words tumble out of me in a breathless chant. "Sage, I'm—I'm going to—"
"Come for me," he demands, his own voice strained with the effort of holding back. "Come on my cock, Seraphine. Let me feel you fall apart."
The permission is all I need.
My orgasm hits like a fucking freight train.
White-hot pleasure explodes through me—starting at my core and radiating outward in waves that make my toes curl, my back arch, my entire body seize with the intensity of it. I scream his name—loud, shameless, not caring who hears or what they think.
My walls clench around him rhythmically, pulsing with each aftershock, and somewhere in the chaos of sensation, I hear him cry out, too.
His hips thrust up one final time—deep, brutal, perfect—and I feel him pulse inside me. Feel the heat of his release painting my insides, marking me in a way that's almost as permanent as a bite.
Almost.
His knot swells further—not fully formed yet, but close, so fucking close to the point of no return.
We're both shaking.
Both gasping for air like we've been underwater for too long.
Staring at each other with expressions that are equal parts terror and wonder.
This is the moment.
The moment where we should pull apart, separate our bodies, protect ourselves from a bond that would complicate everything.
But neither of us moves.
We just stay frozen—me impaled on his cock, him buried inside me, his knot pressing insistently at my entrance like it knows exactly what it wants and is tired of waiting for permission.
"Seraphine," he breathes, and my name on his lips sounds like a prayer.
Like a promise.
The beginning of something that will either save us both or destroy us completely.
I need to move.
Need to lift my hips, separate our bodies, stop this before it goes too far.
The logical part of my brain—the part that's kept me alive this long—is screaming at me to pull away, to protect myself, to remember that bonds are permanent and I barely know him beyond ink on paper. But my body won't cooperate.
My thighs are shaking too hard, muscles gone liquid from the orgasm still rippling through me in fading waves.
And his knot—fuck, his knot is swelling at the base of his cock, pressing against my entrance with every small movement, threatening to lock us together in a way that can't be undone.
One-two-three-four.
My fingers tap against his chest—four beats, even number, safe.
One-two-three-four.
I try to count my breaths, but they're coming too fast, too shallow, panic and arousal mixing into something I can't name.
One-two-three-four.
The counting isn't helping.
Because I can feel him inside me—still hard, still pulsing with aftershocks, his knot growing larger with every second I stay impaled on him.
My body is responding instinctively, producing more slick, my inner walls fluttering around his length like they're trying to coax that knot fully inside where it belongs.
Where it doesn't belong.
Where it absolutely fucking cannot go.
I force my eyes open—didn't realize I'd closed them—and look down at Sage.
He's already looking at me.
His green-gold eyes with their flicker of pink flakes are locked on mine with an intensity that steals whatever breath I'd managed to catch.
There's something in his gaze that I recognize because I see it every time I look in the mirror—a depth of loneliness so profound it has its own gravity.
The kind of isolation that comes from being fundamentally different, fundamentally broken, fundamentally unlovable in a world that demands perfection.
He sees me.
Not the Omega designation or the body count or the diagnosis that everyone else uses to define me.
He sees the girl who writes letters in blood because commitment is the only religion she has left.
The girl who survives through violence and ballet and obsessive rituals that barely keep the chaos at bay.
The girl who's been alone for so long that the idea of connection feels like a beautiful lie someone invented to torture her.
And I see him too.
The boy who learned to escape any bondage except the one around his own heart.
The performer who turned pain into art because that was the only way to survive.
The man who's been writing back to me for five years because maybe he was just as desperate for proof that he wasn't completely alone.
What would it be like?
The thought surfaces unbidden, dangerous.
What would it be like if we were a pack? If I wasn't packless anymore? If I had someone who chose me, who wanted me, who saw all my broken pieces and decided I was worth keeping anyway?
What would be the thing that ruins us?
Because something always does.
Something always goes wrong.
The universe doesn't let people like us have happy endings.
But what if—
"Seraphine."
His voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts.
His hands are still gripping my hips—tight enough to hurt, tight enough to anchor me to reality when my brain wants to float away into panic or hope or whatever dangerous emotion is currently flooding my system.
"Fuck," he hisses, and I feel his fingers dig in harder. Feel the way his thighs tense beneath mine. "Fuck, Sweets, I can feel—"
"I know." My voice comes out smaller than I intend. "I know, I need to—you need to lift me off."
The words are logical.
Practical.
The right thing to say.
But they taste like ash in my mouth.
His grip doesn't loosen.
If anything, it tightens.
"What if I don't want to?"