Epilogue Coming Back For Me…Always #3
"But don't take all day and night," Blaze adds, following Jett with a knowing grin thrown over his shoulder.
Kai huffs.
The sound is pure irritation.
"I'll take my time if I want."
A giggle escapes me—that high, bright sound that means my brain is fully back online and processing the absurdity of my Alphas bickering about sexual scheduling.
I move toward Kai.
My legs are steadier now—not by much, but enough to cross the space between us without falling. My arms wrap around his waist, pressing my body against his, feeling the tension radiating through his muscles.
"Don't cause a fuss," I murmur against his chest, tilting my head back to look up at him.
His dark gold eyes meet mine—burning with want and frustration and the particular brand of intensity that is uniquely Kai.
Then he's kissing me.
Deep.
Claiming.
The kind of kiss that says mine and finally and I've been waiting and I'm done waiting.
His hands find my waist, lifting me effortlessly—I'm small enough that all of them can do this, but Kai makes it look particularly easy. My legs wrap around him automatically as he carries me toward the bed, our mouths never separating.
The mattress is soft beneath my back as he lays me down.
Gentle.
Reverent.
Treating me like something precious despite the fact that I'm thoroughly used and covered in the evidence of three previous rounds.
He pulls back just enough to look at me—really look, his gaze traveling over my flushed face, my disheveled hair, my body spread out before him like an offering.
His hands move to his belt.
Unbuckling.
The leather slides free with a whisper of sound that makes my breath catch. Then he's opening his pants, freeing his cock—already hard, already leaking, evidence that he's been suffering through business calls while knowing exactly what was happening upstairs.
"Fuck," he breathes, and the word is half curse, half prayer. "Being patient was driving me fucking mad today."
I smirk.
Can't help it.
Something about seeing Kai—controlled, calculated, always-composed Kai—completely undone by wanting me does things to my ego that are probably unhealthy.
"Don't wait any longer then, my ruthless king." I spread my legs wider, inviting, offering. "Fuck me hard."
He doesn't need to be told twice.
Kai enters me in one smooth thrust—no hesitation, no teasing, just the immediate fullness of being stretched around his considerable length. My back arches off the bed, a moan tearing from my throat as he bottoms out.
Too much.
It's too much.
I'm oversensitized from multiple orgasms, exhausted from aerial acrobatics, completely wrecked from a morning of sexual excess.
And it's perfect.
Absolutely perfect.
He sets a rhythm that's different from the others—not Blaze's acrobatic precision, not Jett's desperate efficiency, not Sage's tender intensity.
This is pure dominance.
The claiming of a pack leader reminding his Omega exactly who she belongs to.
His hips snap forward with controlled power, each thrust deliberate and devastating. The angle is perfect—hitting that spot inside that makes my vision blur, that makes my toes curl, that makes coherent thought completely impossible.
I cling to him.
Nails raking down his still-clothed back—he didn't even fully undress, too desperate to get inside me—leaving marks through the expensive fabric of his shirt.
"That's it," he growls, one hand sliding under my knee to push my leg higher, opening me further. "Take all of me. Every fucking inch."
My mind fractures.
Thought scattering into sensation—the stretch and burn of penetration, the friction against my oversensitized walls, the building pressure that signals another impossible orgasm approaching.
One-two-three-four.
One-two-three-four.
The counting continues beneath everything—my anchor, my tether, the thing that keeps me from flying apart completely.
"Kai—" His name is a gasp, a plea, a warning.
"I know." His thumb finds my clit, circling with perfect pressure. "I can feel you getting close. Can feel how tight you are. Come for me, Sera. One more time."
One more time.
Four orgasms.
Even number.
Safe.
Good.
Perfect.
The climax builds with devastating inevitability—pleasure coiling tight in my core, spreading through my limbs, making my whole body tense in anticipation of the release.
Kai's rhythm doesn't falter.
Doesn't change.
Just continues that perfect, punishing pace that's pushing me higher, faster, toward the edge I'm about to fall over.
"Now," he orders, and the command in his voice—the pure Alpha dominance—is what tips me over.
I come with a cry that might be his name, might be gibberish, might be some combination of both. My body convulses around him, inner walls clamping down with enough force to make him curse, and I feel the rush of slick coating us both.
Kai follows seconds later—his control finally breaking, his cock pulsing inside me as he fills me with his release. The warmth spreads through my core, mixing with everything else, marking me as thoroughly his.
He collapses onto his forearms—careful not to crush me, even in the aftermath—breathing hard against my neck.
We lie there.
Connected.
Catching our breath.
Coming back to ourselves slowly.
"How fast you think we can shower?" he finally asks, voice rough.
The question makes me giggle—exhausted, satisfied, completely wrung out.
"If I shower with you, I'm never getting ready." I push at his chest weakly. "So shoo."
He huffs.
Pulls out slowly—both of us groaning at the sensation—and stands beside the bed, tucking himself back into his pants.
"Fine."
The word is pure reluctant acceptance.
I watch him leave, then force my thoroughly exhausted body to move toward the attached bathroom.
Shower.
Quick.
Efficient.
No time for the luxury of enjoying it.
The shower is brutally efficient—three minutes of scalding water, soap, and the particular kind of cleaning that happens when you're running late and covered in the evidence of a very productive morning.
I emerge clean but still thoroughly exhausted, muscles protesting every movement as I dress in my dance recital attire—black leggings that hug my legs like a second skin, a fitted burgundy crop top that shows just enough midriff to be artistic without being inappropriate, and my favorite ballet shoes with ribbons that wrap around my ankles in perfect figure-eights.
Even numbers.
Always even numbers.
My hair is still damp, hanging in pink waves down my back, but there's no time to properly dry it. I twist it into a quick bun—securing it with four pins, because two would be too few and six would be too many—and check my reflection one final time.
Good enough.
More than good enough, actually.
I look like a dancer.
A real dancer.
Not a killer pretending to be an artist, but an artist who happens to be deadly.
The distinction matters.
To me, at least.
I skip down the stairs—actual skipping, because apparently orgasms give me excess energy despite the physical exhaustion—my feet barely touching each step as I descend toward the main floor.
One-two-three-four.
One-two-three-four.
Counting the steps.
Always counting.
The foyer is massive—all marble floors and vaulted ceilings and the particular kind of elegance that comes from having unlimited funds and excellent taste. But I barely see it anymore. Two weeks of living here has made even the excessive wealth feel normal.
Through the tall windows, I can see the G-Wagon waiting in the circular driveway.
And my pack.
All four of them.
Arranged around the vehicle like some kind of magazine photoshoot for "Hot Alphas Who Definitely Aren't Criminals Monthly."
Blaze is leaning against the hood, golden hair catching the afternoon sun, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
Jett stands near the driver's side door, arms crossed, his teal-blue hair styled back from his face.
Kai is checking his phone—probably still dealing with business even now—his dark red hair perfectly arranged despite our recent activities.
And Sage...
Sage is pouting.
Actually pouting.
His lower lip pushed out, green-gold eyes fixed on me as I emerge from the house, the expression so exaggerated it makes me giggle before I even reach them.
"What's wrong with you?" I ask, crossing the driveway with my dance bag slung over one shoulder.
"I should have had another round," he complains, reaching for me as soon as I'm within arm's length.
The giggle becomes a full laugh—bright and unhinged and absolutely inappropriate for the statement.
"That would be five rounds," I point out, letting him pull me close. "And five is bad luck. Odd number. Unbalanced. Completely unacceptable."
"So you're making me wait until the ride home."
"Exactly."
His expression shifts—the pout transforming into something sharper, more dangerous. The smile that curves his lips is the one I've learned to associate with violence and satisfaction and the particular kind of pleasure that comes from eliminating threats.
He takes my hand—gentle, reverent, treating me like something precious—and leads me toward the vehicle.
"Fine," he says, opening the back door. "But we have 'business' afterward."
I arch an eyebrow.
Business.
In this pack, "business" has very specific meanings.
None of them legal.
Most of them fatal.
"Oh?" I slide into the back seat, settling into the plush leather. "Business hmm. Who are we killing?"
The question comes out casual.
Matter-of-fact.
Like I'm asking about dinner plans instead of murder.
Sage follows me into the car, his smile widening as he closes the door behind us.
"Well," he says, leaning close enough that I can smell the vanilla-smoke scent of him, "it'll be a surprise. But we'll let you enjoy the final strike."
The final strike.
My specialty.
The thing I'm best at—that moment of precision violence, the exact application of force required to end a life efficiently.
They're giving me the kill.
Saving it for me.
Like a gift.