3. Olivia #3
Outside, the impacts against the barrier intensify .
They’ve realized.
I see it in the violence of it — Four-Arms driving both fists into the shield in a rhythm that sends amber shockwaves rippling outward. Chuckles’s markings blazing white-hot. Scratch striking from the side in calculated bursts.
They are watching.
They cannot stop it.
The barrier refuses them.
The Crown’s pulse climbs.
They are on the outside.
And that does not frighten me.
It steadies me.
I pull him closer.
His mouth finds the curve of my throat.
The sound that leaves me this time isn’t clinical. It isn’t observational. It isn’t careful.
It’s need.
It’s every moment since the pod chamber layered on top of each other — every reset, every descent, every glance held too long, every choice he made to restrain what he could have taken.
The shield flares brighter.
The rivals rage.
The volcano groans.
I stop thinking about any of it.
His hands slide to the hem of my shirt.
And stop.
Even now.
Waiting.
I reach down.
Cover his hands with mine.
And guide them upward.
His mouth leaves my throat and crashes back to mine, harder this time, and the kiss turns into something that has teeth.
Not biting—yet—but the edges of his canines catch my lower lip when I open for him, a quick sharp sting that makes me suck in air.
He tastes like smoke and metal and something distinctly him, and I chase it with my tongue.
His hands are already moving.
He yanks my shirt up and over my head in one rough pull; the fabric rips at the shoulder seam and I don’t care.
Cool air hits my skin for half a second before his body heat swallows it again.
He is burning—literally radiating—and when my bare stomach presses against the unscarred side of his abdomen the contact feels like stepping too close to an open oven door. A hiss escapes me before I can stop it.
He freezes.
Instantly.
Every muscle locks. His mouth lifts off mine by maybe an inch. Dark eyes search my face, pupils blown wide, the faint molten shimmer under his skin flaring brighter at his temples.
“Too much heat?” Low. Rough. The question is serious.
I shake my head. “No. Just—intense. Keep going.”
He studies me another beat—long enough that I feel the shield pulse once against my back—then exhales through his nose and nods once.
His hands slide down to the waistband of my pants.
No fumbling. No hesitation now that I’ve answered.
He hooks thumbs inside and shoves them down along with my underwear in a single motion.
I kick them off somewhere behind me; they land on volcanic rock with a soft pat.
Naked now.
Ash drifts through the shield in slow, lazy spirals. Tiny flakes catch in the light and glow briefly before winking out. The air smells like hot stone and sulfur and sex already, even though we haven’t started yet.
His gaze drops. Takes in my body with the same focused attention he gives everything else—cataloging, assessing, committing. His claws flex against my hips, not digging in yet, just resting there, heavy and warm.
He lifts me again, higher this time, until my thighs bracket his waist and the thick ridge of him presses directly against my core through whatever passes for fabric on his lower half.
The pressure makes my breath hitch. He’s big—bigger than I expected even after seeing the rest of him—and the heat coming off his cock is obscene.
It sears right through the remaining material and makes my inner thighs twitch.
He growls—low, subsonic—and the sound vibrates where we’re touching.
One hand leaves my hip. Reaches between us.
Fabric tears—loud, deliberate—and then there is nothing between us.
Skin to skin. The blunt head of him slides along my folds, slick already because my body apparently decided hours ago that survival and arousal were going to share the same nervous system.
He notches.
Pauses.
Looks at my face again.
I nod.
He begins to push in when I say:
“Wait. I don’t know your name. Tell me your name.”
“Kaelor.”
“Kaelor,” I repeat, my lips curling around it. “Hi Kaelor. My name’s Olivia.”
A growled slips past his fangs and escapes his lips. “Olivia. ”
I feel myself tighten around him as my name rumbles from his chest.
I nod again. More affirmative this time.
And he pushes inside me.
The first inch is shock—heat and stretch and the slight burn of him being so much hotter than any human could ever run. My nails dig into his shoulders. A gasp tears out of me, sharp and involuntary.
He stops immediately.
Halfway in, holding perfectly still, muscles trembling with restraint. Eyes locked on mine.
“Stop?” One word. Hoarse.
“No.” My voice cracks but it’s steady enough. “Don’t you fucking dare.”
Something flickers in his expression—relief, maybe, or hunger finally allowed off the leash. He sinks deeper in one long, controlled thrust.
I moan—loud, shameless—because the stretch is borderline too much and the heat is everywhere, radiating into my walls, my cervix, my fucking spine.
It hurts for a second, a bright flare of discomfort, then my body adjusts and the pain flips, turns liquid and good and more. I clench around him without meaning to.
He groans. The sound is wrecked.
Outside the shield, Plates slams both fists into the barrier so hard the whole dome rings.
Concentric amber rings explode outward from the impact points and keep spreading, brighter each time.
His mouth is open in a silent roar. Beside him, Syrox’s ash vents flare white-hot; he hurls a concentrated stream of toxic gas at the base of the shield but it just slides off harmlessly.
Reach is climbing higher on the ruins, searching for a weak angle that doesn’t exist.
They’re watching .
All of them.
They see exactly what’s happening—see him buried inside me, see my legs locked around his waist, see the way my head tips back when he starts to move.
Kaelor doesn’t look at them.
His eyes never leave my face.
He pulls back—slow—then drives in again. Harder. Deeper. The rhythm starts controlled but it doesn’t stay that way. Each thrust rocks me upward; my back scrapes against the smooth inner curve of the shield. The light pulses faster now—base to apex, base to apex—like it’s matching his tempo.
I dig my heels into the small of his back. “Harder.”
He obeys.
His hands clamp down on my hips—fingers splaying wide—and the grip is brutal.
I’ll have bruises tomorrow, deep purple fingerprints, and the thought makes me clench around him again.
He snarls, thrusts deeper, grinding against my clit with every stroke.
The friction is relentless. Heat pours off him in waves; sweat slicks my skin where we touch and the ash keeps drifting, sticking to damp places, glowing briefly before it burns away.
I gasp again—sharper this time—when he angles just right and hits something inside me that whites out my vision for a second.
He slows instantly.
Eyes searching mine. Checking.
“Pleasure,” I manage. “It’s—fuck—pleasure. Don’t stop.”
He doesn’t.
The pace turns feral.
He fucks me against the shield like he’s trying to imprint himself into my bones.
Each thrust shoves a sound out of me—moans, gasps, broken curses.
My nails rake down his back; I feel the raised edges of old scars under my fingers and dig in harder.
He likes it. His rhythm stutters, hips snapping forward with less precision and more need.
The shield is pulsing so fast now it’s almost a constant glow.
The light flares every time he bottoms out.
Outside, the rivals are losing it—Plates is slamming the barrier in a steady rhythm like he thinks sheer force will break through, Syrox is screaming something I can’t hear, Reach keeps hurling molten debris that shatters uselessly against the dome.
They can’t stop this.
They can’t touch me.
They can’t have me.
Kaelor’s mouth finds my throat again. Teeth graze the side of my neck—not breaking skin, just pressing, claiming. One hand leaves my hip, slides up my ribs, cups my breast, thumb dragging roughly over my nipple. The sensation arrows straight to my clit and I arch into it.
“Close,” I pant against his jaw. “I’m—fuck—I’m close.”
He growls again—deeper, more animal—and shifts his angle so every thrust drags against that spot inside me while the base of him grinds my clit. Heat coils tight in my belly, brighter and brighter, until it snaps.
I come with a cry that echoes inside the dome.
My walls clamp down hard around him. He keeps moving—short, brutal strokes—drawing it out until my thighs shake and my vision sparks. The shield flares white-hot at the peak, so bright I have to close my eyes.
He follows right after.
A guttural sound rips out of him—half growl, half roar—and he buries himself to the hilt. Heat floods me, impossibly hot, pulsing in time with his release. His claws dig into my hips hard enough that I feel the skin give; fresh pain mixes with the aftershocks and somehow makes everything sharper.
We stay locked together, breathing ragged.
He doesn’t pull out.
His forehead drops to mine. Sweat and ash and heat. His chest heaves against my breasts. My legs are still wrapped around him; I don’t think I could unwrap them even if I wanted to.
The shield keeps pulsing—slower now, but still alive.
Above us, the Ember Crown begins to brighten.
Not the steady warm glow from before—this is different. Sharper. Veins of molten light thread through the metal faster, brighter, like something waking up.
Kaelor lifts his head just enough to look at it.
Then back at me.
His voice is wrecked. “It’s accepting.”
I nod. Too spent to speak.
Outside, the rivals are still raging—fists, ash, debris—but the sound is distant now.
The light from the Crown keeps climbing.
Something new is starting.
The stillness afterward lands like an impact.