8. Rosalind #2
Instead, I let him guide my trembling hand to his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath the fine fabric of his shirt.
"Lower," he instructs, his voice rougher now.
My hand slides down, over the ridged muscle of his abdomen, until I reach the waistband of his breeches. He stops me there, green eyes studying my face with an intensity that makes me feel exposed.
"Are you certain you want to see?" he asks. "Once you understand what I am, what we could be together, there's no going back to ignorance."
I should say no. Should pull my hand away and demand to be returned to my chamber.
Instead, I nod.
His free hand moves to the fastenings of his breeches with practiced efficiency, and suddenly?—
I stop breathing.
Nothing could have prepared me for the reality of what I'm seeing. The diplomatic briefings with their clinical descriptions pale in comparison to the visceral shock of Fae male anatomy revealed in intimate detail.
He's massive. Impossibly large, beautifully alien, and absolutely terrifying in the most primal way.
The thorns I'd read about aren't decorative ridges—they're wicked, spiraling growths that curve along his length like living jewelry, each one designed for purposes that make my omega nature sing with recognition and terror in equal measure.
This is what would claim me. What would stretch me beyond anything human anatomy could prepare me for. What would fill me so completely there would be no question of who I belonged to.
My hands shake violently where they rest against his chest. "Oh god," I whisper, the words torn from my throat.
"Breathe," he commands gently, but I can't. Can't process the reality of what claiming would actually entail. The size of him would split me apart. The thorns would?—
"I can't," I gasp, panic and arousal warring in my chest. "It's too much. You're too?—"
"Look at me," he orders, his voice carrying enough alpha authority to cut through my spiraling thoughts. "Look at my face, not my cock."
The crude word makes me flush, but I obey, dragging my gaze up to meet his green eyes.
"Your body is designed for this," he says with absolute certainty. "Omega anatomy adapts. Stretches. Accommodates. What seems impossible now will feel inevitable once your awakening is complete."
"The thorns," I whisper, unable to stop myself from glancing down again. They gleam wetly in the firelight, already weeping clear fluid that smells like roses and danger. "They'll tear me apart."
"They'll give you pleasure beyond anything you've ever imagined," he corrects, his thumb stroking across my cheek in stark contrast to the terrifying proof of his otherness.
"Each one is designed to stimulate nerve endings you don't even know you have yet.
To secrete a nectar that will make claiming feel like transcendence. "
My breathing comes in short, shallow pants as my mind tries to process what he's showing me. This is real. This is what those other women surrendered to. This is what made brilliant, educated, independent women abandon everything they were for the promise of being owned completely.
And God help me, I'm starting to understand why.
"You can touch," he says, noting the way my hands tremble with the urge to explore what I'm seeing. "They won't hurt you. Not unless I want them to."
The casual mention of controlled pain sends liquid heat straight to my core. My inner omega recognizes the promise hidden in those words—that he could hurt me, could overwhelm me completely, but chooses not to. That his restraint is a gift he could withdraw at any moment.
My fingers move without conscious thought, tracing along his length with trembling fascination.
The thorns are warm beneath my touch, slightly yielding, and they pulse with their own rhythm.
Clear fluid beads at their tips, and when it touches my skin it creates a tingling sensation that spreads up my arm.
"Do you understand now?" he asks, his voice strained with the effort of maintaining control while I explore him. "Why omega awakening exists? Why your body is changing to accommodate exactly this?"
I do understand. My body clenches with want so intense it borders on pain, imagining how those thorns would feel inside me, how the nectar they drip with would affect my nervous system, how completely claimed I would be with something so alien and perfect filling me.
"It's terrifying," I whisper, then flush as I add, "It's beautiful."
But something else cuts through my fear and fascination—a fierce surge of feminine pride that takes me completely by surprise.
He's hard for me. This magnificent, terrifying, centuries-old creature is aroused by my touch, my scent, my presence.
The evidence of his desire throbs under my fingertips, and for the first time since my capture, I feel powerful.
"You want me too," I breathe, the realization hitting me like lightning.
"More than you could possibly imagine," he admits roughly, his control fraying at the edges. "You have no idea what your touch does to me. What your scent, your responses, your awakening does to every alpha instinct I possess."
The raw honesty in his voice sends heat flooding through my core. To know that I affect him, that I'm not just a passive victim in whatever this is between us—it changes something fundamental in how I see myself.
"What happens next?" I ask, my voice small and lost.
"Next," he says, and I can see him struggling to regain composure as he slowly begins refastening his breeches. His hands shake slightly—the first sign of vulnerability I've seen from him—and he has to pause twice when my scent spikes with arousal at watching him try to contain what I've awakened.
The fabric strains against his size, and I can see the effort it takes for him to tuck himself away while still fully aroused. His jaw clenches with the strain of control, and a muscle jumps in his throat.
"Next, you go back to your chamber and think about what you've learned," he manages, his voice rougher than before. "What you've seen. What you want."
"And then?"
"Then tomorrow we continue your education," he says, lifting me from his lap with gentle hands that make me want to weep at the loss. "And the day after that. Until you understand exactly what you are and what you need."
I stand on unsteady legs, my body aching with unfulfilled need and my mind reeling with everything that's just happened.
"I hate that you're doing this to me," I whisper.
"No," he says with that maddening certainty. "You hate that you want me to do this to you. Very different things."
And as Lady Ferra appears to escort me back to my chamber, I realize with crystalline clarity that he's absolutely right.
I want this. Want him. Want to discover what it means to be owned and cherished and claimed by someone who sees me as precious.
Even if it means surrendering everything I thought I was.
Especially if it means never having to feel forgotten again.