Chapter 5 #2
Instead the pain is sharp and bright and perfect, a blade cutting through fog. It makes me aware of every nerve ending in my body. Every place we're joined in blood. Every place we're about to be joined in flesh.
His cock is pressed against my entrance now. I can feel the blunt head nudging through slick, through blood, seeking its way home. The pressure is already too much. He's too big—I knew he would be, knew from the feel of him against my thigh, but knowing and feeling are different animals entirely.
Even with how wet I am, even with my body preparing for this like it was born to, he's going to split me open.
Good.
I want it to hurt.
I arch up and bite his throat again, right over the half-healed cut from the knife. My teeth sink in and the wound reopens like a flower blooming, like it's been waiting for me to return. Fresh blood floods my mouth in hot pulses that match his racing heartbeat.
He snarls against my hair.
Then his hips snap forward.
And he's inside me.
The penetration is brutal. One violent thrust that buries him to the hilt, that seats him so deep I feel him in my throat. No gentleness. No mercy. No working me open inch by careful inch. Just sudden, complete, devastating invasion.
I scream into his throat.
The sound is muffled by blood and flesh but it tears from me anyway—raw and animal and completely involuntary, ripped from someplace deeper than my chest.
Too big.
The thought surfaces distant and clinical, immediately drowned by sensation so overwhelming my mind whites out trying to process it.
He's too big and it burns and I'm being split open and it's perfect and terrible and I've never felt anything like this and I'm dying and I'm being born and I can't tell the difference—
My inner walls clench around the intrusion, trying to adjust, trying to accommodate something that shouldn't fit.
The stretch is impossible. I can feel myself tearing around him.
Feel the give of tissue that shouldn't give.
Feel blood—not slick, real blood—running down to join the mess already pooling beneath us.
The pain is blinding.
Then it's not.
Then it's something else entirely.
Pleasure crashes through the pain like a wave breaking over rocks, tangling with it, becoming inseparable until I can't tell where one ends and the other begins.
Every nerve ending lights up like stars being born.
The stretch that should be agony becomes devastating fullness.
The burn becomes heat that has nothing to do with biology and everything to do with him, with us, with this impossible thing we're doing.
I can feel every inch of him.
Every ridge. Every vein. Every subtle texture of him mapped against my inner walls.
The thick shaft stretching me beyond what should be possible.
The blunt head seated so deep it's touching places I didn't know existed, places that have never been touched, places that were waiting for exactly this.
The pulse of him inside me—matching his heartbeat, matching mine, syncing until we share a single rhythm.
He's trembling. I can feel it through his cock, through his body pressed against mine, through his throat where my teeth are still buried.
"Fuck," he breathes, and his voice is wrecked. "You're so tight. So hot. I can feel you squeezing me like you're trying to keep me forever."
I bite down harder.
Don't want his words. Don't want him human. Want him lost to this the way I'm lost, drowning in sensation until there's nothing left but need.
His blood pours into my mouth. I swallow it down like communion wine, feel it burning through my veins like poison or magic or both.
Then he moves.
Pulls back. The drag of him against my sensitized walls draws a broken sound from my throat—half sob, half moan, entirely involuntary.
I feel every inch of the withdrawal like he's taking part of me with him.
Feel the emptiness that rushes in behind, cold and wrong.
Feel myself clenching down trying to keep him inside where he belongs.
Then he slams back in.
The altar is hard beneath my back, unforgiving stone that's absorbed three hundred years of blood and death and dark magic. It radiates heat into my spine while he radiates heat from above, and I'm caught between two fires, burning, being forged into something new with every brutal thrust.
The chains rattle.
I'd forgotten about them—iron manacles still locked around my wrists even though his hands have left them. They bite into flesh with every impact, another layer of pain that blends with the pain of his claws in my hips, his cock stretching me, my own teeth cutting my lip as I bite down on him.
Layer upon layer of hurt transmuted into pleasure I don't want to feel.
But I do feel it.
Can't help feeling it.
My body responds in ways I can't control, like a puppet whose strings are being pulled by my heat. Inner walls rippling around him. Hips tilting up to take him deeper. Back arching off the stone to press more of my skin against more of his.
Betrayed by biology.
Betrayed by heat.
Betrayed by the traitorous part of me that's purring at the feeling of alpha cock inside me, filling the emptiness, even while the rest of me screams to fight.
He sets a rhythm. Brutal and deep. Pulling almost completely out before slamming back in with enough force to shake the ancient altar, to make the chains sing, to drive the breath from my lungs.
The wet sounds of our joining fill the grove—obscene, primitive, older than language.
Flesh against flesh. Blood and slick mixing into something new.
His harsh breathing. My desperate, broken cries.
"You feel incredible," he groans against my hair, his lips moving against my temple. "Three hundred years and nothing—no one—has ever felt like this. Like you were made for me."
I don't want to hear that. Don't want his words making this mean something more than heat and hate and survival.
I rake my nails down his back again. Harder this time. Deep enough that I feel them catch against the ridges of his spine.
Making him hurt.
Making him bleed.
Making him mine even as he makes me his.
His rhythm falters for half a second—just long enough for me to feel how close he is to losing what's left of his control completely.
Good.
I release his throat. Blood runs freely from the wound, streaming down his chest in dark rivers with every beat of his heart.
Before he can catch his breath, I sink my teeth into his shoulder again. Different spot. Fresh meat. I bite until I feel my canines grind against the ball of his shoulder joint, until I taste the deeper blood that lives near bone.
His whole body convulses like he's been shot.
The thrust that follows is savage—deeper than before, harder, punishing. He hits something inside me that makes stars explode behind my eyes, that makes my vision white out at the edges.
There.
Right there.
"There?" His voice is guttural, barely recognizable as human. "Right there, little wolf?"
He does it again. And again. Angling his hips to hit that spot with every thrust, with ruthless precision despite the feral black of his eyes.
My vision goes white. When it comes back, the pleasure building at the base of my spine is unbearable, a coiling pressure that threatens to shatter me from the inside out.
I'm going to come.
I don't want to come.
Don't want to give him that victory. Don't want to prove that my body wants this, wants him, wants to be claimed and filled and owned.
I tear my teeth free and immediately bite somewhere else. His chest. His other shoulder. His throat again. Anywhere I can reach. Painting him in wounds the way an artist paints a canvas, the way a predator marks territory.
He's losing rhythm now. Thrusts getting erratic, desperate. I can feel the swelling at the base of his cock getting more pronounced with every stroke, catching at my entrance, stretching me wider.
The knot is forming.
Panic slices through the pleasure like a blade through silk.
No.
Not that.
That's permanent. That's claiming. That's—
"No—" I gasp, genuine terror cutting through the heat for the first time. "Don't—"
But he's too far gone. Eyes completely black, empty of anything human. Beast fully in control. There's no consciousness left to hear me, no three hundred years of discipline to call upon.
Just rut. Just need. Just ancient biology demanding he knot his mate and fill her full.
"Wait," I try again, but the word comes out broken. Desperate. Useless. "You're too—it's too big—I can't—"
His rhythm doesn't falter. If anything, he thrusts harder. Faster. Chasing the completion his beast has been starving for since before my grandmother was born.
The swelling catches on my entrance now with every stroke. Dragging. Stretching me wider each time he pulls back. Each time he slams home. A promise of what's coming that makes my body clench in anticipation even as my mind screams in denial.
Too wide.
Wider than should be possible.
It's going to tear me apart.
I'm certain of it. Absolutely certain. The knot is already larger than the rest of him and it's still growing, still swelling, a fist trying to force its way inside me. There's no way it's going to fit. No way my body can accommodate—
He shifts the angle. Slams in deep and grinds, rotating his hips.
Hits that spot inside me with devastating precision.
And while I'm blind with pleasure-pain, while every muscle in my body locks tight, while I'm too overwhelmed to fight or think or breathe—
The knot slams inside.
For one endless moment there's nothing but pain.
Blinding. White-hot. Absolute. The kind of pain that exists beyond screaming, beyond thought, beyond anything but pure animal sensation.