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I ride himharder.

He stares up at me like I’m divine wrath in omega form, and I ride him harder.Own it.

I don’t feel small. I feel powerful. I feel worshipped. I feelseen.

His cock drives up into me, perfectly timed with every slam of my hips. He grits his teeth, growls through them - the sound low, guttural, and raw.

“You’resotight like this,” he pants, sweat glistening down his chest. “Like you weremadeto fuck me like this. Look at you -”

I hold his gaze, and it shatters me.

His storm-grey eyes aren’t cold now - they’reburning -and I burn with him.

“Lucian,” I breathe - not a curse, not an insult this time. Just his name.

Justus.

His hips jerk up, and with that, Ishatter.

I moan. Loud. Undignified. Like a person possessed by seven horny ghosts.

He grabs my ass. His cock twitches as my entire being combusts. There's slickeverywhere- and I mean everywhere. Carpet. Floor. Probably emotional damage.

And then he follows, filling me with heat and fury and all the alpha nonsense I’ve been dodging since I was seventeen. One hand tight on my ass, the other still at my throat, as he pumps deep inside me, cock twitching as he fills me again.

And through it all, our eyes stay locked.

Even when my brain short-circuits.

Even when his knot swells.

Chapter Forty-Seven

Rhea

The room looks like it’s been hit by a very horny tornado.

Sheets hanging off the bed. Dresser skewed like it tried to escape halfway through. Lamp?Dead.May it rest in shattered, questionably expensive peace.

And me?

I’m still impaled on an alpha like a decorative cocktail olive.

Lucian’s knot is still swollen, still locked inside me, still… doing things that are deeply unfair to my ability to function. Emotionally or otherwise.

I collapse forward with all the grace of a tranquilized giraffe, legs jelly, thighs soaked, brain fried. Lucian shifts underneath me with a grunt and wraps those too-big, too-strong arms around me like he’s trying to pass as emotionally competent.

One of his hands finds my hip - gentle now, because apparently he flips into Tender Mode post-destruction. The other wraps across my waist, anchoring me to the alpha equivalent of a human furnace.

My cheek hits his chest, and I blink at a sweat-slick patch of skin and try not to cry or laugh or - god, I don’t even know - sneeze? Black out? Declare taxes?

It’s all on the table.

And then, because my life is a rom-com written by someone with a severe dominance kink, he kisses my hair.

Like…softly.

As though I didn’t just scream his name and beg him to knot me so hard the bedframe audibly resigned.

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