Chapter 2

[Sera]

I’m on the floor, knees scraping cold tile, staring into gold eyes that shouldn’t exist, when the world tilts sideways.

Killian Voss, Lycan King, untouchable god of my pathetic fantasies, growls one word against my throat like it’s being ripped out of him.

"Mate."

Then his hand is fisted in the back of my shirt and I’m airborne, yanked off the ground so fast my stomach flips. My back slams against a door I didn’t even see him open. A VIP lounge, probably, because everything smells expensive and the lights are low and sinful. The lock clicks behind us like a gunshot.

I open my mouth to ask what the hell is happening but he kisses me before a single syllable escapes.

And I forget how to breathe.

His mouth is hot, desperate, nothing like the cold dismissal from the hallway. It’s teeth and tongue and three years of stupid, secret longing exploding in my chest all at once. I make this embarrassing whimper that should mortify me, but he swallows it like it’s the best sound he’s ever heard.

This has to be a dream. Has to be. Because Killian Voss is kissing me like I’m oxygen and he’s been drowning for years.

His hands are everywhere, rough, greedy, sliding under my cheap black shirt, palms branding my skin. I arch into him without permission, my body deciding it’s done waiting for my brain to catch up. He growls again, deeper, the sound vibrating through my ribs, and it goes straight between my legs like he flipped a switch I didn’t know existed.

"Killian—" I gasp when he lets me breathe.

"Shh." He nips my bottom lip, hard enough to sting. "Mine."

That word again. Mine. Like it’s simple. Like it’s fact.

I should be terrified. I am terrified. But the terror is tangled up with so much want it feels like dying.

He backs me into a plush velvet couch and I go down willingly, stupidly, legs already parting for him because apparently my dignity clocked out the second he said mate. His jacket hits the floor. Tie next. Shirt buttons scatter like they personally offended him.

God, he’s beautiful. All sharp muscle and golden skin and that V that disappears into tuxedo pants I suddenly hate with a passion. I reach for him, fingers shaking, and he catches my wrists, pinning them above my head with one hand like it’s nothing.

"Slow," he says, but his voice is wrecked, eyes pure molten gold. "Want to savor you."

Savor. Me. The wolfless nobody who smells bad, apparently.

His mouth is on my neck, licking, sucking, teeth scraping the spot that makes my hips jerk. I’m soaked. I can feel it, humiliating and thrilling, my cheap uniform pants sticking to me. He smells it too; his nostrils flare and he makes this sound, half growl, half prayer.

"Fuck," he breathes against my collarbone. "You’re perfect."

Perfect. I almost laugh. Or cry. I can’t decide.

He lets go of my wrists to drag my shirt over my head, and then his mouth is on my breast through the thin bra I definitely didn’t pick for seduction purposes. I arch so hard I nearly levitate. He chuckles, dark and filthy, and yanks the bra down instead of off, sucking my nipple into his mouth like he’s starving.

I’m making noises now, shameless, desperate noises I don’t recognize. My hands are in his hair, tugging, and he loves it, growling approval against my skin.

When his fingers slide into my pants, I freeze.

Not from fear. From the sudden, brutal realization that I’ve never done this. Not any of it. Not even close.

He feels me tense and pauses, looking up. His eyes are still gold, but there’s something gentler in them now. Something that makes my chest ache.

"First time?" he asks, soft.

I nod, throat tight.

Something fierce and possessive flashes across his face. "Good," he says, and I should probably be offended by the caveman bullshit, but I’m not. I’m melting.

He kisses me again, slower this time, coaxing. His fingers trace me over my underwear first, teasing, learning, until I’m writhing and begging in broken whispers. When he finally pushes the fabric aside and touches me bare, I see stars.

Then his mouth replaces his fingers and I forget my own name.

The first swipe of his tongue is slow, deliberate, parting my folds like he’s memorizing every inch. My hips jerk; he pins them down with one forearm across my pelvis and does it again—longer, deeper, curling that wicked tongue until I’m sobbing his name.

He finds my clit with devastating precision, circling, flicking, sucking until my thighs quake around his head. Two thick fingers press inside me, stretching, scissoring, curling to stroke a spot that makes white-hot pleasure spike through every nerve. I’m so wet the sounds are obscene—wet licks, my own helpless cries, the low growls vibrating against my clit as he devours me.

I come with a sharp cry, back arching so hard I nearly levitate, inner walls clenching around his fingers in pulsing waves. He doesn’t stop—keeps licking me through it, drawing it out until I’m shaking, oversensitive, begging in broken whispers.

I’m still shaking when he moves back up my body, kissing me so I taste myself on his tongue. His cock is hot and hard against my thigh through his pants, and I reach for him, clumsy, desperate.

"I need you," I whisper. "Please."

He groans like I’ve killed him and shoves his pants down just enough. His cock juts up, flushed and huge, a bead of precum glistening at the tip. My mouth goes dry even as fresh arousal floods me.

I can’t look away. Can’t breathe.

He drags the broad head through my slick folds, coating himself, teasing my swollen clit until I’m whimpering again. When he notches at my entrance, I tense—virgin nerves flaring despite the haze of need.

"Eyes on me," he commands, voice rough with restraint.

I obey.

He pushes in—slow, relentless, stretching me open inch by agonizing inch. The burn is intense, almost too much, but his gaze holds me captive, gold and fierce and tender all at once. When he’s seated to the hilt, he stills, letting me adjust, forehead pressed to mine, breath ragged.

Then he starts to move.

And oh God.

It’s rougher than I expected, deeper, his hips snapping against mine like he can’t help himself. Every thrust drags across places I didn’t know existed. I’m clinging to him, nails digging into his back, moaning into his mouth like a p**n star, and I don’t even care.

"You feel so fucking good," he rasps against my ear. "Made for me. My perfect little mate."

I can’t answer—can only claw at his back, legs locked around his waist, meeting every thrust with desperate rolls of my hips. The chaise creaks beneath us; the air is thick with the scent of sex and mate and mine.

He shifts suddenly, hooking my knees over his elbows, spreading me impossibly wider, deeper. The new angle has me seeing stars with every slam of his hips.

"Come," he demands, voice feral. "Come on my cock while I fill you up."

His thumb finds my clit, circling hard, and I shatter—harder than the first time, pleasure so intense it borders on pain. My entire body convulses around him, milking him, and he follows with a guttural roar, hips stuttering as he spills deep inside me in hot, pulsing jets.

Before the last tremor leaves me, his mouth is at my throat. Teeth graze the tender spot where neck meets shoulder—once, twice—then sink in.

The bite is white-hot ecstasy. A supernova of sensation explodes through the new bond, linking us on a level deeper than blood or bone. I feel him—his triumph, his fierce protectiveness, the wolf’s absolute devotion—pouring into me as clearly as if it’s my own heart beating.

We stay like that, tangled and trembling, his teeth still in my neck, my legs wrapped around him like I’ll die if he moves. Eventually he licks the bite closed, gentle now, nuzzling the mark like it’s precious.

"Mine," he whispers again, and it sounds like a vow. "My beautiful mate. Finally mine."

Exhaustion crashes over me like a wave. The adrenaline, the emotion, the sheer physical intensity of what just happened—it all catches up at once, dragging me under.

If this is a dream, I think hazily, I never want to wake up.

His arms tighten around me, and I let the darkness take me.

I don't know how long I sleep. Minutes. Hours. Time has lost all meaning in this strange, suspended reality where Killian Voss called me his mate and held me like I was something worth protecting.

But consciousness creeps back slowly, dragging me from the warm fog of dreams. Something feels wrong. The air has shifted—colder now, sharper. The arms around me are gone.

And there's pressure on my throat.

My eyes fly open.

Fingers. Wrapped around my neck. Not caressing. Not gentle.

Squeezing.

For one confused second, I think I'm still dreaming. That the golden-eyed man who whispered mate and beautiful has transformed into a nightmare.

But the face above me is undeniably real.

Killian Voss. Human Killian Voss. Gray eyes cold as winter steel, expression twisted with a fury so intense it makes my blood freeze.

He looks at me like I'm vermin. Like I'm a disease he's desperate to cut out of his own flesh.

"What did you do to me?" he snarls, and his voice is nothing like the tender growl from last night. It's pure ice. Pure hatred. "What the fuck did you do to me?"