Chapter 6

[Sera]

The knife clatters to the floor before I even realize I've dropped it.

Killian Voss is in my apartment. Not the polished, ruthless CEO who looked through me like I was glass. This version is feral—shirt half-unbuttoned, hair wild, pupils blown wide gold. His chest heaves like he sprinted across the entire city on foot. Which, knowing wolves, he probably did.

"Found you," he rasps again, voice gravel and smoke.

Every self-preservation instinct I own screams run. I back up until my spine hits the fridge. Magnets and overdue bills rain down around my feet.

"Get out." My voice is ice even though my hands are shaking. "Get the fuck out of my apartment or I swear to God I'll call the cops."

He doesn't even blink. Just crosses the tiny room in two strides and hauls me against him like I weigh nothing. His mouth crashes into mine—rough, starving, no preamble. Teeth scrape my lip, tongue shoving past like he's trying to devour the rejection I spat at him last week.

I shove at his chest. It's like pushing a brick wall that's on fire. He growls into my mouth, hands already yanking my shirt up, palms branding my ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts like he owns them. My body lights up traitorously, nipples tight, thighs clenching. One touch and I'm soaked. One fucking touch.

"No—" I wrench my head to the side, gasping. "Stop."

He rejected me. He stood there in his fancy suit and ripped my soul out with five calm words and now he thinks he can just—

His mouth finds my throat, teeth scraping the healing bite mark, and the bond that's supposed to be dead flares so hard I almost come on the spot.

 

I slam my fists into his shoulders. "You don't get to do this!" My voice cracks, ugly and wet. "You threw me away, remember? You paid me to disappear. So fucking disappear."

 

He stills, but only for a heartbeat. Then he's moving again, backing me into the counter, lifting me like I'm perched on the edge of my own shitty Formica with his hips jammed between my thighs. His hands are everywhere—rough, frantic, like if he stops touching me he'll die.

I slap him. Hard. The crack echoes.

Gold eyes blink, confused, almost wounded. The wolf is in the driver's seat tonight, and he doesn't understand why his mate is crying.

 

The fight leaks out of me like air from a punctured lung. Tears burn tracks down my cheeks. "Why are you here?" I sob, pounding weakly at his chest. "You won. You got your rejection. You got your freedom. Why can't you just leave me alone?"

 

He catches my wrists, pinning them to his chest, and for a second I think he's going to snarl, going to force me down and take what his wolf is screaming for. Instead he drops to his knees.

 

Right there on my cheap, cracked linoleum, the Lycan King of North America goes to his knees in front of me.

 

He doesn't answer—can't, probably. The wolf doesn't do words the way humans do. But he hears the pain. I feel it ripple through him like a shockwave. His arms tighten, almost crushing, and then loosen immediately, like he's terrified of hurting me.

 

Gold eyes lift to mine. They're glassy with torment, with a sorrow so deep it steals my breath. His thumbs stroke my hipbones through my jeans, gentle now, pleading.

 

"Don't cry," he whispers, voice gravel and smoke. "Please, mate. Don't cry."

 

I'm shaking. From rage, from grief, from the brutal, traitorous want clawing up my spine.

 

His wolf is begging. And God help me, I'm weak.

 

I fist my hands in his hair and drag his mouth to mine.

 

The kiss is brutal—teeth and tears and two weeks of rage and grief. He groans like I've punched him, hands sliding under my thighs to yank me closer. My legs wrap around his waist on instinct. He staggers up with me clutched to his chest and slams my back against the nearest wall hard enough to rattle the cheap frames.

 

Clothes disappear. I don't even know who rips what—there's just skin and heat and the frantic drag of his mouth down my collarbone. My bra is gone, shirt hanging off one arm, and then his mouth closes over my nipple, sucking hard, teeth grazing. I cry out, back arching so violently my head knocks the wall.

 

He doesn't slow. Can't. His hand shoves between us, popping the button on my jeans, fingers plunging inside without warning. I'm drenched—he snarls against my breast when he feels it, pumping two thick fingers deep, curling, stroking that spot that makes my vision white out.

 

"Killian—" It's half sob, half prayer.

 

He drops us to the floor like he can't wait another second. My jeans are dragged down my thighs, panties with them. Cold linoleum on my back, his hot mouth on my clit in the same heartbeat. No teasing, no gentle licks—just open-mouthed, desperate, tongue fucking into me while his thumb rubs ruthless circles.

 

I come screaming, thighs clamped around his head, hips grinding shamelessly against his face. He doesn't stop—keeps licking, slower now, savoring, like he's memorizing the taste of my orgasm. When he finally pulls back, his lips are swollen, chin wet, eyes pure molten gold.

 

He crawls up my body, shoving his pants down just enough. His cock springs free—thick, flushed, already leaking. I reach for him, desperate, and he growls, pinning my wrists above my head with one hand.

 

"Look at me," he orders, voice wrecked.

 

I do. And the second our eyes lock, he slams into me.

 

No slow stretch, no gentle easing—just one brutal thrust that seats him to the hilt. The stretch burns, perfect and punishing, and I scream again, nails digging into his shoulders. He doesn't give me time to adjust—just pulls out and drives back in, hard, deep, relentless.

 

The floor is hard against my back but I don't care. Every thrust punches the air from my lungs, jolts pleasure so intense it hurts. His free hand grips my thigh, hitching my leg higher, opening me wider, and the new angle has me seeing stars.

 

"Mine," he snarls against my throat, teeth scraping the mark. "My mate. My Sera."

 

I'm crying again, but I can't stop the way my body clings to him, the way my hips rise to meet every violent thrust. He releases my wrists to grip my hips with both hands, angling me so he hits even deeper, and I shatter a second time, clenching around him so hard he curses.

 

He flips us—suddenly I'm on top, straddling him, his hands bruising my hips as he fucks up into me. The pace is punishing, animal. I brace my palms on his chest, riding him hard, chasing the next orgasm that's already building.

 

"Come," he growls, thumb finding my clit again. "Come for me."

 

I do—screaming, sobbing, coming so hard my vision tunnels. He flips us again, pinning me beneath him, thrusting twice more before he roars, spilling deep inside me in thick, pulsing jets.

 

For a moment we just pant, tangled and shaking, his forehead pressed to mine.

 

Then he licks the tears from my cheeks, nuzzling my neck like he's trying to soothe the bruises he just put there.

 

"Mate," he whispers, voice small and lost. "Stay."

 

I close my eyes.

 

Because I already know what will happen when the sun comes.

 

He'll wake up.

 

He'll look at me with cold gray eyes.

 

And he'll hate us both for what his wolf just did.

 

But tonight—God forgive me—tonight I let the wolf hold me while I fall apart in his arms, because tomorrow he'll be gone again, and I'm not strong enough to push him away twice.