Chapter 8: An Untold Rule

Evelina Sinclair:

I was already shaking my head before he could speak, my hand jerking back from his hair like I'd been burned, my fingers curling into my palm as if I could erase the treason of that touch.

"I'm sorry—I'm sorry, I didn't mean—I wasn't thinking—"

The words tumbled out, broken and desperate, my eyes slamming shut as if I could make myself invisible, as if I could undo the last ten seconds through sheer terror.

"Please, Your Majesty, I wasn't trying to disrespect you, I wasn't trying to—"

"Put it back."

My begging stopped. My eyes flew open.

He was staring at me, his red eyes dark, pupils blown wide, his chest heaving against my back where he was still buried inside me. His white hair had fallen forward, framing his face, and I realized with dizzying clarity that I had done that—I had pulled him to me, I had made him look at me, and instead of killing me for it, he was...

"What?" I whispered.

"Your hands." His voice was rough, ragged, nothing like the cold Supreme Alpha who had torn my gown apart with Morgana. "Back in my hair."

I was too shocked to move. Too stunned to breathe.

He didn't give me time to recover.

He pulled out—just enough to make me gasp at the emptiness—and then slammed back in with a force that drove the air from my lungs. Before I could cry out, he had spun me around, his hands rough and desperate, lifting me onto the desk with a violence that sent papers scattering to the floor.

He cleared the table with one arm, books and maps and ink bottles crashing to the marble as he laid me back against the wood, my hair spreading beneath me like a dark halo.

And then he was over me, inside me, staring down at me with those crimson eyes that held something I didn't recognize—hunger, yes, but also fascination, also madness, also need.

"Look at me," he commanded, his hips snapping forward, filling me so completely I saw stars. "Don't you dare look away."

I couldn't have if I'd wanted to.

He fucked me with an intensity that made the desk groan beneath us, each thrust hitting deeper than before because he could see my face now, because he could watch my mouth fall open, because he could hear every moan I tried to swallow and demanded I give him louder ones.

"Please—" I begged, not even sure what I was begging for, my hands flying to his shoulders, my nails digging into the fabric of his coat. "Please, I can't—it's too much—"

"It isn't." He growled, his hand wrapping around my throat, not squeezing, just holding, just anchoring me to him as he drove into me again and again. "You can take more. You will take more."

He pulled me up by my throat, forcing me into a sitting position, my legs wrapping around his waist as he held me against him, so close I could feel his heartbeat hammering against my chest, so close our foreheads touched, so close our breath mingled.

"Touch me," he demanded, his voice breaking on the words. "Pull my hair again. Do it."

I did.

I fisted my hands in that white silk and pulled, hard, and he snarled—a sound of pure animal pleasure—and his thrusts became wild, erratic, losing all rhythm as he chased his release.

He came with a roar, pulling out at the last second, spending himself across my stomach and breasts in hot, thick stripes that marked me as thoroughly as any claim. Before I could process the shock of it, before I could breathe, he lunged forward and sank his teeth into my shoulder.

Not a mating mark.

Not the claiming bite that would bind us forever.

Something else. Something desperate. He bit down hard enough to bruise, hard enough to draw a whimper from my throat, holding me there like a wolf with prey, like he needed the taste of my pain to calm whatever storm was raging inside him.

I held him.

I didn't mean to. My arms came up around his shoulders, my fingers stroking through his hair, cradling his head against my neck as he shuddered and breathed hard against my skin.

For long seconds, neither of us moved.

Then he pulled back, his eyes clearing slowly, the red darkening to something almost human. He looked down at me—really looked—and I saw confusion there, and fear, and something that might have been awe.

I slid off the desk and went to my knees before I could think better of it, my training taking over, my instinct to survive overriding everything else. I took him in my hands—still hard, still wet from both of us—and I cleaned him with my mouth, tasting myself on him, tasting him, tasting the salt of his release until he was spotless and I was trembling.

That was an untold rule.

No one had ever spoken of such a thing. No slave had ever touched the Supreme Alpha's hair and lived. No Omega had ever been taken on his desk, facing him, watching him fall apart. No one had ever seen him bite without claiming, had ever held him while he shook, had ever cleaned him with such familiarity.

I was in unwritten territory. I was breaking rules that didn't even exist yet.

I tried to cover myself when I finished, my hands flying to my ruined breasts, my bitten shoulder, but my gown was destroyed—torn beyond any hope of modesty. I stood there, naked and marked and utterly exposed, not knowing what to do.

He stared at me for a long moment.

Then he reached up and unclasped his cloak—the heavy black military cloak with its silver chains and dark embroidery—and draped it over my shoulders. It swallowed me whole, falling to my ankles, smelling of him, of power, of the cold scent that made my knees weak.

"Go," he said, his voice rough. "Before I decide to keep you."

I bowed my head, the cloak heavy around me, and I walked out of his office on legs that barely held me.

---

Cora was waiting in the corridor, her face flushed crimson, her eyes wide as saucers.

"Oh my gods," she hissed the moment the door closed behind me. "Oh my gods, oh my gods—you were so *loud*!"

She grabbed my arm, dragging me down the hallway, her voice dropping to a scandalized whisper.

"Was he that big? Did he hurt you? Did he—"

"Cora, please," I begged, my face burning, trying to shush her. "Please, I can't—I need to—"

"That was the Supreme Alpha's private chambers!" She was practically bouncing with nervous energy, her grip tight on my elbow. "No one goes in there and comes out walking! No one! And you were in there for—what did he do to you? What—"

"Later," I whispered, desperate. "Please, later."

She must have seen something in my face—the bite mark on my shoulder, perhaps, or the way I was swimming in his cloak—because she finally nodded, her excitement dimming into concern.

"Okay," she said softly. "Okay, let's get you to—"

But luck wasn't on my side.

We had barely turned into the adjoining corridor when we nearly collided with someone coming from the opposite direction. I stopped abruptly, my steps faltering as the sound of several pairs of shoes approached from ahead, the rhythm of practiced, perfect footsteps that spoke of wealth and training and power.

The first thing I noticed was the number of women surrounding her.

Six maids followed behind her in perfect formation, each dressed in finely pressed gowns of pale blue silk that were far too elegant for ordinary servants. Their heads were lowered, their movements quiet and disciplined as they carried a fan, a hand mirror, a small jeweled box—whatever their mistress might require. Beside the woman herself, another maid held her hand delicately, guiding her through the corridor as though she were someone whose comfort mattered more than anyone else's.

Then I looked at the woman's clothes.

The fabric was rich burgundy velvet, layered and beautifully embroidered with silver thread that caught the light with every step. The gown was cut low across her chest, displaying a fortune in diamonds at her throat, while delicate pearl ornaments decorated her platinum hair.

She wasn't merely a noble person.

She was someone important.

Someone far above me.

I knew it the moment I saw the procession coming towards us.