CHAPTER 26: AGAINST THE GLASS

EMBER'S POV

I sob, nodding frantically, the image burning into my brain.

"I'd let the whole world watch—just don't stop—"

"That's my perfect omega," he praises, voice dripping sin, hand sliding from my hair to collar my throat, fingers pressing into the sides just enough to make me lightheaded, just enough to make every sensation sharper. "My greedy, cock-drunk little slut. No one else gets this. No one else gets to watch you fall apart. Say it."

"Only you—only ever you—Knox—"

He bites down on my shoulder hard enough to mark, hard enough that I'll see his teeth in my skin tomorrow, and I moan so loud it echoes.

His hips snap faster, deeper, the head of his cock dragging over that spongy spot inside me that makes me see white.

"Mine," he snarls against my skin, licking over the bite mark, soothing and savage at once. "This cunt, these tits, these pretty screams—mine to wreck, mine to bruise, mine to fill until it's leaking out of you."

His phone starts ringing.

For a second, I fear he might stop. Or slow. But no. He just reaches over, still buried balls-deep, still pounding me into the glass, and answers with a lazy, "Volkov."

Nathaniel's voice on the line, something about Gale, paperwork, holding cells.

Knox answers in calm, clipped sentences—"File it. I'll review in the morning. Anything else?"—while his cock spears into me, while his free hand snakes around my hip and finds my clit, rubbing brutal, perfect circles that make my knees buckle.

I bite my own arm to keep from screaming, tears streaming, thighs shaking so hard the glass fogs with my desperate breath.

He's having a business conversation while fucking me stupid and somehow that's the hottest thing that's ever happened to me.

Knox locks eyes with me in the reflection, smirking like the devil himself, and mouths, Come for me.

He ends the call, tosses the phone, and slams into me so hard my feet leave the floor, his hand on my clit pressing harder, faster.

"Now."

I shatter.

The orgasm rips through me like lightning, pussy clamping down on him so tight he groans my name like it's being torn out of him.

I gush all over his cock, feel it dripping down my thighs, down his balls, hear the wet sounds of him fucking me through my release.

I scream into my own skin, body convulsing, vision going white at the edges. He doesn't stop, doesn't let up, fucks me through every pulse and aftershock until I'm sobbing, oversensitive, babbling nonsense.

Then he spins me.

My back slams against the window—cold, shocking, grounding—and he lifts me like I weigh nothing, big hands gripping the backs of my thighs, spreading me wide.

My legs wrap around his waist and he drives back in, face-to-face now, eyes locked on mine.

This angle is deeper. Fuller. I can feel him in my stomach, in my chest, in my goddamn throat.

His forehead presses to mine, our breath mingling, and there's something almost unbearably intimate about watching each other while he's buried inside me.

"Again," he commands, voice raw and wrecked, like fucking me is ruining him too. "Give me one more, baby. Show me who this pussy belongs to."

"I can't—it's too much—"

"You can and you will." He shifts his grip, tilts my hips, and hits a new angle that makes my eyes roll back. "Because you're mine and I said so."

He's right. I hate that he's right.

The second climax builds different—slower, deeper, starting in my toes and climbing through my whole body.

Knox watches my face the entire time, watches my brow furrow and my lips part and my breath hitch.

He adjusts his pace to match my building pleasure, somehow knowing exactly what I need, reading me like he's memorized every inch of my responses.

"That's it," he murmurs, voice soft now, almost reverent. "That's my good girl. Let me feel you come on my cock."

The praise tips me over the edge.

I shatter all over again, harder this time, nails raking down his back hard enough to draw blood as I scream his name against his mouth.

My pussy milks him, clenching rhythmically, and he follows right after with a guttural groan, slamming in to the hilt and coming so deep I feel every hot pulse painting my insides.

We stay there, trembling, sweat-slick and gasping.

His cock is still buried inside me, softening slowly. My legs are locked around his waist, shaking.

The cold glass presses against my back and his burning body presses against my front and I feel suspended between extremes, between ice and fire, between this man and the rest of the world.

For a long moment, neither of us moves. His forehead is pressed against mine, his breath warm on my face, and our eyes are locked.

Something passes between us. Something that feels too real for a fake relationship, too intense for a business arrangement.

He's going to kiss me, I think. Not the hungry, desperate kisses from a moment ago. A real kiss. A tender one.

But then something in his expression shifts.

He pulls back. Pulls out of me abruptly, setting me down on unsteady legs, and when I look at his face, the warmth is gone. Replaced by something cold and distant.

"We need to get you on birth control," he says, and his voice is clinical. Detached. "I'll have Nathaniel arrange an appointment with the resort doctor."

The words hit me like a slap.

I don't know why. We've been having unprotected sex. It's a practical consideration.

But the way he says it, the way he won't quite meet my eyes, makes something in my chest ache.

"Okay," I manage. "That's... yeah. That makes sense."

He's already turning away, already reaching for his discarded clothes, and the distance between us feels enormous even though we were inside each other thirty seconds ago.

"Rayana wants to meet with me today," he says, his back to me. "For coffee. To discuss her bucket list."

The shift in topic is so abrupt it gives me whiplash.

"I know. You mentioned."

"I need to know if you're comfortable with that."

I stare at his back, trying to understand what just happened. What changed. Why he's suddenly treating me like a stranger instead of the woman he was just calling his.

"As long as you're clear with her that you're in a relationship," I say carefully.

He turns to look at me, and there's something almost cold in his expression.

"Our relationship is fake. So it shouldn't really matter to you if I spend time with my ex."

The words land like a knife between my ribs.

I know he's right. I know this is just an arrangement. But five minutes ago he was calling me his, telling me no one else gets to touch me, and now he's reminding me that none of it is real.

"You're right," I say, and I hate how small my voice sounds. "It doesn't matter. It's just optics."

Knox studies my face for a moment, and I think I see something flicker in his eyes. Regret, maybe. Or something more complicated.

But he doesn't take it back.

"I've booked you a spa appointment this morning," he says instead. "Full treatment. Massage, facial, the works. You need to relax before tonight's Cocktail Reception."

"Fine."

"Nathaniel will be stationed outside for security." He pulls a black card from his wallet and holds it out to me. "If you want anything at the spa or resort, charge it. And if your mother reaches out about lunch, use the card for that too. Nathaniel will tail from a distance."

I take the card because I don't know what else to do. The plastic feels cold in my palm.

"It's practical," Knox says, and he's not looking at me again. "You need to look good for tonight. You're too tense right now."

"Right." I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly aware of how naked I am. How exposed. "Practical."

He finally meets my eyes, and for a moment I think he's going to say something else.

Something that explains the whiplash, the coldness, the way he went from possessive to distant in the space of a heartbeat.

But he just nods once and walks out of the room, leaving me standing alone against the window where he just ruined me, wondering what the hell just happened.

And underneath all of it, Gale's words echo in my head.

Murderer. Capable of killing his own mate.

I don't know what to believe anymore.