009

– Maureen Laurent

“My glass,” he says, voice low and fierce. “And I will murder anyone who risks a single crack.”

His arms are still around me, warm and iron-strong. The bond hums between us, bright and insistent, pulling me closer even as something inside me panics.

I draw a careful breath.

“Can I ask you something?” The words come out smaller than I intend.

His eyes soften instantly. He brushes a strand of hair from my face, thumb lingering on my cheek.

“Anything, little moon.”

I swallow. My fingers tighten on the front of his shirt — not pushing away, just holding on.

“May I… have a little space? Just for today.” My voice drops to barely a whisper. “Everything feels… too much. Too fast. I’m not running from you. I just… need to breathe.”

The hurt flickers across his face again, quick and sharp, but he masters it almost instantly. His arms loosen — not dropping, but giving me room.

He searches my eyes for a long moment, as if checking for lies or fear he can fix with his hands.

Then he nods, slow and deliberate.

“You never have to ask permission to breathe, Maureen.” His voice is rough, but steady. “Take all the time you need. The rooms are yours. The fortress is yours. I will stay away until you call for me.”

He presses one gentle kiss to my forehead — lingering, like he’s forcing himself to let go — then steps back.

The distance feels cold.

But it also feels like the first real gift he’s ever given me: choice.

I whisper a thank-you, then slip away before the tears start.

The walk back to the chambers is a blur. As soon as the heavy doors close behind me, I exhale — a long, shaky breath I didn’t know I was holding.

Livia is already there, arranging fresh linens. She looks up, eyes kind but sharp.

“Are you all right, Miss?”

I force a small nod. “Yes. I am.”

She doesn’t push. Just bows her head and quietly leaves a tray of tea and bread before slipping out.

I crawl onto the massive bed and lie there, staring at the obsidian ceiling. Boredom creeps in fast — the kind that’s heavy and suffocating. There’s nothing to do but think.

And thinking is dangerous.

My mind drifts back to my parents. To the warmth of my mother’s hand on my cheek. My father calling me “little star.” The way my unborn brother kicked under her palm the last time I saw her alive.

All gone. Because I trusted Silas. Because I was blind and stupid and desperate for someone to love me.

My life is miserable. I did this to myself.

Hot tears slip down my temples into my hair. I curl tighter under the furs.

But then the anger rises — sharp, cleansing.

Silas will pay.

He will bleed for every drop of my family’s blood. I will watch the light die in his golden eyes the same way it died in theirs.

I will make him beg.

A short, bitter smile curves my lips. I sniff, wipe my face with the back of my hand, and stare out the tall windows at the eternal storm.

On the pillow beside me — I don’t notice it until the torchlight catches the petals — sits a single black snowflower. Rare. Impossible in this frozen hell. Petals like midnight velvet, stem still beaded with fresh snow.

He must have hunted the mountain for hours to find it.

No note. Just the flower.

My throat tightens again, but this time it’s not all pain.

I pull his robe from the chair — the one still carrying his scent — and wrap it around me before sleep finally takes me.

The next day comes too quickly.

I wander downstairs, drawn by the low rumble of voices in the main hall. I stay a few steps back, half-hidden behind a pillar, hoping he won’t notice me.

But the bond betrays me. I feel the exact moment his attention shifts — a warm flare in my chest.

He sees me.

I swallow hard, heat crawling up my neck.

Gods, he’s beautiful.

Shirtless under the open black coat, scars and glowing veins catching the torchlight. Hair pushed back, golden eyes sharp as he speaks to his council. Every movement pure power, ancient and effortless.

My thighs press together on instinct. A shameful pulse of slick answers the sight of him, even from here.

I edge closer without meaning to.

He dismisses the group with a single flick of his fingers. They scatter like leaves in wind.

Then he walks toward me — slow, deliberate — and stops exactly five feet away. Close enough to feel his heat, far enough that I can breathe.

“Good morning, little moon,” he says, voice low and careful. “How are you?”

I manage a smile — small, but real. “I feel great.”

We fall into step, wandering the quieter corridors. He keeps that careful distance the whole time, hands clasped behind his back like he’s leashing himself.

It starts to drive me mad.

Finally I stop walking and turn to him.

“Why aren’t you close to me?”

He stills. Golden eyes search my face.

“You requested privacy, Moon.”

I huff a frustrated breath, cheeks burning. “I mean… you’re the Alpha Devil. My request means nothing.”

His expression softens — almost pained.

He takes one slow step forward, then another, until the space between us is barely a breath.

“Your requests,” he says quietly, voice rough with something raw, “mean everything to me. Because you are the only thing in three and a half centuries that I am terrified of breaking.”

My heart stumbles.

He lifts one hand — slow, giving me time to pull away — and brushes a knuckle gently along my jaw.

“Tell me what you want today, Maureen. Space… or me.”

I stare up at him, throat tight.

The bond sings — bright, aching, impossible to ignore.

And for the first time since I asked for distance, I’m the one who closes the gap.

I rise on my tiptoes, heart hammering so loud I’m sure the entire corridor can hear it. My lips brush his cheek — soft, tentative, barely more than a whisper of contact. His skin is warm, stubble rough against my mouth, and his scent floods me until my knees threaten to fold.

I pull back quickly, cheeks burning scarlet, eyes fixed on the floor.

“Does this answer your question?” I mumble, voice small and shaky.

Inside my head, panic spirals. What the hell am I doing?

I don’t have time to answer myself.

His hand cups the back of my neck — gentle but immovable — and he pulls me flush against him. The world tilts. Then his mouth is on mine.

Not soft. Not careful.

Hungry.

A low growl rumbles from his chest as his lips claim me, fangs grazing my bottom lip just enough to sting. I moan into his mouth — helpless, shameless — the sound swallowed by his tongue sweeping in, tasting, taking.

Holy moons.

My hands fist in his open coat, nails digging into hard muscle. He backs me up until the cold stone wall meets my spine, his body caging me in scorching heat. One massive thigh wedges between mine, pressing up, and the sudden friction against my aching core rips another moan from my throat.

We’re in the open corridor.

Anyone could walk by. Guards patrol these halls. Nobles linger. The thought should terrify me.

Instead it sets me on fire.

His hand slides down my side, gripping my hip hard enough to bruise, hiking the silk gown higher. Cool air kisses my exposed thigh; his palm is burning hot against bare skin.

“Maureen,” he snarls against my lips, voice shredded. “Tell me to stop and I will.”

I should. We’re not in our chambers. We’re not hidden.

But the bond is roaring now, and every inch of me is slick and desperate and his.

I shake my head, breathless. “Don’t you dare.”

His answering growl is pure predator.

He kisses me deeper, devouring, while his fingers trace higher under the gown — teasing the edge of where I’m already drenched for him. One thick finger slips beneath the thin fabric between my legs, gliding through slick folds, and I cry out into his mouth.

“So wet for me already, little moon,” he rasps, circling my clit slow and cruel. “Even after running.”

My hips jerk against his hand, chasing more. “Vuk—please—”

He presses one finger inside me — thick, perfect, stretching — and I gasp, head falling back against the wall. His mouth moves to my throat, fangs scraping the claiming bite, making it throb in time with the slow thrust of his finger.

Another finger joins the first. He curls them, finds that spot that makes stars explode behind my eyes, and I whimper his name loud enough that footsteps echo somewhere far down the hall.

He doesn’t stop.

If anything, he pumps deeper, thumb grinding against my clit, mouth sucking a fresh mark just below my ear.

“Let them hear,” he growls against my skin. “Let the whole fortress know you’re mine again.”

My thighs tremble. I’m climbing fast — too fast — the orgasm building sharp and violent in my belly.

“Vuk—I’m—”

“Come for me, Moon,” he commands, voice dark and absolute. “Right here where anyone can see how perfectly you fall apart on my fingers.”

That’s all it takes.

I shatter.

A broken cry tears out of me as pleasure slams through every nerve, walls clenching around his fingers in hard, pulsing waves. He keeps stroking, drawing it out until I’m shaking, boneless, clinging to his shoulders just to stay upright.

Only then does he slow, easing his fingers out and bringing them to his mouth. Golden eyes locked on mine, he licks them clean — deliberate, filthy — growling low at the taste.

I’m still panting, gown rucked up, thighs slick, when distant voices echo closer.

He straightens my dress with careful hands, presses one last possessive kiss to my swollen lips, and steps back just enough to look decent.

But his eyes promise we’re far from finished.

“Tonight,” he says, voice rough with restraint. “My bed. No more distance.”

I nod, breathless, cheeks still burning.