Chapter Ten: Mummy Milkers

The wind is unbearably cold, even in my fuzzy trench coat; I shrink my body further to preserve my heat.

It’s been five days since the Alpha and I had sex; while the scent of the ocean that lingered between my thighs for days is no longer there, the bruises on my neck persist beautifully—there is an Alpha for you.

Even the deepest of wounds heal overnight for me, but his marks remain.

My heat is gone; more specifically, it ended two days ago; after him, toys alone couldn’t cut it; I had to pair them with the memory of his rough touch, hard shaft and wicked mouth. Which, in my now clarity, feels foolish—but I did it anyway—over and over until the friction grew uncomfortable.

My hand finds my throat before I drop it to the side when my assigned vehicle pulls up by the house’s entrance.

The bruises on my neck are the first marks on my flesh that I adore, not because the Alpha made them but because he winces every time I wear a turtleneck or scarf. I find the sight of the guilt-ridden Alp