Chapter 6: She wants Us

Valentino Drakvolk

The office was dim, lit only by the low fire and the desk lamp Vincenzo kept on when he wanted to think. Smoke curled from his cigarette. Lorenzo was sprawled in one of the leather chairs, legs kicked up on the ottoman, swirling whisky like he could drink away four centuries of waiting.

“Four hundred years,” Lorenzo said, voice rough with disbelief. “Four fucking hundred years of empty beds, empty ruts, empty everything. And the Moon Goddess finally decides to throw us a bone. One perfect little omega who takes all three knots like she was born for it.”

Vincenzo exhaled smoke in a slow line. “She’s real. She’s here. That’s what matters.”

Lorenzo laughed under his breath. “Yeah, and my dick hasn’t stopped throbbing since we pulled out of her. I swear if I close my eyes I can still feel her throat squeezing around me while you two were locked in. Fuck. I’m going to need a cold shower every hour just to function.”

Vincenzo’s amber gaze flicked to me where I sat in the corner armchair, legs spread, sweatpants doing nothing to hide the fact that I was rock-hard and leaking. He pointed the cigarette at me.

“See that?” he said to Lorenzo. “She’s got weak omega veins. Thin, fragile, still healing from years of neglect. We can’t rush her. Not yet. Not like animals.”

Lorenzo groaned dramatically. “Seems impossible, brother. My hands are literally itching to pin her down again.”

Vincenzo’s voice dropped, low and commanding. “Well, you’ll learn to control your dick and your hands. Do you understand?”

Lorenzo opened his mouth to argue. Vincenzo cut him off with a look, then turned the same look on me.

“Valentino… do you want to cut your sweatpants open with that monster cock of yours?”

I blinked. Didn’t get it at first.

Then I looked down.

My dick had shoved the waistband down so far the head was out, flushed dark and dripping a steady line of precum onto the grey fabric. The outline was obscene—thick, veined, straining like it was trying to tear free and hunt her down itself.

Lorenzo barked a laugh so hard he nearly spilled his drink. “Holy shit—look at it! It’s got its own zip code!”

I stared for a second longer, then barked out a rough laugh of my own—the kind that surprised even me.

“Fuck you, Lorenzo,” I said, but there was no heat in it. I shifted, trying to tuck the damn thing back in, but it only made more precum smear across my stomach. “I swear I can’t shut my eyes for two seconds… she’s fucking everywhere.”

I inhaled deep—instinct—and her scent flooded me again. Sweet, warm, rain-kissed, still carrying that faint edge of old heartbreak. A low moan slipped out of my throat before I could stop it, raw and hungry.

Vincenzo’s eyes narrowed. He pointed the cigarette straight at my cock again like it had personally offended him.

“You two are not listening, right?” His voice was steel wrapped in velvet. “She’s weak. Fragile veins, fragile heart. Don’t go making horny sounds and cut off your own cock if you have to. Lorenzo. Valentino.” He jabbed the air toward my lap. “Especially you, Val. That dragon dick of yours is about to rip a new hole in those pants.”

I smirked, slow and lazy, letting the waistband snap back against the head with a wet smack.

“Train your fucking dragon dick,” Vincenzo continued, dead serious. “Jerk off in your hand if you have to. Edge for hours. Whatever it takes. Our mate won’t be disturbed. She won’t be stressed. She’s everything to us. She’s our life. Our royal goddess. We will worship her at all times—putting her needs before ours. Every single time.”

Silence fell. Heavy. Real.

Lorenzo lowered his legs, grin fading into something softer, more serious.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “She is.”

I nodded once. The bond hummed between us—golden, steady, unbreakable.

Vincenzo stubbed out his cigarette. “So we wait until she’s ready. We take care of ourselves. We keep our hands off her until her body says yes again.”

Lorenzo raised his glass. “To the Moon Goddess’s gift.”

Vincenzo lifted his own. “To Veleria.”

I didn’t speak. I just drained my whisky in one swallow, feeling the burn match the one in my chest.

I stood.

“Let’s go make sure she’s resting,” I said.

We moved as one.

Like always.

The stairs were silent under our boots. Halfway up, her scent hit harder—fresh soap, clean skin, but underneath it all still that sweet, needy omega warmth that made my knot throb at the base like it was trying to punch through fabric. Lorenzo let out a low whistle. Vincenzo’s jaw tightened. None of us said a word. We didn’t need to.

We reached the bedroom door. I pushed it open.

She was standing by the window, freshly showered, hair still damp and falling in thick, beautiful waves down her back. She wore one of our sweatpants—probably Vincenzo’s, judging by how they pooled at her ankles—and one of my black polos, the sleeves rolled up four times and the hem hitting mid-thigh like a dress. She looked tiny. Swallowed whole by our clothes. And fuck, it was the hottest thing I’d ever seen.

“You look beautiful…” I said it without thinking, voice rougher than I meant.

She turned, cheeks pink, eyes wide and shy.

Lorenzo crossed the room first, cupped the back of her neck gently and pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the side of her throat—right over his own bite mark. “Fucking gorgeous,” he murmured against her skin.

Vincenzo took her hand, lifted it to his lips, kissed each knuckle one by one, then turned it over and dragged his tongue along her palm—slow, deliberate. “We’re sorry, little mate,” he said quietly. “We didn’t have anything that would fit you properly. That ends today. We’ll have the city’s best designers here by tomorrow. Whatever you want—silk, leather, lace, nothing at all. You name it.”

She bit her lip, looking between us like she still couldn’t believe we were real.

“Come on,” Lorenzo said, voice softer now. “Breakfast. You need food before we—”

He didn’t finish. Didn’t have to.

We each took one of her hands—three big palms swallowing her small fingers—and led her toward the door.

Halfway down the first landing, her foot caught on the too-long hem of the sweatpants.

She stumbled.

Time slowed.

She pitched forward, arms flailing.

I caught her around the waist with one arm, yanking her back against my chest. Her momentum carried us both down—controlled, not a crash—but we hit the carpeted step anyway, me on my ass, her straddling my lap, thighs spread over mine.

Her hands scrambled for balance.

One palm landed flat on my chest.

The other—

Right on my cock.

Full grip. Fingers curling instinctively around the thick, throbbing length still straining against my sweatpants. The head was already out again, slick and leaking, and her palm slid right over it—hot, soft, perfect.

I hissed through my teeth.

She froze.

Eyes huge. Lips parted.

I looked down at her hand wrapped around me—couldn’t help it—then back up at her flushed face.

A slow, filthy smile spread across my mouth.

“Fuck…” I rasped, voice wrecked. “My dick’s got a mind of its own.”

Lorenzo barked a laugh from two steps above us, leaning on the banister. “Told you. That thing’s been planning mutiny since last night.”

Vincenzo crouched beside us, one hand steady on her lower back so she didn’t tumble again, the other brushing hair from her face. His amber eyes were dark, amused, but gentle.

“You okay, little mate?” he asked her.

She nodded—tiny, jerky—still gripping me like she wasn’t sure whether to let go or squeeze harder. Her breath was coming fast. I could feel the heat radiating from between her thighs where she sat on me. Slick. Fresh. Already soaking through the borrowed sweatpants.

I flexed my hips—just a tiny rock—enough to let her feel every thick inch sliding against her palm.

Her breath hitched. A tiny whimper escaped.

I leaned in, lips brushing her ear.

“Keep holding on like that,” I whispered, “and breakfast is going to be very fucking late.”

She shivered.

Lorenzo jumped down the last two steps, grinning like sin. “Or we skip straight to dessert.”

Vincenzo’s hand slid up her spine—possessive, soothing. “Only if she wants it.”

Her eyes darted between us—storm-grey, wide, pupils blown.

Then, so quiet we almost missed it:

“…I want it.”

The bond flared bright gold in all three of our chests.

Breakfast forgotten.