His hips snap forward one final time and the knot forces its way inside—a brutal stretch that wrenches a scream from my throat, that makes my vision go white at the edges. It's too much. I'm being split open, stuffed full, impaled on more cock than my body should be able to take. The knot swells even larger now that it's seated, locking us together, grinding against something deep that makes my whole body shake.
"That's it," he groans against my temple, voice shattered. "Taking my knot so well. So fucking tight I can barely—gods, I'm going to?—"
I'm coming.
The orgasm rips through me like wildfire. My back arches against the weapon rack and I hear metal crash to the floor behind me, swords and spears knocked loose by the force of my convulsion. My cunt clamps down on his knot in rhythmic pulses, milking him, demanding everything.
He gives it.
I feel the first hot rush of his release flooding me, feel the knot flex as he pumps jet after jet of cum into my depths. There's nowhere for it to go—the knot keeps everything sealed in, pressure building as he fills me beyond what should be possible. My belly distends slightly under the volume, skin going taut.
"Can't stop," he groans, hips still jerking in tiny thrusts. "Filling you so deep—fuck, Kess, there's so much?—"
He roars against my temple as another wave hits him, the sound vibrating through my skull, and I feel his claws finally slip free—pricking my hips, drawing thin lines of blood that mix with the slick smeared across my thighs.
The weapon rack shudders.
We shudder.
Everything shudders, and then goes still.
The orgasm fades to aftershocks—little tremors that make us both gasp, the knot shifting inside me with each one. His hips have stopped moving but his cock keeps pulsing, keeps flooding me with warmth. I'm so full it's almost painful. So full I can feel it in my chest.
We stay there for a long moment, pinned against the weapon rack, both of us breathing like we've just run for miles. His face is pressed into my hair. My teeth are still latched onto his shoulder. Neither of us seems capable of letting go.
"Fuck," I breathe finally, the word muffled against his bloody skin.
"Yeah," he agrees, voice completely destroyed.
Slowly, carefully, he shifts his grip. One arm bands around my waist to support my weight; the other cups the back of my head, cradling me against his shoulder. The movement jostles the knot inside me and we both hiss.
Gentle now. The violence burned through, leaving something softer in its wake.
"Anyone could walk in," I murmur. Not really a concern—more an observation.
His chest rumbles with exhausted humor. "I broke the door off its hinges and roared loud enough to shake dust from the rafters. No one's coming anywhere near this armory for hours."
Good.
Because we're going to be here for a while. The knot shows no signs of going down.
He carries us to the corner where training mats are stacked—walking carefully, each step shifting him inside me in ways that make my breath catch. Settles down with his back against the wall and me in his lap, still joined. Still locked together.
More comfortable than the weapon rack, at least.
I rest my forehead against the curve of his shoulder and let myself breathe. Let myself feel the bond humming between us, content and satisfied, that invisible thread that ties us together pulsing with something that might be happiness. Let myself feel his heartbeat against my chest, steady and strong, gradually slowing.
Let myself feel the changes in my body.
His hand moves to rest on my hip. Right over the scars from the first claiming—the ones his claws left when he gripped me on the altar, the ones that have been healing wrong ever since.
I feel the moment he notices.
His fingers trace the raised tissue, and I feel them hesitate. Press harder. The texture is different now—harder than skin should be, tougher, like scar tissue that's turned to leather. Or scales.
His hand goes still. Just for a second.
Then he keeps moving, keeps stroking, like he didn't notice anything unusual.
