Leora cries out, her hips arching off the mattress to meet me. "Imas..."
The sound of my name on her lips, spoken not as a title but as a plea, shatters my last defense.
I push into her.
Slowly at first, letting the tightness of her body stretch to accommodate me. She is small, so incredibly tight, and the sensation of stretching her, of filling her completely, is blinding.
"Look at me," I command, my voice a ragged growl.
Her black eyes lock onto mine. Tears leak from the corners, tracking silver paths into her hair.
I drive forward, sinking deep, burying myself to the hilt.
We both gasp, a unified, broken sound.
The sensation is blinding. It is not just flesh meeting flesh; it is mind meeting mind. The barrier I have tried to maintain—the iron wall of my Khuzuth pride—disintegrates instantly. I can feel the velvet heat of her sheath gripping me, pulsing around me, but I can also feelher.
I feel the shock wave of her pleasure, a bright, blinding starburst in the center of my mind. I feel her awe. I feel the terrifying, overwhelming sense offullnessthat she feels.
I withdraw and thrust again, harder this time.
"Please," she moans, her head tossing from side to side on the pillows. "It’s too much..."
"Take it," I snarl, snapping my hips, driving into her with the punishing force of a master claiming a slave. "Take all of it."
I want to dominate her. I want to make her cry out. I want to wring the chaos out of her to fill my own empty reserves. I set a brutal rhythm, the slap of skin against skin echoing in the room.
But she fights back.
Not with claws or teeth. She fights withfeeling.
Every time I thrust, she pushes a wave of sensation back into me. She floods my nervous system with a torrent of emotions that are not mine. I expect fear. I want fear.
Instead, I feel... worship.
It rushes into me with every stroke. I feel her hands tangling in my hair, pulling my head down. I feel the frantic beat of her heart against my chest. And through the Purna bond, I feel what she feels: she does not see a monster. She sees a unique being. She sees a man she wants to save.
It is overwhelming. It is too much.
"Stop it," I gasp, my voice wrecked, sweat dripping from my brow onto her face. "Stop... feeling."
"I can't," she whispers against my ear, her breath hot and ragged. She lifts her hips, meeting my thrusts, grinding against me. "I can't help it."
She tightens around me, a convulsion that nearly sends me over the edge.
The pleasure builds, spiraling higher, darker. It is not the cold, distant satisfaction I am used to. It is visceral. It creates a pressure behind my eyes, a ringing in my ears that drowns out the memory of The Serpent. It feels like drowning in warm water.
I need to anchor myself. I need to remember what I am.
I am a predator. I am a Lord of Lliandor.
I shift my grip, my hand tightening around her wrists until I feel the delicate grind of bone. I lower my head to the junction of her neck and shoulder. The scent of her—salt, sex, and that maddening empathy—fills my lungs.
I open my mouth. I bite down.
I expect the sharp, grounding tang of copper. I expect the savory spike of her pain to wash over me, a familiar comfort that will restore the order of the world.
My teeth sink into her soft skin. She screams, a shattered, high-pitched cry, and her body spasms around me, clamping down hard.
