I take control. I leverage my weight, pushing him back until he’s leaning against the wall, impaling me deeper. I start to grind.
I bear down. The friction is blinding. I can feel the texture of him inside me, the ridges and veins rubbing against spots that make my vision white out. He feels hard as steel, unyielding, stretching me open.
"Putain," he chokes out, his head falling back, exposing the scarred column of his throat. "You grip me so well. Like a vice."
"I’m holding you," I pant, squeezing my internal muscles around him. "I’m milking you, Jax. Give it to me."
He grips my hips, his thumbs pressing into the soft flesh, bruising me, guiding my rhythm. I move faster. Harder. The sound of our skin slapping together echoes in the small shack, mixing with the wet, guttural noises coming from his throat.
We are covered in sweat, blood, and grime. It’s animalistic. Wild. The smell of the swamp is heavy, but the scent ofusis heavier. Musk. Sex. Power. It swirls in the air, intoxicating and thick.
And something else.
Magic.
As we move, I feel it. A hum in the air. A vibration that starts at the point where our bodies are joined and radiates outward.
I look at his flank.
The black web of the silver poisoning is pulsing, it’s retreating faster compared to earlier. With every thrust, withevery connection, the black retreats. The necrotic grey flesh flushes pink. The heat radiating from him shifts from the dry burn of fever to the wet, living heat of the Wolf.
"It’s working," I gasp, raking my nails down his chest again, drawing blood that smells like copper and life. "You're healing faster. Look at me, Jax. Look at what we're doing."
"I don't care," he grunts, his eyes snapping open. They are pools of molten gold, swirling with madness. "I don't care about the blood. I just want to fill you."
He grabs my hips, stopping my movement.
"Jax?"
"I can't... I can't hold it back," he groans. His body goes rigid. The muscles in his thighs turn to rock against my legs. "The Wolf... he needs to lock you down."
Inside me, he changes.
I feel him swell. The base of his shaft expands, blooming outward, stretching me beyond what should be possible.
The Knot.
Panic flares for a microsecond—the claustrophobia of being trapped, of being locked together. The pressure is immense, a feeling of being stretched to the tearing point.
"Jax, stop! It’s too big!" I cry out, my hands gripping his shoulders, my nails drawing blood.
"Don't fight it," he commands, his voice a deep, subsonic rumble that vibrates in my womb, forcing my muscles to relax. "Yield to me, Miranda. Take the knot. Let me claim you."
He thrusts upward, one final, bone-jarring stroke, burying himself to the root.
The bulb at the base of him pops past the entrance.
We are fused.
The sensation is absolute fullness. It’s a pressure that borders on pain but lands squarely in the center of blinding,white-hot pleasure. I am completely filled, plugged, claimed. There is no space left inside me that isn't him.
"Mine," he roars, his hands crushing my hips.
The lock engages.
And the magic explodes.
It’s not a spark; it’s a detonation. Power floods my system, rushing up from my core like a geyser. It burns through my veins, hotter than the silver, hotter than the fire outside.
