His hand slides into my hair—not gripping, just cradling the back of my skull, his fingers threading through the sweat-damp strands. The contact sends fire racing down my spine, pooling between my legs. My nipples tighten impossibly further. My pussy clenches so hard it cramps, and I moan at just his hand in my hair, and the shame of it burns almost as hot as the need.
“You’ve been so strong,” he murmurs, his thumb stroking along my hairline. “So brave. Fighting longer than any omega I’ve ever seen. But this isn’t a battle you can win alone.”
I’m shaking. My whole body trembling with need and fear and something that feels horribly like hope. I want to climb him. Want to wrap myself around his massive body and beg him to shove that cock inside me and fill the emptiness that’s driving me insane.
“I don’t want to lose myself.” The words come out broken, barely a whisper. “I don’t want to become one of those—those things. Those women with empty eyes who write letters about how happy they are.”
“You won’t lose yourself.” His other hand comes to rest on my hip, steadying me when I sway. “You’ll still be Hannah. Still be my fierce little warrior who slapped me across the face whenI pushed too hard.” His fingers tighten in my hair—still not painful, but present. Grounding. “You’ll just also be mine.”
“That’s not—” Another cramp seizes my belly, my uterus contracting around emptiness that feels like dying. I gasp, doubling over, and he catches me before I can fall—one arm wrapping around my waist, pulling me against the solid wall of his chest. “That’s not better.”
“Isn’t it?” His voice rumbles through me where my body presses against his. His hand slides from my hair down to cup the nape of my neck, holding me steady. “Eight years you’ve been carrying everyone else’s burdens. Eight years of being strong because no one else would be. Eight years of standing alone against the dark while everyone you protected leaned on you and never once asked if you could bear the weight.”
My eyes are burning. I realize distantly that I’m crying—tears tracking down my cheeks to drip onto his bronze skin.
“Don’t you want to rest, Hannah?” His arm tightens around my waist, and I feel his cock hardening against my belly—that impossible thickness, those ridges I’ve felt through clothes for weeks. My hips roll against him without my permission, seeking friction, seeking anything. “Don’t you want someone else to be strong for once?”
Yes.
God help me,yes.
The answer rises up from somewhere beneath my resistance, somewhere I’ve been trying not to acknowledge since the first time he pinned me to the training mat. I’m so tired. So fucking tired of fighting, of carrying, of being the one who holds everything together while everyone else gets to fall apart.
And he’s offering to holdme.
“I hate you,” I whisper, even as my body grinds against his cock through our clothes, even as my tears soak into his skin.
“I know.” His hand slides down from my neck to grip my ass, pulling me tighter against him. I feel every inch of that massive shaft pressed against my belly, and my mouth goes dry imagining it inside me—stretching me, filling me, finally giving my body what it’s been screaming for. “Hate me all you want. But let me take care of you.”
I should say no. Should push him away and crawl back to my cold bath and fight this heat until it breaks me completely. That’s what the old Hannah would do—the Hannah who walked into his arena knowing she would lose, who chose captivity over letting three girls be taken, who has never once in her life let someone else carry her weight.
But that Hannah is drowning. Has been drowning for eight years, maybe longer, and she’s so tired of keeping her head above water.
“Please,” I hear myself whisper.
The word hangs between us for a long moment. His golden eyes flare with something that looks like triumph and hunger and absolute possession—but underneath all of it, something else. Something that almost looks like satisfaction that goes deeper than just winning.
“Good girl,” he murmurs. “Come with me.”
He scoops me up like I weigh nothing—one arm under my knees, the other supporting my back, lifting me against his chest as easily as I’d lift a child. I should struggle. Should fight.Should do something other than melt into his arms like I’ve been waiting my whole life for someone strong enough to carry me.
But his arms feel so solid around me. His scent is everywhere, filling my lungs, soaking into my skin. And I’m so tired of resisting something that feels, in this moment, like exactly what I need.
I bury my face against his chest and let him carry me toward whatever comes next.Chapter 12: Karax
She’s finally mine.
I carry her through the corridors of Stone Court, her fevered body burning against my chest, her face pressed into my skin like she’s trying to drown in my scent. She’s stopped fighting. Stopped pretending she doesn’t want this. The heat has stripped away her defenses, leaving nothing but raw need and the desperate hope that I’ll give her what she’s been craving.
I will.
But not the way she thinks.
The claiming chamber is deep in the mountain—a room I’ve prepared for this moment, carved from living stone and lit by phosphorescent crystals that cast everything in a dim golden glow. The bed dominates the space, massive even by Fae standards, piled with furs and silks that have been saturated with my scent for weeks. There are no windows. No other exits. Once I seal the door behind us, she’ll have nowhere to go.
Nowhere except underneath me.
I lay her on the bed, and she whimpers at the loss of contact—reaching for me with trembling hands, her gray eyes glazed with heat and need. Her training leathers are soaked through withsweat and slick, clinging to her body in ways that make my cock throb against my breeches.
