Monster.
The word floated through my sedated mind.
Murderer.
Psychopath.
Killer.
Alpha.
Mine.
I slipped back under.
♠ ♥ ♦ ♣
The last thing I saw before darkness claimed me completely was Blackmoor burning below—flames licking at the administrative building, smoke billowing into the night sky, the place where I'd lost my sanity collapsing into ash and memory.
Dr. Willow Lark, forensic psychologist, had walked into that building.
She would never walk out.
That woman is gone now. She died on a bed of straitjackets, dissolved in a padded cell, was unmade on an operating table while madmen watched and worshipped.
I am not Dr. Willow Lark anymore.
I am his Beloved.
I am his Queen.
I am his.
The woman in this helicopter, strapped into a seat beside a serial killer who had knotted her in front of his entire court, who had woken hungers she didn't know she possessed, who had rewritten her biology with his venom and his cum and his devastating, demented love—that woman was new.
That woman was his Beloved.
His Omega.
His Queen.
And as the sedation pulled me into final darkness, I felt his hand close around mine, his thumb stroking my knuckles, his presence a sensual anchor in the storm of sensation.
I should be afraid.
The thought came from very far away, from the ghost of a woman who no longer existed.
I just watched him kill a man. I was being extracted from a crime scene. I was now complicit in a mass breakout that left dozens dead.
My career was over.
My life as I knew it was over.
I should be horrified.
But the bond had me.
He had me.
