I have given her the most luxurious clothing, furniture, jewels, food—I even organized an art tutor for her—and yet none of it is enough. None of it is what she really wants.
To go home.
To Earth.
There must be a solution. I will find a way to make my Emma happy. And in the meantime, I will do what I can to comfort her.
SEVENTEEN
Emma
Khan’s rugged,striking face was a picture during my outburst. His lips were rounded in a perfect O, and I could sense how much he wanted to come around the table and remind me of my place. To his credit, he didn’t. He sat there like a statue as I screamed at him.
Now, I’m curled up in a ball in our bed, the tears hot on my face, my eyes burning with them.
The smooth silks and plush furs are soft against my bare legs. Weirdly, that only makes me bawl harder.
Nesting, Khan calls it when I get that strange, inexplicable urge to add more and more items of comfort to our bedchamber. He allows me free rein and makes sure to indulge my every whim. If I want a silk cushion, I’m given the best silk cushion in Altrim. Purple furs. Teal rugs. Orb lamps which give off a soft, pink, flattering glow. My own paintings adorn the walls. I thought pictures of home would give me some comfort, but I was wrong. Now, the images—of my grandparents’ orchard, of the white sandy beach in Thailand, of a steaming cup of coffee—just mock me, reminding me cruelly every day of what I’m missing.
I stuff my hand against my mouth and sob louder. I’ve been holding it all in as much as possible ever since I arrived, distracting myself with decorating the room and painting the scenes of my happiest memories—when Khan wasn’t fucking me—and now it’s like a dam has broken.
My mind is racing as I weep. Now that my estrus has passed (for the time being; Khan says it will likely return in a moon’s cycle at the latest), I’m able to think more clearly.
And all I can think about is my predicament—and that of the other human women they want to bring here. Just yesterday, I was told that the experiment has failed, and the Ulfarri females are unaffected by the Omega serum. In other words, Aurus the pompous twat chrome king and his magical scientists are going to start kidnapping women from Earth and bringing them to Ulfaria.
That thought is enough to bring on a fresh round of sobs. I’m hiccupping and hoarse when I hear the purring. His voice is low. Gentle. Reassuring.
“Emma. Come to me.”
He joins me on the bed and I roll into his arms, still sniffling. My nose is too stuffy from crying for me to smell his scent but already the rumbling coming from his broad chest is slowing my heartbeat and soothing me.
I get a sudden craving for cookie dough ice cream, and wonder if my hormones are making me feel worse. Do Omegas get PMS?
His huge paw settles on my hip, his long, broad fingers splaying over part of my buttock. His other hand is stroking the back of my head. I don’t know how he can talk while he’s purring—or growling—but he can. It’s like some weird kind of circular breathing.
I had expected him to be angry after my outburst. I had half expected him to bend me over and spank me, as he’s done a couple times now when I’ve been too cheeky. Instead, he’s comforting me.
I’m not sure how I feel about that.
“My sweet little thing,” he croons, still stroking me. “I hate to see such sorrow.”
Then let me go home!I want to bark at him, but the purring is so comforting, I don’t want him to stop. I don’t want to antagonize him.
Why not?
A question I cannot answer right now. Or I don’t want to.
Either way, I snuggle against him instead, allowing the vibrations from his broad chest to spread through my body until my breathing is slow and deep, and the tears have dried on my face.
“I’m sorry I shouted at you,” I mumble into his chest. I have to apologize. I can’t help it.You can take the girl out of England…
To my surprise, he lets out a low chuckle. “You are the only female ever to raise her voice to me,” he admits. “I would not normally tolerate such insolence for a second.”
“I know.” I shudder at the memory of the last time he spanked me. I can’t even remember why—I may have sassed him, playfully—but he bent me over, flipped up my gown (apparently, underwear isn’t a thing on this planet), and slapped my bare ass with his massive hand and brute strength until the skin felt like it had been scalded. The memory makes my clit throb, just as it did then. If Khan was surprised to find me soaking wet after he’d turned my butt the hue of ripe watermelon, he didn’t show it. But I’m fairly sure he’s worked out that certain kinds of pain drive me wild. Or maybe he just thought it was the estrus…
“I know what you’re thinking,” he continues, and I can almost feel his amusement. “But no, I will not reward such behavior. Playful defiance is one thing. Screaming at me across the dinner table—"
“Is another,” I finish for him. Part of me does feel guilty. I acted like a child, and I can only imagine how he felt while I was yelling at him.
