Alone with my wounds. Alone with my need. Alone with the scent of him everywhere, the memory of his mouth on me, the ghost of six orgasms that had only made me more desperate.
Breeding. He wanted me to choose breeding.
I curled up on the sleeping platform, naked and wet and empty, and tried to figure out if I was willing to give him that.
The storm screamed outside. Inside, my body screamed too.
Breeding wouldn't wait. Breeding was permanent. Breeding was forever.
Was I ready to choose forever?
I didn't know. The tonic wanted me to say yes. The part of me that had been betrayed by everyone I'd ever trusted wanted to say no.
I closed my eyes and tried to think through the desperate, aching need.
It was going to be a very long three days.
BRUK
The storm had been screaming for two days.
Inside the Keep, I was screaming too. Silently. Constantly. Every moment she was in here with me was another moment of torture I'd designed for myself.
She was naked. Had been since I'd tended her wounds. Her clothes were destroyed, and I hadn't offered her replacements. Told myself it was practical. Told myself the wounds needed air to heal. Knew the real reason was that I couldn't stop looking at her.
Her body had changed since she'd arrived in my territory. The tonic had done its work thoroughly. Her breasts were fuller, nipples dark and swollen, perpetually hard. Her hips had softened slightly, preparing for what her biology expected to happen. Between her legs, everything was flushed and puffy and glistening with arousal that never stopped.
I could smell her constantly. That sweet, musky scent of a female in heat, filling every chamber of the Keep, saturating every breath I took. My preparation fluid had been leaking for days. The inside of my armor was slick with it, and every movement created friction that reminded me of what I was denying myself.
She was pacing the main chamber, unable to stay still. Her movements were jerky, agitated, driven by need she couldn't satisfy. Every few minutes she would stop, press her hand between her legs, let out a sound of frustration, and resume pacing.
She'd tried to masturbate again last night. I'd heard her. The wet sounds, the desperate rhythm, the sobbing when it didn't work. Her body had been conditioned too thoroughly now. It would only accept me.
And I kept refusing to give her what she needed.
The restraint was destroying me. My sheaths ached with constant pressure, my cock partially emerged and throbbing against armor that couldn't contain it. I wanted to pin her down and bury myself in that wet heat. Wanted to feel her walls clench around me the way they'd clenched around my fingers. Wanted to finally, finally end twenty cycles of waiting.
But she hadn't chosen yet. Not really. She'd begged for relief, begged for the aching to stop, but she hadn't said the words that mattered.
I would wait. Even if it killed me.
"Your ventilation is wrong."
Her voice cut through my suffering. I looked up to find her standing near the eastern wall, studying the channels I'd carved near the ceiling.
"Explain."
"The angle." She traced the line with her finger, not touching, just indicating. "You've got them pitched at maybe fifteen degrees. It creates airflow, but it also creates dead zones in the corners. See how the dust accumulates there?"
I looked. She was right. The corners of the chamber had always collected more dust than the center. I'd assumed it was unavoidable.
"What angle would you use?"
"Twenty-two degrees. Maybe twenty-three." She was still studying the channels, her mind engaged despite the constant trembling of her body. "And I'd add secondary channels here and here. Smaller. They'd create cross-flow and eliminate the dead zones."
She turned to look at me, and I saw the hunger in her eyes war with the intellectual satisfaction. She wanted to talk about structure. She also wanted me to fuck her until she couldn't think.
"Show me," I said.
