Zyxel’s head snapped up.
His eyes found me across the distance, chartreuse burning gold. Through our crimson thread, I felt his sudden awareness. His realization. The surge of possessive heat that flooded through him as he understood exactly what his clanbrothers were doing to his enax.
But Kaede was already moving.
“Focus!” The word cracked like a whip.
Zyxel’s attention snapped back to the spar. His next block was sloppy. Kaede punished it instantly.
I slammed my shields shut.
Odelm laughed against my flesh—a dark, satisfied sound. “He knows. He’ll think about this later. Dream about it.” His tongue traced a slow circle. “Imagine what we’re doing to you while he couldn’t watch.”
The thought shouldn’t have made me wetter.
It did anyway.
Xylo’s hand slipped from my mouth to my throat, holding with gentle pressure. Not restricting air—just reminding me of his presence. His control. The way he could position my body and my pleasure with equal precision.
“You’re close,” he murmured. “I can feel it. The way your muscles are tensing.” His thumb pressed against my pulse point. “Come for us, Nestqueen. Let us give you this.”
Odelm’s fingers thrust deeper.
His mouth worked faster.
The pleasure crested—higher than before, higher than anything—
“Now,” Xylo commanded.
I broke.
The orgasm tore through me like a wildfire—consuming, overwhelming, endless. Wave after wave of sensation crashing through my body while my shields held by the barest thread. Xylo’s hand muffled my scream. Odelm’s tongue gentled, easing me through the aftershocks. My legs shook. My spots blazed brilliant gold.
And still, below, the training continued.
My mates fought on, unaware of how thoroughly I’d just been undone.
Well. Almost unaware. Through the crimson thread, I felt Zyxel’s heightened attention—the way he kept glancing toward my position between attacks, chartreuse eyes dark with want. He knew. He’d felt that crack in my shields.
He’d deal with that later.
The thought made me shiver.
Odelm rose from his knees with fluid grace, his mouth glistening. His smile was soft, satisfied—the expression of a male who’d accomplished exactly what he set out to do.
“Better?”
The word came out barely a whisper. “Yes.”
“Good.” He pressed a kiss to my forehead. “You needed that.”
Xylo released my throat, his hands smoothing down my arms in soothing strokes. The clinical part of him had already returned, assessing my state with practiced efficiency.
“Your pulse is elevated but stabilizing. Spots are shifting toward a healthy green.” He turned me gently, supporting my weight when my knees threatened to buckle. “You should rest. Real rest. The kind where you close your eyes and let your body recover.”
I wanted to argue. There was so much to do—preparations for the journey, briefings about the CEG, mental training with Ryzen, time with the cubs…
But my body was already making the decision for me.
