Cock swelling at the base, he came with a snarl. Notched against the mouth of her womb, he burrowed and latched.Finding that tiny opening where she was vulnerable, he bullied his way inside.
Wailing, head turning away from his bite, she sobbed. Both hands flying to the cradle between her hips. Anticipating the swell.
Drinking him down, her body went pliant and still in his grip.
Gushing inside her, flooding her womb at long last, Nyx's scales lifted. His chest filling with a groan, he purred. Rewarding her for yielding. For taking him as he pumped his seed inside her.
Violet light brightened where she began to bulge. Belly growing distended, tiny hands trying to clutch at the weight he dumped inside. Straining to take it.
Groaning as he emptied his balls, Nyx's release made the water dance around them. With every pulse, every ounce he forced her to take. A claim. "Mine," he snarled and pulled his fangs from her shoulder. Letting her blood paint crimson ribbons in the water. "All mine."
It was a promise.
A vow.
One he would keep.
And, knot swelling, he pulled back. Just enough to stop himself. To resist the primal urge to seal her full, and drift through his court. Letting them look, instead. Her belly rounded and full. Cunt stretched to the limit. Her body aglow with the aftermath of his venom.
And that violet, electric pulse.
Thalos didn't blink.
Fins still.
Cymareth singing in his bloodless grip.
But his eyes.
They burned…
CHAPTER 13
Adrop of crimson twisted through the water.
Blood.
Oozing from the creature's nape, where Nyxarion had marked it with his bite, the fool. Thalos tracked that ribbon of ichor with a cold detachment.
"Pretty," he said, head tilting to watch it dissipate. "In the way of something corrupt before the rot festers."
Panting, Nyxarion's chest heaved as he luxuriated in the effort of restraining himself. Sluicing through the mess he'd made between his creature's legs.
Thalos' lip curled. Noting the tremor in the exile's hands. The way Nyx's gills stretched and flared, filaments labouring bright red.
The price of refusing to set his knot. To obey the law of the Spiral. The cost of rising through the layers of the Gauntlet at such a speed.
Repulsive.
Shameful—a king reduced to rutting a half-formed creature.
But it wasn't Nyxarion's possessive display.
Not the Siren's grotesque and swollen belly.
It was the heat.
The pressure building behind his own vent. Where he ached. Swollen with the want of a Siren.
