Except weighted blankets don't breathe.
I blink.
My eyes adjust to the dim light filtering through... whatever's covering me.
And then I remember.
Oh.
Oh no.
The events of last night come flooding back in a series of increasingly unhinged mental snapshots:
Cyprian stumbling into the suite half-petrified, his veins glowing an unstable, terrifying dark amber.
Me ripping off my hoodie and sports bra like some kind of feral emergency responder.
Pouring volcanic oil directly onto his chest and using my bare skin to friction-melt the calcification.
Him waking up, looking at me like I'd just saved his life (which, to be fair, I had).
The fated-mate bond detonating like a biological nuke.
Being carried to the furs.
His tongue on my clit.
His enormous, ridged cock stretching me so wide I thought I might actually split in half.
