Page 118 of The Alpha King’s Hidden Mute Mate

Before he could argue, I straddled him, sinking back down onto his cock. From this angle, he went even deeper, and we both groaned.

"Mia—" His hands gripped my hips as I started to move, rolling my hips in slow circles. "Fuck, that feels—"

I set my own pace, rising and falling, watching his face contort with pleasure. His hands roamed my body—squeezing my breasts, thumbing my nipples until they were stiff peaks. The power of it, of watching him fall apart beneath me, was intoxicating.

"Touch yourself," he demanded, voice rough. "I want to watch you make yourself come on my cock."

I'd never done that in front of anyone. But the heat in his eyes made me bold. I slid my hand between us, fingers finding my clit, and started to circle.

"That's it," he groaned, hips bucking up to meet my movements. "So fucking beautiful. I could watch you like this forever."

The combination of his cock filling me and my own fingers brought me to the edge fast. My movements became erratic, chasing that high.

"Come for me," he urged. "Let me feel you—"

The orgasm slammed into me, even stronger than the first. I cried out, clenching around him, and his hands tightened on my hips as he thrust up once, twice, then followed me over with a shout.

I collapsed onto his chest, both of us breathing hard, hearts racing. His arms came around me, holding me close even as we both trembled with aftershocks.

For a long moment, neither of us spoke. Then his hand came up to stroke my hair, and I felt his lips press to my temple.

"Stay," he whispered. "Please stay."

I didn't answer. But I didn't pull away either.

Everything was slowly getting better.

And I was finally starting to believe—maybe this time, the ending would be different.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Zane

I lay in the medical ward bed for three days. Not because the wound needed that long to heal—werewolf regeneration wasn't that pathetic—but because every day I was injured, I got to see Mia.

It made me reluctant to let the wound close.

I stared at the ceiling cracks, my mind full of scenes from that cave. Mia kneeling beside me, tapping out a rhythm with stones, then opening her mouth to sing. Her voice echoed off the rock walls like moonlight condensed into liquid, pouring drop by drop into the riverbed inside me that had been dry for five years.

And then I howled.

Five years. For five whole years, my throat had been like a sealed well, and her voice was the key that pried that lock open.

The wound in my chest still throbbed dully, but compared to five years of emptiness, it felt like a mosquito bite. Because I knew she was in that guest room at the end of the hall. She hadn't left. While I was unconscious, she'd stayed by my side.

On the third afternoon, I could get out of bed. The first thing I did wasn't go to my study to handle piled-up documents, wasn't go to the council chamber to calm anxious elders—it was walk toward her room.

The hallway was long, sunlight streaming through stained glass windows, casting brilliant patterns on the floor. My footsteps came faster than I'd expected, almost like running. I stopped at her door, took a deep breath, and knocked.

The door opened.

Mia stood in the doorway, wearing a simple white shirt and jeans, hair casually tied in a low ponytail. She looked like she'd just woken up, or maybe hadn't slept at all—there were faint shadows under her eyes, but those eyes brightened when they saw me. That brightness was faint, like someone striking a match in front of a dying lamp. But I saw it.

"You're out of bed?" she said, tone flat as if asking about the weather.

"Doctor said I could move around moderately."

She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "You walked about a mile. That's moderate?"