I dreamed of teeth.
Sharp. Hot. Buried in my throat while his knot swelled inside me, anchoring me open, forcing wave after wave of release from a body that no longer obeyed me.
I was startled awake.
Sweat had soaked the furs underneath me. My legs were tangled, aching. My nipples throbbed with cold and stimulation. And between my thighs—slickness. A new, shameful flood of it.
Not another wave of heat. Not yet. But close.
Too close.
When I sat up, the leather collar rubbed against my neck. Instinctively reaching for it, I discovered there was no buckle or clasp.
Just thick leather. His mark burned into it like a brand.
I was still wearing him.
The den was dim. Only blazing embers remained of the fire in the hearth. Kael was gone. But his heavy, powerful smell, which was all smoke, pine, and musk, permeated the entire space. And to me.
I pulled my knees to my chest and put my arms about them. I refrained from crying.
I wanted to.
But I was too hollow to even find my tears.
Instead, I sat there, rocking slowly. My thighs were sticky with dried release. My inner walls still twitched from the phantom memory of his knot locking me in place. My lips were swollen, bruised. My skin bore his fingerprints like bruises tattooed in shame.
And worse—worse than any of it—was the craving.
The ache.
My body wanted him again.
My womb pulsed low and warm, demanding another dose of him. Another breeding. Another knot.
I wanted to vomit.
Later, the door squeaked open.
I recoiled, stumbling back into the bed as the furs tangled like cords around me.
Kael entered with slow, easy confidence.
Bare-chested. Freshly washed. He had wet, disheveled brown hair. He was carrying a wooden tray filled with bread, meat, fruit, and a skin of water. He looked like a provider. A protector.
Not the man who had broken and degraded me in front of scores of wolves.
He placed the tray on the little table by the bed.
I remained motionless.
"Eat," he said simply.
"No."
Kael turned to face me. His gaze swept over my body slowly. Not in hunger this time. In challenge.
"Eat," he repeated.
"You'll drug it."
He laughed—low and amused.
"I don't need to drug you," he said. "Your body does half the work for me."
I tightened my jaw.
I then cautiously reached for the platter, but my palm smacked it over with a violent motion.
Food and shattered wood were strewn everywhere as the bowl fell to the ground.
Kael stilled.
Only the crackling of the fire and the thumping of my heart could be heard for a brief moment.
Then he moved.
Quick. Smooth. Terrifying.
With a chilly tone, he leaned across the bed, took hold of my chin, and jerked my face in his direction. "You want to act like a brat?" he questioned. "Then I'll treat you like one."
"Get your hands off me—"
He released my chin but only to slide a rough hand around the back of my neck.
"If you throw my food again," he said darkly, "I'll tie you down and feed you with my fingers. One piece at a time. Maybe I'll taste it first. Maybe I'll spit it into your mouth like a cub."
I gasped.
Kael leaned in closer. I felt his breath on my lips.
"That would be nice, wouldn't it?"
I muttered, "I despise you."
"No," he said. "You hate that you want me."
He let go and stepped back.
"I can wait," he said casually. "Your next heat will break you faster than I ever could."
I curled into myself, fists clenched.
Kael knelt and began to clean the mess I made. Silently. Calmly. The image disturbed me more than his threats. The Alpha—cleaning like a servant while I shook in a ball of resentment and need.
He stood once the tray was replaced.
"You'll eat next time."
"I won't."
He turned to leave.
"Then you'll starve."
Hours passed.
Maybe longer.
Time meant nothing in Kael's den. The stone walls muffled sound. There were no windows. Just firelight and silence and the steady throb of my body wanting what my soul refused to accept.
I thought about home.
About my father—Lord Veyne—and whether he would come for me.
Whether he even knew I was gone.
Whether he cared.
I thought about the stories. The old warnings about rogue Alphas like Kael. About the brutal rituals of the old packs. About knot-mad Omegas who lost themselves in heat until they forgot their own names.
I didn't believe them before.
Now, I was living them.
My stomach twisted with hunger. My mouth was dry. But worse than all of that was the shameful slickness between my thighs that hadn't dried.
I wanted him again.
Even now.
Even after everything.
Just before the flames extinguished entirely, the door opened.
Kael was standing in the doorway with a bowl of steaming water and a folded cloth.
Before I could say anything, he said, "I'm not here to talk.". "I'm here to clean you."
"I can clean myself."
"I don't want you to."
He approached the bed and knelt beside me.
His fingers reached for the shift still clinging to me. I slapped his hand away.
He paused.
Then tried again.
I didn't stop him this time.
Slowly, he pulled the cloth back, showing my bruising, the bite marks on my thigh, and the proof of his claim between my legs.
He started to gently wipe me after dipping the cloth in the water.
I hated how careful he was.
I hated how much worse that made it.
"You can't fix this by playing nice," I said hoarsely.
"I'm not trying to fix it," he said.
"Then what do you want?"
He met my gaze.
"You."