CHAPTER 231

CHAPTER 231
AMARA

We stayed tangled like that until the room had slipped into darkness, only the faint city glow seeping around the edges of the curtains.

Our bodies were slick with sweat, limbs heavy and carelessly entwined.

I loved the way his heartbeat thumped steadily against my back, a quiet counterpoint to the wild rhythm still echoing inside me.

I tried to sit up—pushing damp strands of hair off my forehead—and immediately regretted it.

A dull, deep ache bloomed across my hips. I groaned low in my throat.

Alaric’s voice came soft and smug beside me.

“You think that hurts now?” His fingers traced lazy circles on my thigh.

“Just wait until morning, babe.”

I twisted to swat his thigh, but he shifted at the last second—my palm skimmed past and nearly grazed his cock instead.

He yelped, loud and theatrical, hands flying down to cup himself like I’d actually wounded him.

“Jesus—easy. I’d like to keep this thing in working order, thanks,” he said, voice low and teasing, eyes catching the faint light with wicked amusement.

Me too, I thought.

He reached over and clicked on the bedside lamp.

Warm amber light spilled across the rumpled sheets, catching on the sharp line of his jaw, the faint sheen of sweat still clinging to his skin.

The clock beside it glowed 4:05 a.m.

Shit.

Almost morning, and we hadn’t even stolen a wink of sleep.

My gaze drifted to his shoulders—red welts and crescent scratches I’d left there in the heat of it all.

Without thinking, I reached out, fingertips tracing the raised marks slowly, almost apologetically.

“Does it hurt?”

He caught my wrist mid-trace, guiding my hand down until my fingers curled around the hard length of him—still half-interested despite everything.

“Only when you stop touching me,” he said, low and filthy.

“These?” He dragged my palm back up to the scratches.

“These are fucking medals. Proof I made you lose control. Proof you wanted me bad enough to leave evidence. And if it does stings, I’ll remember exactly how you sounded when you came apart on me. How you begged. How you marked me up like you were claiming something permanent.”

His thumb stroked once over the back of my hand, deliberate and possessive.

“So no, baby,” he finished, eyes dark and glittering in the lamplight.

“It doesn’t hurt. It feels like winning.”

He tilted my chin up with his free hand, thumb grazing my bottom lip.

“So keep looking at them,
sweetheart. Keep remembering. Because next time?” His mouth curved, slow and dangerous.

“I’m leaving twice as many on you.”

“You’re impossible,” I whispered, the words slipping out half-laugh, half-sigh as my fingertips drifted over the scratches one last time—

“If these are your idea of winning…” I murmured, letting my voice trail off into something softer, almost teasing,

“…then I guess I lost spectacularly.”

“Lost?” he repeated, voice low and rough, like he was tasting the word and finding it delicious.

His free hand came up to thread through my damp hair, fingers curling at the nape of my neck—gentle, but the grip said he wasn’t letting go anytime soon.

“Baby, you didn’t lose. You surrendered. And fuck if that isn’t the hottest thing I’ve ever won.

You think those scratches are my trophy?” he murmured, thumb stroking once along my jaw.

“They’re yours. Every red line, every bruise I’ll feel tomorrow—they’re proof you gave yourself to me. Completely. Willingly. Loudly.” His lips curved again, wicked and tender at once.

“That’s not losing, sweetheart. That’s owning me right back.”

He leaned in until his mouth brushed mine—not quite a kiss, just enough pressure to make my breath hitch.

“So if we’re keeping score?” he whispered against my lips, voice dropping to gravel and smoke.

“We both won tonight. And I’m already planning how to make sure we tie again tomorrow. And the day after. Until you forget there was ever a game at all.”

My heart slammed against my ribs, loud enough I was sure he could feel it where our chests pressed together.

“You’re going to ruin me,” I whispered.

His fingers tightened just a fraction in my hair—

“Already started,” he said softly, lips curving against my temple.

“And I’m nowhere near finished.”

I closed my eyes and sank deeper into him, letting his warmth chase the last of the chill from my skin. For these last stolen minutes before the clock forced morning on us, I let myself believe him.

Believed that maybe—just maybe—we could both keep winning.

And he made love to me again....

..

5.30 a.m.

I pushed up onto my elbows, then swung my legs over the edge of the bed, wincing a little at the dull ache that followed the movement.

The sheets were a tangled mess around us, and the air felt thick with the smell of sex and sweat and him.

Before my feet could touch the floor, his arms banded around my waist from behind—strong, warm, unyielding.

He tugged me back against his chest in one smooth pull, my spine fitting into the curve of his body like it belonged there.

“Where do you think you’re off to?”

His voice was rough from sleep and everything else we’d done, lips brushing the shell of my ear.

“To shower. My legs are all… sticky.”

He made a low, pleased sound in his throat, almost a growl, and his hand slid down to splay possessively over my lower belly.

His fingers traced lazy circles right where the evidence of him still clung—damp, cooling trails on the insides of my thighs.

“I like my mark on you,” he murmured, voice dropping even lower.

“Leave it. Let it stay.”

Heat rushed back into my face—and lower—despite how wrecked I already felt.

Part of me wanted to melt back into him, let him keep me messy and claimed for a few more lazy minutes.

But reality was creeping in through the blinds: pale gray light sneaking across the room, the faint chirp of early birds outside.

“It’s almost morning,” I said, trying to sound firm even as my body leaned into his hold.

“I’m not walking around like this all day.”

He huffed a quiet laugh against my neck, teeth grazing the skin there just enough to make me shiver.

“You sure about that?”

I twisted in his arms, enough to meet his eyes—still heavy-lidded, still glinting with that dark, satisfied amusement.

“Yes.”

He let out a dramatic sigh against my shoulder, teeth grazing the skin there just enough to make me shiver.

“Cruel woman. Ruining my masterpiece.”

I twisted enough to shoot him a look over my shoulder—half-glare, half-smile.

“Your masterpiece is literally dripping down my thighs. I need hot water and soap. Now.”

His eyes darkened instantly, dropping to where my legs pressed together, like he could see the slow, sticky trail he’d left behind even through the sheet I’d half-wrapped around myself.

“Fuck, that’s hot.”

“It’s messy,” I countered, but my voice came out breathier than I intended, betraying the fresh pulse that kicked low in my belly at his reaction.

“Messy looks good on you.” One hand slid up my side, thumb brushing the underside of my breast in a slow, deliberate stroke.

“Five more minutes,” he coaxed, thumb stroking over my pulse point.

“Let me look at what I did to you.”

I yanked my hand free—gently—and stepped back.

“You’ve looked. You’ve admired. You’ve gloated. Shower time.”

He flopped back with an exaggerated sigh, but the grin never left his face.

“Cruel. I’ll be here mourning my ruined artwork.”

"Alaric..."

For a second he didn’t move, just held me tighter, like he was debating whether he could talk me out of it with his mouth on my throat or his fingers slipping lower.

Then, slowly, reluctantly, his grip loosened.

“Fine,” he said, the word dragged out like surrender.

“Better not take too long, baby. I’m already thinking up ways to repaint you.”

I rolled my eyes, but the stupid flutter in my stomach gave me away.

I slid free of his arms, stood on shaky legs, and felt the cool slide of him between my thighs all over again—proof he’d been there, deep and thorough.

His gaze followed me across the room, hot and unapologetic, like he was already planning another round the second I came back clean.

I didn’t look back. 

If I did, I wasn’t sure I’d make it to the bathroom at all.

...

Hot water hit me the second I twisted the knob, a sudden, forgiving roar that drowned out everything else.

I didn’t bother standing—just sank straight to the cool tile, knees pulled tight to my chest, letting the spray hammer my shoulders until the heat seeped into the sore places he’d left behind.

Steam curled around me, thick and forgiving, blurring the edges of the bathroom mirror and the sharp lines of my own reflection.

For a few stolen seconds I could almost pretend this was just another morning: sore thighs, lazy satisfaction, the faint ache of too much of him still lingering between my legs.

But the warm haze couldn’t drown the cold thread that had started weaving through me the moment I’d stepped under the spray.

Master.

Alaric.

The pack.

All of them balanced on the edge of a blade—and I was the reason the blade was swinging..

I was the reason every life was in danger.

If anything happened to them because of me…

If Alaric’s easy grin ever twisted into pain because of me—

If the pack fractured, scattered, or bled out on some war I’d dragged them to—

The thought lodged like shattered glass in my chest, sharp enough to cut every breath.

I pressed my forehead harder against my knees, inhaling steam and the stubborn, musky trace of him that still clung to my skin no matter how hot the water ran.

And I prayed—fiercely, silently—that Alaric couldn’t read my thoughts.

The glass door slid open with a soft hiss.

Alaric stood there, naked and utterly unselfconscious, steam already curling around his broad shoulders like it recognized him.

His gaze dropped to where I was curled on the tile—small, knees drawn tight—and something in his expression softened, went liquid and warm.

"Amara?"

“I couldn’t stand,” I said quickly.

A half-lie, delivered with what I hoped was a convincing smirk.

“Thanks to you.”

A quiet, affectionate laugh rumbled out of him.

“Did my job right, then,” he murmured.

He crouched in front of me, close enough that his knees bracketed mine, one big hand settling gently on the back of my neck—thumb stroking once, slow and sure, like he could feel the tension knotted there.

“If you’re still feeling me this much, I must’ve done something worth bragging about.”

I tried to laugh.

It came out small, shaky, more exhale than sound.

His eyes searched mine for a beat—too perceptive, always too perceptive—and I dropped my gaze to the water swirling around us, afraid he’d see the fracture lines I was barely holding together.

“Hey.” His fingers tilted my chin up, gentle but insistent. Water dripped from his lashes, catching the dim bathroom light.

“You okay?”

I swallowed. Forced the corners of my mouth up.

“Just… sore. In the best way.”

He studied me another second, then leaned in and pressed his forehead to mine—wet hair falling forward, cool against my flushed skin.

“Liar,” he said quietly, no heat in it.

Just fact.

“But I’ll let you keep it for now.”

His thumb kept moving in slow circles at the nape of my neck, grounding me even as my pulse hammered with everything I couldn’t say.

I closed my eyes and let myself lean into him—just for a moment—pretending the steam could hide the truth still clawing at the edges of my mind.