chapter 85 Pussy pressed
Lyra’s POV
The alley was suffocating. My bare skin pressed against Dorian’s, I crossed my arms over my chest, desperate to shield myself, to force some space between us in this cramped gap between buildings.
But every push backward only ground our hips closer, his hardening length pressing intimately against me, undeniable and maddening.
I felt his arousal, hot and rigid against my lower body. My cheeks burned as my own body betrayed me, a slick heat pooling between my thighs, undeniable and humiliating.
The air grew thick with the scent of us, and I hated how it made my core ache.
“Stop moving,” Dorian hissed.
“Your fault,” I whispered. “You dragged us here.”
“Saved your damn life, Ungrateful, as always.”
“I didn’t ask for your help,” I shot back, but my voice came out too breathy, my chest heaving against his.
The narrow space trapped us, my pussy pressed so tightly against his groin I could feel every pulse of his arousal.
His hands gripped my waist, fingers digging into my bare skin, and a shiver raced through me, raw and unwanted.
Three years of bitter silence between us, and yet my body craved him, my slickness coating my thighs as I shifted, trying to escape the pressure.
“You’re still a reckless fool,” he muttered. "Your job doesn't include playing hero during vampire raids."
“And you’re still a bastard,” I gasped, but the words came out half-moan, my hips twitching against him, my hardened nipples brushing his chest through my crossed arms. I bit my lip to stifle a sound.
My heart began racing erratically, not from arousal or fear, but from something else entirely. A cold sweat broke out across my skin, and overwhelming fatigue crashed over me like a wave.
"Something's wrong," I gasped, my vision starting to blur at the edges.
"Oh, spare me the dramatics, What performance are you putting on now?"
"Go to hell," I managed to spit out through gritted teeth as another wave of weakness hit me. "I'm not... performing anything, you bastard."
Something in my tone must have gotten through to him, because his expression suddenly shifted from cynical dismissal to sharp concern. His hands moved to examine me professionally, checking my pulse at my wrist and neck.
The sudden gentleness in his touch caught me completely off guard.
"Your heartbeat is irregular," he said. "Where are you injured?"
"My leg," I managed. "Arrow wound."
His hand found the makeshift bandage I'd applied, carefully probing the area. I heard him curse under his breath.
"This isn't just silver poisoning," he said grimly. "The arrow was coated with something else. Vampires excel at crafting various toxins—many werewolves have suffered greatly from their poisons."
The unexpected shift in his demeanor confused me almost as much as the poison coursing through my veins. Where had this concern come from? Why was he treating me like someone who mattered?
"Hey," Dorian's hand moving to cup my face. "Look at me. You need to stay calm."
"That's it," he murmured. "Just breathe. Slow and steady."
"Dorian!" A voice called from outside our hiding spot. "Alpha, are you in there?"
Relief flooded through me as familiar footsteps approached. His pack members had found us.
"Here," Dorian called back. "She needs medical assistance immediately."
Within moments, several warriors appeared at the entrance to our refuge. They worked efficiently to extract us from the narrow space, one of them wrapping an emergency blanket around me while another approached Dorian.
"Sir, you're injured as well," one of the warriors said, noticing the dark stain spreading across Dorian's shoulder. "You need treatment too."
"It's nothing," he replied curtly.
That's when I noticed his pale lips and the way his hands were clenched into fists, trembling slightly as if he was fighting against pain or something worse.
"You need medical attention," I said.
"I'm fine," he insisted.
"If you're not going to get treated, then neither am I," I said stubbornly.
"That's ridiculous."
"So is your refusal to acknowledge your injuries."
The standoff might have continued, but one of his warriors intervened diplomatically. "We can transport you both to the medical facility and let the doctors determine what treatment is necessary."
The journey back to the hospital passed in a haze. I drifted in and out of consciousness, dimly aware of being loaded onto a stretcher and rushed through familiar corridors.
When I finally surfaced from the fog of medication and treatment, I found myself in one of the emergency room's recovery beds. My leg was properly bandaged now, and the weakness from the toxin had mostly passed.
On the other side of the bay, I could see Dorian still arguing with medical staff, refusing treatment despite the obvious severity of his injuries.
"Dorian?" A familiar voice made me turn my head.
Seraphina entered the emergency bay, her medical coat pristine despite the chaos of the night. Behind her, holding her hand, was a small girl with silver-white curls and unmistakable amber eyes.
The child couldn't have been more than three years old, but she moved with the confident grace that marked high-ranking werewolf bloodlines.
"Daddy's okay," Seraphina said to the child.
But the little girl's attention had already shifted to me. She stared at me with open curiosity, her amber eyes taking in my bandages and medical equipment with the fearless interest of a child who'd grown up around pack activities.
Just then, a nurse approached my bedside with a clipboard. "Patient Nightfall, your toxin levels are decreasing nicely. We'll need to monitor you for another few hours, but the treatment appears to be successful."
The little girl listened intently to the nurse's report, her small face serious with concentration. After the nurse moved on, she approached my bedside and gently took my hand with tiny fingers.
"Patient Nightfall," she said carefully, trying to mimic the nurse's professional tone with her sweet, lisping voice.
It seemed like a feat, for Dorian and Seraphina were even more astonished than I was.