Chapter 20
Chapter 20
Nyra
I think about it constantly. What they must have done. What they tried. What it would’ve looked like. The organization wanted his rut. Needed it. Imagine the money. The control. The spectacle of it. But it never worked. The heat-induction cocktail didn’t take. The sedatives barely touched him. The restraints didn’t hold—not at first. And now… nothing. They buried him and gave up. But I haven’t.
I think about the way his scent curls under the door sometimes—stronger when I whisper to him. I think about the way it changes when I’m wet. The way it lingers in my hair when I sit too long on the steps. The way it soothes me even as it ruins me. And lately, I keep thinking about what it would be like—if they hadn’t failed.
If he had rutted.
If I had been there.
If I had been the reason.
It starts with heat. Not the suffocating, artificial kind they dose the others with. Real heat. Lush and feral. Thick as sap. I dream I’m in his cell. But it’s not the sterile metal room from the schematics. This place breathes. Walls that feel alive. Dim lighting, a red glow bleeding down from somewhere above. No cameras. No chains. He’s already there. I know it’s him. Not the alpha. Not the silhouette I’ve glimpsed that one time. Him.
He’s standing at the far side of the room, breathing hard, eyes black with want. His chest heaves like he’s been held underwater. Every muscle is coiled tight—more beast than man, but still beautiful. Skin flushed, mouth parted, fangs showing just slightly. His scent hits me like a punch: spice, pine sap, iron. And something deeper. Bondless heat. Untouched need. He sees me. His gaze locks with mine. And then he moves. Not slowly. Not carefully. Like instinct snapping free. He crosses the space in a heartbeat, towering over me. I don’t flinch. My body already knows what it wants. My thighs are wet. My hands ache to touch him. My mouth parts on a gasp before he even lays a hand on me. He doesn’t speak. He grabs. Fists full of my hair. A palm between my thighs. His mouth crushing mine like he’s starving. I moan—helpless. Loud. I shouldn't let him, but I do. I kiss him back. Grab his arms. Cling to him like he’s oxygen and I’ve been drowning. My back hits the wall hard. He pins me there, body burning through every layer I’m wearing. And then they’re gone. The clothes. The time. The waiting. I’m naked and spread open for him, thighs wrapped around his hips, arms around his neck, trying to stay grounded as he grinds against me with wild, rough need. His cock is hard—thick, leaking, pressed against my core with brutal promise. He doesn’t thrust yet. Just lets me feel it. Dragging along my slit until I’m dripping, gasping, begging.
“Please,” I whisper. “Please, Rane…”
The sound of his name snaps something loose. He growls. Not loud. Not a warning. Low. Pure. Possessive. My body clenches. He doesn’t wait after that. He slides in with one brutal, beautiful stroke, and I scream. It’s too much. He’s too big. Too deep. Too real. But I don’t want him to stop. I want more. I want all of it. He fucks me like he’s been dreaming of it too—hips snapping, hands gripping my ass, my back, my throat. He pulls me down on his cock like I belong there, moaning into my neck, snarling when I dig my nails into his shoulders.
“You’re mine,” he whispers, breath ragged. “Say it.”
“I’m yours,” I choke, tears burning my eyes.
He pulls out. Flips me. I gasp as my chest hits the floor, ass raised, legs trembling. His hand fists in my hair, dragging my head back so I arch for him—and he plunges in again from behind, deeper now, faster. The slap of skin fills the room, mixed with our panting, our broken words, my sobs. He doesn’t slow. He fucks me through my climax—one, two, maybe three of them—and then finally I feel him change. That twist of tension. That loss of control. He growls again—ruts into me harder. He grabs my waist. Buries himself to the hilt. And comes. Hot. Endless. Loud. I cry out at the heat inside me, at the sound of his pleasure, at the realness of it. And when I collapse, shaking, ruined beneath him, he leans down and murmurs it again: “You’re mine.”
I wake up crying. My thighs soaked. My hand between my legs, useless now. The orgasm fading too fast to satisfy. I cover my mouth to keep the sound in. It’s just a dream. But it’s not just a dream.
It felt like him.
It felt like truth.
I curl tighter under the blanket, blinking hard, heart still hammering. The name is already there on my lips. Rane.
My Rane.
The last alpha.
And somewhere, deep beneath the concrete bones of Redveil, he’s waiting. Sleeping. Breathing.
And maybe…
Maybe dreaming of me too.