Chapter Seventy: Carol's POV
Chapter Seventy: Carol's POV
Darkness wrapped around me.
No—not darkness. Something was covering my eyes, soft fabric pressed against my eyelids. Through the thin fibers, I could sense light.
Where was I?
The sheets felt familiar, silky smooth—the kind from my room.
But the scent in the air... something was wrong.
Usually my room smelled like laundry detergent and pine drifting through the window—clean, safe, mine.
But now...
Cedar.
The ozone tang of a coming storm.
And something deeper, more primal—like a forest at night, like wilderness, like... Alpha.
My breath caught. That was his scent.
Simon's pheromones were too rich to ignore, filling the entire space like a claim of ownership.
They invaded my nostrils, seeped into my lungs, making my body react before my mind could catch up—pulse quickening, skin heating, the fine hairs on my nape rising.
No, no, no. This couldn't be happening. He wouldn't be in my room. We had rules, boundaries. He never—
"Don't move." The voice was right beside my ear.
My body froze instantly.
I tried to lift my hand to remove the blindfold, but callused fingers caught my wrist.
"Good girl. Don't do that." His voice held a note of satisfaction, warm breath ghosting over my cheek.
Those two words burned through my nerves like flame.
I'd never heard him use that tone before—not the icy edge of reprimand, not the sharp command of authority, but... husky, laced with a suppressed hunger.
The mattress dipped under his weight.
He was close, so close I could feel the heat radiating from his body like an active volcano.
"Mr. Simon...?" My voice came out small, the end trembling beyond my control.
I felt his hand—that hand I'd seen countless times, long and powerful with rough knuckles, that had bandaged my wounds, patted my head, gripped the steering wheel—now slowly sliding up my wrist.
His skin was burning hot, as if something blazed inside him. The calluses on his palm scraped against the soft skin of my inner wrist, sending tiny sparks of electricity through me.
"You know what I want to do." His statement hung in the air.
I didn't know. I knew nothing. My mind was in chaos, reason screaming at me to push him away, to run, to do anything normal, but my body... my body had betrayed me.
He guided my hand downward. My fingertips touched something.
Fabric. Warm fabric, and beneath it...
Oh God.
That was his...
My face instantly flamed, heat spreading from my cheeks to my ears and down my neck.
Through the fabric of his pants, I could feel the searing hardness, and... the size.
I tried to pull my hand back, but his palm covered the back of my hand, gentle but unyielding.
"Mr. Simon, this isn't proper." My voice shook.
"Carol, pull it down. Touch me."
My fingers betrayed me, as if they had eyes of their own, finding that spot with precision, carefully tugging down his zipper. His cock sprang free from his boxers.
My hand couldn't even wrap around him. I could only stroke clumsily, tentatively, up and down.
"Faster, sweetheart." His voice was stern, as if he saw right through me.
He clasped my hand, wrapped it around his length, and began pumping furiously. A groan of pleasure escaped him—a sound I'd never heard before.
His other hand roamed my body, trailing up my side to my collar, unhooking my bra, his palm cupping my breast.
Something exploded in that instant. From my chest to my limbs, racing down my spine, my lower belly clenching tight. I arched my back, my nipple pressing hard into his palm.
His hand was too large, encompassing me completely with just one palm.
His thumb found my nipple, brushing it lightly, slowly.
Something burst open in that moment.
Spreading from my chest through my limbs, tingling warmth flowing down my spine, my lower belly tightening sharply.
I arched involuntarily, my nipple hardening against his palm.
I was wearing a blindfold, yet I still couldn't help closing my eyes. This was Simon—the man who'd raised me for eight years.
And now, he was in bed with me. How could anything in the world feel this exquisite?
I bit my lip trying to stay lucid, only to realize I craved his touch—even kneeling between his thighs, licking the thick cock in my hand.
"Carol, you're too shy," he said. "Relax. There's nothing shameful about this."
I felt my body's response—that shameful, uncontrollable wetness.
"You're ready," he murmured with primal satisfaction. "The body doesn't lie, sweetheart. It knows who I am, knows we're meant to be together."
His hand continued its descent.
I swallowed nervously, trying to stop this before he pulled down my panties. "Simon, we can't—"
"Why can't we?" He leaned down, lips against my ear. "It's just you and me, Carol. Just the way it should be between fated mates."
Fated mates.
Those words detonated in my mind like a bomb.
He spread my thighs apart, but didn't rush to remove my underwear. Instead, he rubbed through the fabric. The intense sensation left me nearly breathless.
I lay against his burning chest, trembling uncontrollably.
Two fingers stroked rhythmically at my most sensitive spot—rough yet tender, slow yet merciless. I was soaked below.
"Sweetheart, you're dripping wet."
I knew. I knew. Could he not say it out loud?
He drew a deep breath, his voice dropping to a growl. "You smell like... wild berries. Like the forest after rain. Like a gift the Moon Goddess prepared for me."
No. I wasn't.
"I'm not your—"
My panties were already down to my calves. A rough finger pushed inside.
I cried out, my back arching sharply, my entire body catching fire.
"Get out! I'm not your mate. I'm your ward. You can't do this!"
"You are." His tone left no room for argument.
That finger inside me was so hot, drowning me, making me fantasize about it being replaced by his thick cock, making me want to claw at his back.
I was crying, unable to tell if it was pain or pleasure.
"You always have been," he said, "from the first moment I caught your scent."
His hand slid into my hair, then stroked my neck. I felt my throat vibrating—shameful, unbearable moans.
"Don't hold back." His voice grew rougher. "Let me hear you."
He gripped my nape, using that irresistible pressure to tilt my head back, exposing the entire line of my throat.
Then he leaned down—
I felt his teeth press against my neck, right where the carotid pulsed. The marking spot. Where an Alpha marks.
"Do you want this?" he asked quietly. "Want my mark? Want everyone to know you're mine?"
I should say no. I had to say no.
But my head tilted to the side uncontrollably, baring the full line of my neck—the most perfect gesture of submission, the clearest invitation in the werewolf world.
He let out a low growl, full of possession and triumph.
Then his teeth pierced my skin.
Pain and pleasure exploded simultaneously, like lightning splitting through my body. I felt something forming—an invisible bond extending from the depths of my soul, wrapping tightly around him.
In that moment his body tensed to its limit, taut like a drawn bow, all his tremors transmitted to me through our pressed skin.
My blindfold had come off at some point.
I saw those burning, warm golden eyes watching me. I witnessed that fully erect cock growing even larger in my palm, something inside me beginning to feel empty.
"I'm going inside now," he said. "You'd better relax."
He hooked my legs over his shoulders, his solid shoulders pressing against the backs of my knees. Then he gripped his cock, positioning it at my entrance. Just pressing against that wet opening, sinking in only slightly, as if testing.
A voice in my head screamed: Come in now.
But Simon saw right through me. He wasn't rushing, just pressing and circling, grinding until I ached.
"Carol," he said. "Say my name."
No. I didn't want to say that.
But I heard myself speak in a tone so foreign it didn't sound like me: "Mr. Simon."
No. That wasn't my voice.
"Sweetheart," he chuckled low, "beg me."
The words had barely left his mouth when he pushed in just the head.
I was about to say something else—
He thrust his hips hard, burying himself completely.
Just as I couldn't help crying out, bracing for the overwhelming pleasure—
I opened my eyes.
The ceiling was white.
I was lying in my own bed. My pajamas were still on, buttoned neatly, not one missing.
The pillow was damp, smelling of laundry detergent—not cedar, not the scent of approaching storms.
I looked down. No bite marks on my collar, no marks on my collarbone, no red imprints on my wrists.
Nothing.
The sky outside the window was just beginning to lighten, that pale gray-blue before sunrise. I glanced at the bedside clock: 5:17 a.m.
Over an hour before my usual wake-up time. But I knew I couldn't fall back asleep.
I lay in the tangled sheets, drenched in sweat, heart pounding as if I'd just finished a marathon instead of sleeping.
I pushed myself up to sit, looking at my room as if seeing it for the first time.
That dream had been too real, too vivid. The physical reactions my body had left behind couldn't be pretended away.
Did it mean anything?
Was it like the dream I had weeks ago about Simon getting shot—a premonition?
Or was this just a dream, my subconscious trying to process all the chaos and desire that kiss had unleashed?
I shook my head hard, throwing off the covers. I needed to move.
I needed to do something, anything, as long as it got me out of this bed, away from the heat that dream had left behind.
I grabbed clean clothes and bolted to the bathroom, taking my second shower in less than twelve hours.
The icy water made me gasp, but at least... at least it cleared my head a little.
I scrubbed at my skin vigorously, as if I could wash away those sensations.
But it was useless. I could still feel it—his palm covering my nipple, his cock...
Stop.
I took a deep breath, burying my head under the stream.
It was just a dream. An absurd, inappropriate dream.
Probably because of that kiss—that kiss that turned my entire world upside down.
My subconscious was just... processing those confusing emotions. Yes, that had to be it.
Not a premonition, not a sign from the Moon Goddess, not evidence of fated mates.
Just a dream.
I turned off the water, wrapped myself in a towel, and stopped in front of the mirror.
The girl in the mirror had flushed cheeks and evasive eyes, looking like she'd done something unspeakable.
I looked away, quickly changed into clean clothes—jeans, a T-shirt—and pulled my hair into a quick ponytail.
I needed to leave this room, leave this bed, leave everything that could remind me of that dream.
I grabbed my backpack and rushed downstairs. The kitchen already carried the scent of eggs frying and coffee. Samuel was preparing breakfast and raised an eyebrow slightly when he saw me.
"Good morning, Miss Carol." Samuel smiled with his usual warmth, reaching for a plate. "You're up quite early today... Would you like me to prepare—"
"No need." I cut him off, my voice stiffer than intended. "I have an early class. I need to go."
I snatched an apple from the fruit bowl and headed straight for the door.
"Miss Carol," Samuel called after me. "Are you sure you don't need to eat something—"
"I'm fine." I said without looking back, my hand already on the doorknob.
I needed to leave.
Needed to go anywhere that wouldn't risk running into Simon.