Chapter 55
Kara
I wake to pale morning light filtering through unfamiliar curtains.
Not the storage closet. Not the cramped floor where I've spent the last ten years.
A real bed. Soft sheets. A down comforter that smells faintly of lavender and something else—them.
My hand flies to my neck. Three spots throb with dull heat—tender, swollen, visible reminders of last night's temporary marks. Purple-red bruises that scream claimed.
I stumble to the attached bathroom and stare at my reflection.
The marks are impossible to miss. Cole's on the left, just above my collarbone. Asher's on the right, mirroring it. Blake's at the back of my neck, hidden unless I lift my hair.
Property of the Sterling Triplets, they might as well say.
My wolf stirs, purring contentment. Good. Now everyone will know.
But my human side recoils. What have I done?
Between my legs, a dull ache reminds me of last night's near-miss. My body still remembers Blake's finger inside me, Asher's hand on my throat, Cole's mouth on my breast. Heat pools low in my belly at the memory, and I grip the sink hard enough to hurt.
Fuck. Stop it.
I pull on yesterday's jeans and Blake's oversized gray T-shirt—still drenched in his gunpowder-and-leather scent—and venture into the hallway.
The mansion is eerily quiet. No sounds of breakfast prep. No Luna Victoria's sharp orders echoing from downstairs.
Habit pulls me toward the kitchen. For ten years, I've risen before dawn to start the coffee, slice fruit, set the table. My hands know the routine even when my mind rebels.
But halfway down the grand staircase, I freeze.
A middle-aged woman in a crisp uniform—a Beta, by her muted scent—is dusting the foyer. She glances up, and her eyes widen when she sees my neck.
She immediately drops into a respectful bow.
"Good morning, Miss Kara." Her voice is carefully neutral. "The Alphas have instructed that you are not to do any household work. If you need anything, please let me know."
Miss Kara.
Not "Carrot." Not "debt girl." Not even just "Kara."
Miss.
My face burns. "I—I was just going to—"
"The kitchen is being handled," she interrupts gently. "Alpha Blake specifically said you're to rest."
I stand there, frozen. If I'm not cleaning, not cooking, not working off the debt… what am I supposed to do?
My wolf's answer is immediate: Find them. You need to be near them.
"Where…" I swallow. "Where are the Alphas?"
"Still in their rooms, miss. Alpha Asher's suite is on the third floor, east wing. Alpha Cole is next door to your new room. And Alpha Blake—"
"I know where Blake's room is."
The words come out sharper than I intend. The Beta dips her head again and returns to her dusting, leaving me alone in the vast, silent foyer.
Go to them, my wolf urges. Check on them. They suffered last night because you refused.
"They deserved to suffer," I mutter under my breath.
But my feet are already moving—not down to the kitchen, but up the stairs, past the second-floor landing, toward the third floor where Blake's room sits at the end of the hall.
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His door is unlocked.
Of course it is. He left it open on purpose.
I push it open slowly, half-expecting him to be awake and angry. But the room is dim, curtains drawn against the morning sun, and Blake is sprawled across his king-sized bed—shirtless, black hair fanned across the pillow, one muscular arm thrown over his eyes.
The scent hits me like a punch: gunpowder and worn leather, so potent it makes my knees weak.
My core clenches involuntarily. Oh, fuck.
This is a mistake. Leave. Now.
But I'm already stepping inside. Closing the door behind me. Moving toward the bed like a moth to flame.
Blake doesn't stir. His chest rises and falls in a slow, steady rhythm. Asleep. Vulnerable.
The sheet has slipped low on his hips, revealing the V-cut of his lower abs disappearing beneath the fabric. My mouth goes dry.
He could've hurt you last night. He wanted to. And you still came here.
I reach out, fingertips hovering over his bare shoulder—
Gold eyes snap open.
"Kara."
Before I can react, his hand shoots out and grabs my wrist. In one smooth motion, he yanks me down onto the bed, rolling so I'm pinned beneath him, his weight pressing me into the mattress.
"Blake—!"
"Shh." His voice is rough with sleep, but his gaze is sharp, predatory. He leans down, nose brushing my temple, inhaling deeply. "You came to me."
His hips settle between my thighs, and I feel the hard length of him through the sheet. My breath hitches.
Shit. He's morning-hard. And I can feel every goddamn inch.
"I—I just wanted to check—"
"Liar." His lips curve into a slow, dangerous smile. "Your scent is singing, Baby. You missed me."
My face burns. "I didn't—"
But then his nose trails down to my neck, finding the mark he left last night, and a shudder runs through him. He nuzzles it gently, tongue flicking out to taste the bruised skin.
"Fuck," he breathes. "You wear my mark so beautifully."
My nipples tighten beneath the thin T-shirt. He notices—of course he does—and his gaze drops to my chest, pupils dilating.
"Blake—"
"I'm not going to bite you." His voice softens even as his hips press down, grinding against me. "I learned my lesson. But you came to my room, Kara. That means something."
My wolf is practically howling with approval. Yes. This. Right here.
Wetness pools between my legs, and I know he can smell it. His nostrils flare.
"Jesus Christ, Kara. You're soaked."
"I'm not—"
"Don't fucking lie to me." But there's no anger in his voice, only wonder. "Your body knows what it wants, even if you won't admit it."
I force the words out: "I was just… I heard you last night. Hitting the wall. I—"
"I was pissed." He pulls back enough to meet my eyes. "Not at you. At myself. For pushing too hard. Again."
His hand cups my face, thumb stroking my cheekbone with unexpected gentleness—while his other hand grips my hip, holding me still against the hard ridge of his cock.
"But you're here now," he murmurs. "In my bed. Wearing my shirt. Letting me touch you."
"I'm not—this doesn't mean—"
"I know." He presses a kiss to my forehead, but his hips rock forward again, making me gasp. "It doesn't mean you're ready. But it means you're trying. And that's enough for me."
My stomach growls—loud and mortifying.
Blake's grin is immediate. "Hungry, huh?"
"I can make breakfast—"
"No." He sits up, pulling me with him, and I'm hyperaware of how the movement makes his erection brush against my thigh. "You're done making breakfast for anyone. From now on, I cook for you."
Before I can protest, he scoops me up and throws me over his shoulder.
"Blake! Put me down!"
"Nope."
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