I add a second finger, a slow, deliberate stretch that has her arching against me. The scent of her perfume intensifies, a heady, drugging cloud that makes my cock ache.
I begin to move, a slow, deep rhythm. My palm is pressed against her mound, my fingers curling inside her, searching for that spot that will make her come apart. I find it, a slightly rougher patch deep within, and I press. Her whole body jolts, and a cry tears from her throat that I swallow with my mouth. I kiss her, a desperate, claiming kiss that tastes of her sweetness and my own now dampened fury.
My fingers pump into her, faster now, the slick sounds of our joining an obscene, beautiful symphony in the tiny space. I can feel her climbing, her thighs beginning to tremble, her breath coming in ragged, desperate pants.
“That’s it, love,” I growl against her lips, my voice a low, predatory rumble. “Let go for me. Come on my fingers.”
My thumb strums her clit in time with the thrusts of my fingers, a relentless, perfect rhythm.
And then she breaks.
A silent scream rips through her, her body seizing, her pussy clamping down on my fingers in a series of powerful, rhythmic waves. Her perfume explodes in the air, a final, intoxicating burst that short-circuits my brain.
I hold her through it, my fingers buried deep inside her, my other arm wrapped around her waist, holding her up as her knees buckle.
For a long moment, we just breathe, the only sounds in the closet our ragged gasps and the frantic pounding of our hearts.
The rage is gone.
Not forgotten, but quieted.
Banked.
In its place is a profound, bone-deep peace. The storm has passed, and in its wake is the quiet certainty of her.
My mate. My anchor. My everything.
I pull my fingers from her slowly, and she whimpers at the loss. I bring them to my lips, tasting her essence, a final, possessive act.
The taste of survival.
The taste of us.
20
BRYLEE
The hospital corridorruns long and colorless, a river of muted grays and washed-out beiges stretching beneath the relentless glare of fluorescent lights. The floors gleam too brightly, polished to a sterile shine that reflects the ceiling panels in warped, artificial symmetry. Machines hum behind closed doors. Somewhere, a monitor beeps in a steady rhythm—proof of life reduced to sound.
I stand at the edge of it all like a stone lodged in the current, unmoving while nurses in pastel scrubs and orderlies with rolling carts stream around me. Their rubber soles whisper against the linoleum. Their voices are hushed, efficient, detached. Life and death reduced to charts and clipboards.
The air still carries ghosts.
Luka’s fury from a few days ago—raw and volcanic. He blames himself for Sam’s betrayal. Stupid alpha.
How was he to know that the beta was a wolf in sheep’s clothing?
And Luka doesn’t even know the full extent of Sam’s betrayal.
Because he doesn’t know that I’m Teddie.
Guilt swarms me, as it always does when I think of my secret, but I brush it aside. Iwilltell him and Kylian the truth. There just hasn’t been a good time.
At the far end of the hall, a door stands half open. Ridge is inside, signing discharge papers. It’s been over a week since he’s been shot, and every day, he’s getting stronger. Yesterday alone, he spent over an hour arguing with his doctor, insisting that he’s fine and ready to leave.
“If I have to stay here one more goddamn day, I’ll go insane,” he had hissed, fury etched across his handsome face.
The doctor had agreed, despite my insistence that Ridge needed to remain bedridden longer. Forever, if I had my way.
