Chapter 4

(Serena's POV)

I caught the thread of mockery. But his fingers were already pressed to my waist, thumb tracing the curve of my ribs upward.

I didn't answer. I turned my head, closed my eyes, baring the arc of my neck—the posture itself was the answer.

He leaned in, lips against the hollow of my throat. Not a kiss—a scent. His nose trailed slowly along my carotid artery, like a wolf testing before marking.

Hot breath on my skin. Each exhale making me shiver.

"Mm..."

When his hand kneaded my breast hard, I couldn't hold back the moan. My nipples had already stiffened the moment he got close—Alpha attraction, or my body's honest response. I didn't want to figure out which.

"Sensitive," he said, voice low and rough. He unclasped my bra, tilted his head to look for two seconds, then lowered his mouth to take the left nipple in.

His tongue circled it, wet and hot, pressure shifting between light and heavy.

His other hand worked the other side at the same time, thumb and forefinger catching the nipple, rolling it slowly.

Pleasure dropped from my chest downward, like a stream of heat pouring into my lower belly. My back arched on its own, moans turning softer, more breathy.

"Darling... mm... right there."

He lifted his head and glanced at me.

Clearly, he liked watching my reactions.

He pulled my underwear off, then undid his belt one-handed.

I looked without thinking and couldn't help holding my breath.

I knew he was big. The blurred drug-haze memory of my past life—that feeling of being stretched to the limit—had already told me.

But seeing it with clear eyes was something else entirely.

Fully hard, the size made my throat tighten. Veins raised along the shaft, the tip already slick with clear fluid.

He noticed where I was looking, and smiled.

"Scared?"

Same question. But this time there was something in his tone—I didn't know how to describe it—something almost gentle.

I shook my head and reached up to grip his shoulders.

"Just a little eager."

He spread my legs. Knee pressing between my inner thighs, opening me to an angle that made me flush with shame. His fingers went in first—two, pushing straight in.

My whole body tensed.

"Already so wet." His voice was completely wrecked now. Fingers curling inside, pressing against the walls, searching for something.

When he found that spot I jolted like I'd been shocked—back arching hard, a moan slipping from my throat that I'd never heard from myself before.

His fingers pulled out, and before I could catch my breath, his cock pressed against me.

The instant the head pushed in, my nails dug into his shoulders. Too big. Not pain—this time there wasn't that tearing agony from my past life—but the feeling of being completely filled blanked my mind for a split second.

He paused.

Just for a moment. I wasn't sure if it was for me or for him—but in that second or two his forehead dropped to my shoulder, breathing heavy, his whole body taut as a drawn bow.

Then he started to move.

The first thrust hit the deepest point.

"Ah!" I cried out.

Not the drug-fueled loss of control from before—this was something pressed from deep in my belly, mixed with panting. A low, broken sound.

He pulled out and slammed back in. The rhythm wasn't gentle from the start. Each stroke burying fully then withdrawing fully, the head grinding over that most sensitive spot on the way. My toes curled, thighs squeezing together on instinct.

He didn't allow it.

One hand clamped the inside of my knee, pressing my leg back open.

"Don't close. Be good."

I bit my lower lip, swallowing the moans that would've made me blush. But he clearly wasn't satisfied with that—his other hand gripped my chin, thumb pressing on my bottom lip, prying my teeth apart.

"Let me hear you."

Fuck.

I cursed him in my head.

He sped up. Hips snapping forward with clear purpose, each thrust grinding precisely over the same spot. Hard enough that the headboard slammed against the wall with a dull thud.

Pleasure stacked like waves. Layer over layer, spreading from my lower belly to my limbs. My nails left red trails down his back—this time not from resistance.

"God—" I threw my head back, neck stretching into an arc. Too much. Pleasure so dense it felt like panic. Like drowning.

Clara let out a sound from deep in my mind—satisfied, melting. A whimper.

I fought to suppress her. Shut up.

But I wasn't doing much better. Every thrust pushed me an inch toward the headboard. He frowned, arm hooking under my waist and dragging me back—that motion carrying the casual certainty of pulling his own property back into place.

Then he changed the angle, lifting one of my legs onto his shoulder.

This position let him go deeper.

I was nearly crying when I called out.

"Too—too deep—"

He didn't slow down. But he lowered his head and kissed me, swallowing every moan. Tongue tangling with mine in sync with the rhythm below, each thrust paired with a deep kiss.

My hand grabbed his hair. I didn't know if I wanted to push him away or pull him closer.

When the orgasm hit, my whole body seized. Walls clenching tight, thighs shaking.

I tried to close my legs, but his hands were already there, holding my knees apart with force—I couldn't move.

"Don't... let me..." I shook my head, crying.

"Don't what?" He fucked me harder, tongue tracing my earlobe. "Don't come? Or don't let me finish inside?"

I couldn't form words. Trembling all over, eyes rolling back, inner walls clenching beyond my control.

He let out a low grunt—the first real sound he'd made—then quickened the last few strokes. Rhythm breaking apart, turning vicious and frantic.

He came inside me while I was still shaking in the aftershocks.

The rush of scalding liquid made my lower belly spasm. Clara let out a satisfied, low howl.

Silence.

Only two people's tangled breathing.

I lay against his chest, cheek pressed to his collarbone, listening to his heartbeat slow from pounding to steady. His fingers traced down my spine, vertebra by vertebra from the small of my back—absent, gentle. Like petting a cat.

My brain had only one thought left—useful.

This man was useful. Whether for sex or for power.

As long as he wanted me, I was safe.

I adjusted my breathing, about to push myself up off him, when he suddenly spoke.

"That vial in your clothes. What is it."

My movement faltered.

He noticed. Damn it.

Two seconds of rapid calculation in my head—lie or tell the truth. If he later had someone test that vial, any lie would become a seed of distrust.

The truth.

I propped myself up, hair falling forward, covering half my face.

"Heartvine extract." My voice very quiet. "My husband gave it to me. Told me to drink it before coming in."

His expression didn't change. Those gold-brown eyes calm as still water.

"You didn't drink it."

Also not a question.

I smiled slightly—Daisy's smile, eyes soft at the corners—but this time I put something real into it. A touch of honesty. A bit of courage I'd never had in my past life—the kind that looks straight into the abyss.

"Rather than being forced." I said, fingertip tracing circles on the old scar at his collarbone. "I'd rather let myself remember you."

His lips were against the top of my head—when did he get this close?—curving in something between a smile and not. I felt that arc brush through my hair.

"Interesting."

Impossible to tell if that was approval or mockery.

He knew I was performing.

In that instant I was certain—he knew. My submission, my willingness, that carefully rehearsed Daisy smile—he'd seen all of it, and seen through all of it.

But he chose to indulge it.

That meant he didn't care whether I was sincere. He enjoyed watching me perform—like watching a pretty piece of prey walk into a trap on its own, knowing the trap was fake but not bothering to call it out.

Because the game itself pleased him.

And I still wasn't sure—

How far he planned to let this play run.