Touch her. She needs it. We need –
I snarled inwardly at the beast. Shut. Up.
She started crying. Quiet, helpless tears sliding from the corners of her eyes. Her body arched and a sound tore out of her half moan, half sob – that scraped down every nerve I had.
I cursed under my breath.
Released her wrists. My hand found the hem of her dress and pushed it higher. She gasped – sharp, startled, fingers curling into the sheets.
“Stay still,” I said. “And keep quiet.”
My palm slid beneath the last scrap of cotton underwear.
She was soaked. Hot and swollen and slick against my fingers. The sound she made when I touched her a choked, shattered whimper – sent a jolt straight through my spine.
I kept my eyes on the far wall. Moved my fingers in slow, deliberate circles, pressing where the heat concentrated, adjusting to the way her hips bucked against my hand.
Mate, my wolf purred. Ours.
She gripped my forearm. Nails dug in. Her back arched off the mattress and her thighs clamped around my wrist. I increased the pressure. She turned her face into the pillow and bit down on a cry. Her whole body trembled tight, coiled, straining and then she broke.
A ragged gasp. Her muscles seized around my fingers, pulsing, her hips grinding against my palm in shuddering waves,
I held still until she stopped shaking. Pulled my hand free. Wiped it on the sheets.
My cock was painfully hard. I ignored it.
She curled against my side like a wounded animal seeking warmth. Her breathing evened. Within two minutes, she was unconscious.
I stared at the ceiling. Eleven days of perfect discipline. And now a drugged surrogate was molded to my side, my wolf was purring, and her scent was burned into every breath I took.
I didn’t sleep.
LILLIAN
A knock woke me.
Three sharp raps. I jerked upright and found myself wrapped around the Prince – leg thrown over his hip, arm across his chest, face pressed into his neck.
I scrambled off so fast I nearly fell off the bed.
He didn’t move. Eyes closed. Breathing even. The faint blue shimmer of his wolf glowed at his side, and neither of them acknowledged that I had just been –
I pressed my palms to my burning face.
“Luna Princess?” Brisk, female. “The Queen has requested I escort you through the pack grounds. May I enter?”
“One moment!”
I smoothed my dress. My underwear was damp. There was a soreness between my legs – not painful, but present. A deep ache that pulsed when I stood.
The fragments came in hot, broken flashes.
Hands. Someone’s hand. Fingers moving against me, slow and deliberate. My own voice making sounds I’d never made. The pressure of a broad chest against my cheek. Cedar and winter air. A low voice saying *stay still*.
My face went so red I felt it in my ears.
I looked at the Prince. Motionless. Serene. Hands resting at his sides, perfectly composed.
There was no way. He was in a coma. The doctors had confirmed it.
Which meant last night – the hands, the voice, the devastating pressure of fingers that knew exactly where to press – was a dream. A drug-induced fever dream about an unconscious man whose clothes I’d changed, whose arousal I’d accidentally felt through his sleep pants just yesterday.
And in my drugged, delirious state, I’d used his hand. Climbed onto him, pressed myself against him, and –
Oh Goddess.
I was a monster. A depraved, touch-starved monster.
The knock came again. I splashed water on my face and opened the door.
The Omega was tall, sharp-featured, and unimpressed. She looked at my wrinkled dress and uncombed hair, and her mouth thinned.
“I see you’re settling in,” she said. Not a compliment.
I followed her out on shaking legs.
I tugged my sleeves down and folded my arms across my chest, trying to hold myself together.
Then I saw four bruises on the inside of my left wrist.
I turned and looked back down the corridor toward the Prince’s chamber.
It must be Calvin. Calvin had grabbed my wrists last night. Of course his grip had left marks.
I tugged my sleeve down and turned back to the Omega.
She hadn’t waited for me,
They cleaned me up in a room that smelled like lavender and disinfectant. Two servants stripped off my cotton dress without asking and replaced it with a simple gray tunic and dark trousers – palace-issue, nothing special, but the fabric was softer than anything I’d ever worn. They braided my hair and scrubbed my face with a cloth that stung.
Nobody spoke to me. They spoke about me.
The tunic hung loose on my frame. The trousers were too long and had to be rolled at the ankles. I caught my reflection and barely recognized the girl looking back – scrubbed raw, bruise-wristed, eyes that looked like they belonged to someone ten years older.
“She’s the one the wolf chose?” one whispered, pulling a comb through my hair harder than necessary.
“Doesn’t look like much,” the other murmured back. “Poor thing. Married to a corpse.”
I stared at the mirror and said nothing.
The Omega – her name was Margaux, I learned – led me through the palace grounds at a pace that suggested she had better things to do. She pointed at buildings and rattled off information like reading from a list.
“The Prince is the King’s only heir. He was ambushed during a battle with rogues three months ago. Severe injuries. He hasn’t woken since.” She said it flatly, the way people talk about weather that hasn’t changed. “There are rules here. Many of them. Don’t wander. Don’t speak out of turn. Don’t enter restricted wings without escort.”
I nodded. She didn’t check whether I was listening.
We passed the kitchens, the servants’ quarters, the medical wing. At every turn, people stopped to stare. Some bowed stiff, reluctant bows that were more obligation than respect. Others didn’t bother. A cluster of female servants near the laundry room fell silent as I passed, then burst into whispers the moment I was three steps beyond them.
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