Omniscient pov The next day.
“My Lord, the doctor said to inform you that the Luna is awake.” The servant informed Malachi as he paced restlessly in his office.
He stalked quickly to the medical centre, his heart pounding against his ribs.
Why was he feeling like this?
He could feel his wolf pace restlessly in his head.
Why was he worried about this woman he considered a nonentity whose only purpose was to serve his revenge mission?
Immediately he opened the door of the medical centre, the scent of antiseptics and blood filled his lungs.
He had been allergic to the scent of antiseptics since he was a child, but he shoved back against the wave of nausea that hit him.
“Your highness.” The doctor walked up to him, presenting a list.
“These are the drugs which you must get for her, this will ensure her quick recovery, right now she’s very weak it’s a miracle she survived and should not be made to do any energy intensive work, intimacy should also be suspended for now.” Malachi nodded, his eyes darting to Lauretta, her eyes to the ceiling, fixed on something he could not see.
He would not approach her.
What would he say?
She would think he cared about her and he didn’t.
He wasn’t good with managing emotions and he would down a whole jar of salt before he let Lauretta see him as weak.
“The Luna should be taken back to her room when she’s discharged,” he instructed the doctor whose eyes widened like she couldn’t believe her ears, but he would not make an apology for anything he said.
He was the king after all.
“Your highness, the Luna needs someone to administer her drugs to her as she’s still very fragile, she’ll also need assistance for some things such as bathing, feeding and a host of other things.” “Send a nurse to assist her,” he said agitated.
This doctor was hinged on opposing like she didn’t know in whose presence she stood.
He could have her executed in a heartbeat if he wished.
He left the ward immediately heading to see Mira who he heard had been discharged and had been moved to another room entirely.
The thought of the fact that she was scared of Lauretta almost made him erupt into a fit of laughter.
The thought of where Gerald could be had kept him up all night.
He needed to find that bastard and show him what happened to men who kidnapped other people’s wives.
The door to Mira’s new room was wide open like she had been waiting for him.
“Took you long enough,” she purred, clad in a deep red lingerie set that showed her nipples and every part of a woman that should be hidden.
Malachi could feel his body responding, his cock twitched in his pants, straining against the confines of his boxers.
Fuck what was she doing to him.
He walked closer to her, his wolf already making agitated growls from the intensity of his needs.
Mira did not move back.
She stood there in the middle of the room with that same knowing smile she always wore when she wanted something from him, the red lace clinging to her breasts and dipping low between her thighs.
The claw marks Lauretta had left on her shoulder during the uncontrolled shift were still visible beneath a light bandage, but Mira did not seem interested in playing the injured party tonight.
She looked ready.
Hungry.
Exactly the kind of uncomplicated use he needed after a night of pacing and a morning spent thinking about a woman who was supposed to mean nothing.
“You look like you haven’t slept,” Mira said, voice low.
She reached out and dragged a finger down the front of his shirt.
“All that worrying over your little southern wife.
She wakes up and suddenly you forget the rest of us exist.” “I didn’t come here to talk about her,” Malachi answered.
His voice came out rough,The wolf pushed harder under his skin, restless from the medical wing, from the antiseptic smell still clinging to his clothes, from the memory of Lauretta’s empty stare at the ceiling.
He needed something else.
Something that did not look at him like he was a puzzle or a threat or a means to survive.
Mira’s smile widened.
She stepped in until her body brushed his, the heat of her seeping through the thin red lace.
“Then don’t talk.” Her hand slid lower, palm pressing against the hard line of his cock through his trousers.
“Use me instead.
That is what I am for.
Not letters.
Not titles.
Not heirs.
Just this.” Something in him gave way.
Malachi gripped her waist and walked her backward until her legs hit the edge of the bed.
He kissed her hard, all teeth and demand, and Mira met him with equal force, biting his lower lip as she yanked at his shirt.
Buttons scattered.
She pushed the fabric off his shoulders and raked her nails down his chest, careful only of the half-healed wounds from the fight with Lucian.
The sting fed the heat already building low in his gut.
He shoved the straps of her lingerie down.
Her breasts spilled free and he took one into his mouth without preamble, sucking hard while his hand squeezed the other.
Mira arched and let out a breathless sound that went straight to his cock.
She worked at his belt with impatient fingers, shoving his trousers and boxers down just far enough to free him.
Her hand wrapped around his length and stroked once, twice, firm and knowing.
“Condom,” Malachi muttered against her skin.
Mta pointed to the drawer.
He would not be reckless.
Not with her.
Not when the rest of his life was already a tangle of treaties and revenge and a southern girl who refused to stay in her place.
He reached for the drawer beside the bed where he knew she kept them, tore one open with his teeth, and rolled it on with practiced speed.
Mira watched him do it, eyes dark with satisfaction.
The moment it was in place she pulled him down on top of her, legs spreading wide.
Malachi did not bother with more teasing.
He gripped her thigh, lined himself up, and thrust in to the hilt in one hard stroke.
Mira’s head tipped back against the pillows, a sharp moan tearing from her throat.
He gave her no time to adjust.
He set a punishing pace from the first movement, hips snapping forward, the bed frame knocking against the wall with every impact.
The red lace of her lingerie was still half on, bunched around her waist, and the sight of it only drove him harder.
He fucked her like he was trying to carve the last twenty-four hours out of his body.
Like he could erase the memory of Lauretta’s weak pulse and purple wrists and the way his wolf had howled when he thought she was gone.
Mira took every thrust and demanded more, heels digging into his back, uninjured hand clutching at his shoulder.
Her bandaged arm stayed angled carefully out of the way but she did not ask him to slow down.
She never did.
“Harder,” she gasped.
“You need this.
Take it.” He gave it to her.
The room filled with the wet sound of their bodies and the rough edge of his breathing.
Sweat slicked his spine.
The wolf inside him snarled in raw approval at the heat and the friction and the easy way Mira yielded.
This was simple.
This was control.
This was a body that did not complicate his plans or stare at his half-brother with soft eyes or collapse into a coma.
Malachi hooked one of her legs higher and drove deeper, angling until Mira cried out and clenched around him.
He did not let up.
He chased his own release with single-minded intensity, forehead pressed to her shoulder, the scent of her skin and sex thick in his lungs.
When it hit, it ripped through him hard enough to blank his mind for a few precious seconds.
He buried himself deep and came with a low, guttural sound, body shuddering above hers.
For a moment the only noise in the room was their ragged breathing.
Malachi stayed braced over her, the condom still in place, the heat of her body seeping into his.
The temporary quiet in his head would not last.
He already knew that.
Gerald was still free.
Lauretta was awake in the medical wing.
The pack still needed a firm hand.
But for these few seconds there was only the comedown and the soft drag of Mira’s fingers along his back.
He pulled out carefully, disposed of the condom, and sat on the edge of the bed without looking at her.
His mind was already turning back towards Gerald and where he could be.
Mira stretched beside him, satisfied and languid, the red lingerie ruined and her hair spread across the pillows.
“I have something of yours,” she said.
“Or rather, something of hers.
A letter.
From Lauretta’s mother.”