Malachi stood just inside the door, his broad frame blocking the dim light from the hallway, reddened eyes fixed on the trembling figure in the sheer red lace that left almost nothing to the imagination.
She had frozen the moment the knob turned, her body locked in place as if stillness could make her invisible, the plastic tube of lube still clutched forgotten in one sweaty palm.
He took a step forward, the soft thud of his boots against the polished floor the only sound besides her uneven breathing.
“strip and get on the bed.” Lauretta’s throat worked as she tried to swallow the panic rising like bile.
“Please,” she whispered again, the word cracking in the middle.
Her eyes flicked toward the door as if measuring the distance, calculating whether she could reach it before he did.
She could not.
They both knew it.
Malachi closed the remaining space between them in two long strides.
He did not touch her yet.
He simply stood close enough that the heat of his body pressed against the thin barrier of air separating them, sandalwood and the faint metallic tang of earlier blood still clinging to him.
“Lauretta, my prize,” he said, voice almost conversational, “we could do this the easy way or the hard way.
I really like the hard way.
It makes me hard just thinking about it.” Her fingers fumbled at the straps of the lingerie.
The fabric whispered as it slid down her sharp shoulders, catching briefly on the small points of her breasts before pooling at her feet.
She kept her gaze on the floor, cheeks burning, the old taunts of “pimple tits” echoing in her head even now.
Naked, she looked even smaller, all angles and pale skin that still carried the faint sheen of the oil Naomi had rubbed into her earlier.
“On the bed.” She climbed up, the mattress dipping under her slight weight, and drew her knees toward her chest until he gave a single shake of his head.
Slowly she stretched out, the red lace and panties discarded on the floor like a discarded flag of surrender.
Malachi watched her for a long moment, eyes tracing the rapid rise and fall of her ribs, the way her hands twisted in the sheets, the pulse hammering at the base of her throat.
Satisfaction curled low in his gut.
This was enough.
The fear in her eyes was exactly what he had come for.
He stripped only his shirt, the black fabric discarded carelessly, then braced one knee on the mattress and leaned over her.
His body settled between her legs without entering, the hard line of him still confined by his trousers pressing firmly against the soft heat of her.
He ground once, deliberate and slow, letting her feel the full weight and intent of him.
A broken sound escaped her throat.
Her hands flew up as if to push him away and then froze mid-air, unsure whether defiance would make it worse.
He ground again, harder this time, the friction dragging a whimper from her lips.
Her body tensed under him, every muscle locked, eyes squeezed shut so tightly that tears leaked from the corners.
The scent of her fear sharpened, mixing with the lingering lavender until the whole room smelled of forced intimacy and dread.
Malachi’s own pulse remained steady.
There was no real hunger in him for this particular conquest tonight; the white wolf’s acid spit and impossible speed still occupied the larger part of his mind.
This was simply a reminder, a lesson pressed into her skin so she would not forget whose territory she now belonged to.
He shifted his weight, rolling his hips in a slow circle that made the bed creak softly.
Lauretta’s breath hitched into something closer to a sob.
“Please,” she managed once more, the word almost soundless.
He ignored it, continuing the grinding motion for several more heartbeats, enough to feel her trembling increase, enough to watch her try and fail to shrink further into the mattress.
When he finally stilled, the only sound was their breathing—hers frantic, his controlled.
Without a word he pushed himself off her and stood.
The sudden absence of his weight left her cold.
She stayed exactly where he had left her, limbs rigid, as he walked toward the adjoining bathroom.
The door closed behind him with a quiet click.
Water began to run.
Alone, Lauretta’s composure cracked.
She scrambled under the heavy covers, pulling them up to her chin, then farther, until only the top of her dark hair showed.
Her body drifted toward the outer edge of the bed almost without conscious thought, as if the extra inches of distance could create a barrier.
Shivers ran through her in waves.
The lace had been humiliating, the lube tube still lying somewhere on the floor an even worse reminder, but the grinding—the deliberate pressure without the final act—had somehow been worse.
It left her suspended in dread, certain the next moment would bring the pain she had been warned about and then denied it, leaving her nerves frayed and her mind racing.
She pressed her face into the pillow, tasting salt,she has never felt so helpless in her entire life .Her boyfriend’s earlier pressure, the way he had always stopped when she said no, felt like a distant memory from another life.
This was different.
This man did not ask.
He simply took what he wanted and left the rest hanging over her like a blade.
The bathroom door opened again.
Malachi emerged wearing only loose sleep trousers, hair damp from a quick rinse that had washed away the worst of the forest dust and the lingering burn on his shoulder where the white wolf’s spit had landed.
He paused at the side of the bed, taking in the small shape huddled at the far edge, the way the covers trembled with each of her breaths.
A faint curve touched the corner of his mouth.
The fear was still there, raw and useful.
That was all he had required.
He slid under the sheets on the opposite side, leaving a deliberate stretch of mattress between them.
The bed was large enough that they need not touch.
Lauretta did not move closer; if anything she pressed herself nearer the edge until one more shift would send her tumbling to the floor.
Her body remained rigid, every muscle coiled as though expecting him to reach for her again at any second.
Malachi stared at the ceiling.
Sleep refused to come.
Behind his closed eyes he saw the white wolf’s aquamarine gaze.