Chapter 3: The Hallway Claiming
The water from the bath still gleamed on their skin as Casmir carried her from the steaming chamber, her body wrapped in a single, oversized linen towel. She clung to his neck, boneless and sated, her cheek against the cool skin of his shoulder. The quiet tenderness of the bath lingered in her muscles, a precious, stolen lie.
He carried her not toward the bedchamber, but deeper into the private wing, his strides purposeful. The grand stone hallway stretched before them, its vaulted ceiling lost in shadow. The air was cold and still, thick with the scent of old marble and the unburned wax of candles left in sconces. Her damp skin prickled. The only heat was where their bodies touched.
Halfway down the corridor, he stopped.
The change was instantaneous. The contemplative silence shattered. In one violent motion, he spun and slammed her back against the cold stone wall. The impact drove the air from her lungs in a soft oof. The towel was yanked away, falling in a damp heap at their feet. The ancient, rough-hewn stone bit into the skin of her shoulders and back.
Before she could gasp, before she could even process the cold, he hooked his forearms under her thighs, lifting her, spreading her, pinning her open against the wall. His eyes were pure, dilated hunger in the dim light.
He drove into her without preamble.
Her slickness from the bath and their prior joining made the intrusion easy, a single, deep, shearing stroke that filled her utterly. A sharp cry tore from her throat, echoing off the stone. There was no gentle warmth here. This was possession, raw and territorial.
His thrusts were brutal, animalistic. He fucked her with a relentless, pounding rhythm, each forward snap of his hips jolting her body, making her head knock back against the unyielding wall. The cold stone against her back, the burning heat of him driving inside her—the contrast was blinding.
“You’re a fucking rabbit, aren’t you?” he growled, his voice a rough vibration against her neck. His breath was hot. His fangs were a sharp pressure near her pulse. He pistoned into her, the wet, slapping sounds of their joining obscenely loud in the hollow corridor. “Bred to take cock. To crave it. This is what you’re for, isn’t it?”
Tears of overwhelming sensation streaked from her eyes. It was too much, the violation absolute, and yet her body arched into it, her inner muscles clenching around the invading thickness of him. The truth of his words, the cruel biological truth of her kind, coiled hot and shameful in her gut. She was built for this. She did crave it. Even now, especially now, with this version of him who wanted to consume her.
“Yes,” she sobbed, the word breaking on a particularly deep thrust. “Yes, Cass, yes!”
“Mine,” he snarled, the word a curse. He bit down on the curve of her shoulder, not breaking skin but pressing hard, a promise of a mark. Her nails raked down his shoulders, drawing faint, pale lines over the old battlefield scars. Her legs trembled violently around his arms. The coil in her belly tightened, snapped, and her climax ripped through her with a silent, open-mouthed scream, a wave of pure physical wreckage that left her seeing flashes of light in the dark.
He followed her over seconds later. With a final, grinding thrust that pinned her to the wall, he came with a ragged snarl, his body shuddering, spilling hot inside her.
He stayed there for a moment, buried to the hilt, his forehead pressed to the stone beside her head, breathing heavily. Then he pulled out.
The sudden emptiness was a shock. Her legs, released, crumpled, but he didn’t let her fall. In one fluid motion, he spun her around, bending her forward over a polished marble side table. The stone was ice against her flushed stomach and breasts. He kicked her legs wider apart with his foot.
He entered her from behind in one savage, re-joining stroke. A wet, echoing slap filled the air.
“Fuck,” he breathed, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. He set a new, devastating pace, shorter, harder strokes that jolted the table against the wall with every impact. This angle was deeper, somehow more intimate and more degrading. She could feel every ridge, every vein of him as he carved his way inside her, over and over. The remnants of her last climax were a distant shimmer; this was building something new, a tighter, sharper peak born of sheer, unrelenting friction.
Her arms gave out. She collapsed onto the cold marble, her cheek pressed to its surface, her body held up only by his grip on her hips. He didn’t slow. He fucked her through the weakness, his movements growing more erratic, more frantic. A second, sharper climax seized her, wringing a choked gurgle from her throat, her channel pulsing around him in frantic, fluttering waves.
Her legs were useless. Boneless. As the last tremors subsided, she started to slide from the table. He caught her, but didn’t pull out. Instead, he dragged her upright, his arm like an iron band around her waist, and began walking down the corridor toward his study.
He was still inside her.
Each step was a new, shallow, maddening penetration. The drag of him, the faint friction with every movement, forced helpless, tiny whimpers from her lips. He walked steadily, his own breath still harsh in her ear, carrying her weight easily. The head of his cock bumped a spot deep within her with every other stride, sending weak shocks of sensation through her ravaged nerves.
He shouldered the heavy oak door to his study open and kicked it shut behind them. The room was dark, dominated by the massive desk, its surface a chaotic landscape of parchment, seals, and forgotten goblets. The scent of old leather, ink, and his unique, cold spice filled the air.
He didn’t take her to the desk. He walked to the center of the room, on the thick wolf-pelt rug, and finally let her legs touch the ground. He was still embedded within her, a full, claiming presence. He wrapped a hand in her damp hair, not pulling, just holding, and used his other to tilt her chin up, forcing her to look at their reflection in the dark, mullioned glass of the window.
In the ghostly silhouette, she saw herself: a pale, used thing, covered in the shadows of handprints, hair tangled, eyes wide and glazed. And behind her, enveloping her, was him—a monolith of shadow and muscle, his head dipped beside hers, his eyes glowing with a satisfied, primordial fire.
“See?” he murmured, his voice gravel. His hips gave a shallow, possessive grind, making her gasp. “Look at that. Look how you belong there.”