Chapter 7: Morning Reclamation
The hot water sluiced over Andre’s shoulders, but it couldn’t wash away the phantom sensation of Draven’s teeth or the ache deep in his core. He leaned his forehead against the cool tile, remembering the week of cold silence that had followed their first encounter. He scrubbed at his skin until it burned, as if he could erase the king’s scent, the memory of his own broken screams. He closed his eyes, lathering his short curls, and the steam conjured the image of Draven’s focused, savage face between his legs.
The shower door clicked open. Andre jumped, soap stinging his eyes. A large, familiar hand reached in, turning off the water. “You think too loudly.” Draven stood there, fully dressed, his emerald gaze raking over Andre’s dripping, naked form. “Regret is a useless emotion.” Andre couldn’t speak, his breath catching as Draven stepped into the stall, his clothes soaking through instantly. He backed Andre against the tile, his presence swallowing the small space. “You belong to me,” he stated, his voice low. “Every part of you.” His hand wrapped around Andre’s cock, already hardening under his touch. “Especially this.” He stroked once, a rough, claiming motion. “Turn around.”
Andre obeyed, his heart hammering against his ribs. Draven’s wet trousers pressed against his ass. He heard the rustle of fabric, the click of a cap. Then a cold, slick finger pressed against his hole, circling with possessive intent before pushing inside. Andre gasped, his hands slapping against the tile. “Still so loose for me,” Draven murmured, adding a second finger, scissoring them open. He worked him fast, stretching him with a brutal efficiency that made Andre whimper. Draven removed his fingers, and the blunt, thick head of his cock replaced them. He didn’t push, just held it there, a threat and a promise.
“Beg for it,” Draven growled into his ear. “Beg for your king to fuck you.” Andre shuddered, the words clawing their way out. “Please.” It was a whisper. Draven bit his shoulder, right over the fresh claim mark. “Louder.”
“Please, Draven. Fuck me. Please.” Draven drove forward, a single, devastating thrust that buried him to the hilt. A raw, guttural sound was punched from Andre’s lungs. Draven set a punishing rhythm, each slam forcing a choked cry from Andre’s throat. The wet slap of skin on skin echoed in the tiled confine, mingling with Draven’s grunts and the slick, obscene sounds of his cock pistoning in and out. “This hole is mine,” Draven snarled, his hands gripping Andre’s hips hard enough to bruise. “You’ll take my cock whenever, wherever I demand it.” He angled deeper, hitting that spot that made Andre see stars. Andre’s own cock jerked, untouched and leaking against the cold tile. “Come,” Draven commanded, his voice vibrating through Andre’s spine. The order, paired with the relentless assault on his prostate, tore the climax from him. He came with a broken shout, his passage clenching violently around Draven’s thrusting length. Draven followed with a final, deep grind, his release flooding Andre’s insides as he growled his completion against the nape of Andre’s neck.
Draven followed with a final, deep grind, his release flooding Andre’s insides as he growled his completion against the nape of Andre’s neck. He stayed buried there, his broad chest heaving against Andre’s back, their bodies a slick, tangled monument in the dripping stall. Then, slowly, he withdrew.
The loss was visceral, a hollow ache followed by the warm trickle of proof down Andre’s thigh. Draven didn’t move away. Instead, he pressed his face into the junction of Andre’s shoulder, his nose tracing the damp skin over his pulse point. He inhaled deeply, a long, slow drag of breath that fluttered Andre’s nerves.
Draven scented his neck for a while. It was a deliberate, animalistic ritual, his breath hot and his lips occasionally brushing the sensitive skin as he marked the territory with his own smell, layering it over the fear and the sweat and the soap. “Mine,” he whispered into the damp hollow, the word a soft vow against the earlier violence. His hands, which had been gripping bruises into Andre’s hips, gentled to a mere rest. The shift was disorienting. This quiet, possessive cataloging felt more intimate than the fucking.
Andre stood frozen, water from Draven’s soaked shirt dripping onto his skin. He could feel the other man’s lashes against his neck with every breath. The silence stretched, thick with unspent words and the echo of Andre’s own choked pleas. Draven finally pulled back just enough to turn Andre to face him. His emerald eyes were dark, unreadable pools that scanned Andre’s features, looking for something Andre couldn’t name. Then, with a rough thumb, he wiped a stray streak of soap from Andre’s cheekbone. “Get out,” he said, his voice gravel. “We’re not done.”
Draven stepped from the stall, dripping, and snatched a towel. He threw it at Andre without looking. “Dry off.” His voice was a command, flat and absolute. Andre caught the cloth, his hands shaking as he patted his skin. Draven watched him, water sheeting from his own dark hair onto the floorboards. He stripped his soaked shirt, revealing the old scars and hard muscle Andre had tasted the night before.
“On the bed,” Draven said, nodding toward the bedroom. Andre walked on unsteady legs, the wet towel clutched to his chest. The cedar smell was stronger here, underscored by the scent of their sex. Draven followed close behind, a looming pressure at his back. “On your knees at the edge.” Andre complied, the quilt soft against his shins, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. Draven’s hands smoothed over the flare of his hips, a gesture almost thoughtful.
Draven’s hands smoothed over the flare of his hips, a gesture almost thoughtful. His thumbs pressed into the dimples of Andre’s lower back, a silent command to arch. “You’re still wet from me,” Draven observed, his voice a low vibration against Andre’s spine.
He leaned down, his breath hot on Andre’s ear. “Don’t make me ask twice.” Andre’s body trembled, but he pushed back against the solid pressure of Draven’s thighs. A soft, bitten-off sound escaped him.
“Open your hole to me.” The command was flat, devoid of request. Andre shuddered, but obeyed, consciously relaxing the tight, sore muscle.
Andre shuddered, but obeyed, consciously relaxing the tight, sore muscle. He reached back with both hands, his fingers digging into his own flesh. He held his ass cheeks spread for Draven’s assessment.
“Good,” Draven said, his voice a dark purr of approval. The first touch was a hot, wet stripe up his perineum, slow and deliberate. Then he felt a tongue teasing the rim at first, a slow, circling pressure that made his entire body jolt.It lapped at him, soft and inquisitive, before pressing inward with blunt force. Andre cried out, his forehead dropping to the quilt as Draven ate his ass with a vulgar, wet intensity. The alpha’s tongue worked him open, a relentless invasion that was shockingly intimate.
“Still tastes like me,” Draven muttered, his words vibrating against Andre’s skin. He fucked him with his tongue, deep and messy, before pulling back with a wet pop. The cold air of the room hit the spit-slicked hole.
A calloused thumb replaced his tongue, rubbing over the loosened furl. “This is all you’re good for now.” Draven’s cock, thick and hard again, nudged against him. He pushed the head inside with a single, brutal thrust.
Andre screamed into the bedding, his knuckles white where he gripped the quilt. Draven set a ruthless, deep pace, each stroke a punishment and a possession. “You’ll remember this,” he grunted, his hands anchoring Andre’s hips.
He pulled Andre back until he was flushed against his chest, Draven’s soaked trousers rough against Andre’s bare skin. His arms wrapped around Andre’s torso, one hand splaying across his sternum to hold him close, the other guiding his own relentless cock. He plundered Andre’s ass from this new, deeper angle, each thrust a calculated violation that stole Andre’s breath.
Andre’s head lolled back onto Draven’s shoulder, a broken moan dragged from his throat. "Mine," Draven growled into the damp skin of his neck, his hips pistoning. The room filled with the slick, obscene sound of his claiming. He fucked up into him, the pace unyielding and deep, his grip tightening. "Every fucking inch."
Andre could only take it, his body vibrating with each jarring impact. Draven’s teeth found the shell of his ear. "You’re just a hole for me now," he rasped, his breath hot. His hand slid down Andre’s abdomen, calloused fingers wrapping around his spent cock. He squeezed, a painful, possessive pressure. "And you’ll come again when I say."
Draven’s thrusts became shorter, harder, a brutal fucking that rubbed Andre raw inside. "I feel you," he grunted, "clenching around my cock like you need it." He sped up, his own breath coming in harsh gusts against Andre’s neck. "Give it to me." Andre’s body betrayed him, a weak, dry orgasm shuddering through him. Draven followed with a final, grinding thrust, his release pumping deep. He held himself there, pulsing, before whispering, "Never forget whose cum is inside you."
He held himself there, pulsing, before whispering, "Never forget whose cum is inside you." Draven’s mouth trailed up the column of Andre’s neck, a parody of tenderness. His lips brushed over the fading scar of his first claim.
Then his teeth sank in.
They punctured the skin with a wet, decisive crunch, a visceral tear that made Andre’s entire body seize. Draven bit deeper, grinding bone against tendon, his growl vibrating into the marrow. Hot blood welled instantly, flooding his mouth and streaming in thick ribbons down Andre’s throat and chest. Andre screamed, a raw, tearing sound that died into a gurgle.
Draven held him there, impaled on his cock and his teeth, a perfect double-penetration of possession. He sucked at the wound, swallowing Andre’s blood between ragged breaths. “Now you’re marked inside and out,” he rasped, pulling his teeth free with a slick sound.
He licked the ruined flesh, the copper taste smearing his lips. “Every fucking packmate will smell me in your blood.” Draven finally pulled his softening cock from Andre’s body, a gush of their mixed release following. He shoved Andre forward onto the bed. “Don’t move.”
Andre lay still, the taste of his own blood metallic in his mouth where he’d bitten his lip. Draven’s footsteps were heavy on the floorboards, moving away then returning. A cold, wet cloth dabbed roughly at the bleeding bite on his neck, the sting sharp and clarifying.
“Look at me.” Draven’s voice was a low command. Andre turned his head, his limbs leaden. Draven’s gaze was fierce, his own mouth stained dark. “You see this?” He smeared his thumb through the blood on Andre’s chest, painting a crude line down his sternum. “This is the only pack mark you’ll ever need.” He gripped Andre’s jaw, his fingers pressing into the bruises beneath the skin. “Now turn over.” Andre shifted, the movement sending fresh aches through his ass and neck. Draven stared at the mess he’d made—the torn skin, the streaks of blood and semen, the utter submission. A low, approving rumble sounded in his chest. He dragged Andre to the edge of the bed by his ankles, his own trousers still pooled around his knees. His cock, half-hard again, slapped against Andre’s ruined hole. “You’re going to thank me for this,” he said, pushing inside with a single, brutal shove. Andre’s body arched, a silent scream locking in his throat as Draven reclaimed the sore, stretched channel.
He hauled Andre up against his chest, the movement brutal and seamless. Andre was cradled in Draven’s arms as he fucked up into his hole, each drive a deep, coring thrust that stole the air from Andre’s lungs. Andre was moaning incoherently, trembling on his cock, a puppet of overstimulation. “It’s too much,” he sobbed, his head falling back onto Draven’s shoulder. “I can’t—I can’t take it.”
Draven’s arm tightened across his chest, a steel band crushing his protest. “You can, and you will, baby,” Draven said, his voice a low, vicious purr against his ear. His hips snapped forward, a brutal punctuation.
He pistoned into Andre’s sore, stretched hole with a relentless, deep rhythm. “You’ll cum on my cock and you’ll thank me for allowing it.” Each word was bitten off between thrusts that stole Andre’s breath. Andre’s body was a live wire of overstimulation, trembling violently in Draven’s grasp.
His own cock, trapped against Draven’s forearm, began to stiffen again despite the ache. Draven’s hand slid down, his calloused fingers wrapping Andre’s shaft in a punishing grip. “Now,” Draven commanded, jerking him in time with his own drilling strokes.
The dual assault shattered Andre. A ragged scream tore from his throat as he came, his release splattering hot stripes across the quilt and Draven’s fist. Draven groaned, his own rhythm stuttering into a final, deep grind. He flooded Andre’s ass with his cum, pulsing thickly inside him.
He held there, both of them panting. Then he slowly pulled out. Andre gasped at the sudden emptiness, feeling the wet trickle down his thigh. Draven shifted him, laying him flat on his back.
He looked down at Andre, his eyes burning. He shoved two fingers deep into Andre’s used hole, digging out the mingled fluids. He brought his glistening fingers to his own mouth, his gaze locked on Andre’s horrified face.
He sucked them clean, a slow, obscene drag of his tongue. “Then I’ll fuck your tongue with mine.” He descended, his mouth capturing Andre’s in a deep, violating kiss. Andre tasted himself, salt and bitterness, mixed with Draven’s dominance on his tongue.
Andre tasted himself, salt and bitterness, mixed with Draven’s dominance on his tongue. The invasion was complete, a final layer of degradation that coiled hot in his gut. Andre embarrassingly groaned into Draven’s kiss, a weak, shuddering sound of surrender he couldn’t contain.
Draven broke the kiss, his breath a harsh warmth against Andre’s wet lips. “That’s it,” he murmured, the words rough but satisfied. He studied Andre’s face, the blood drying on his neck, the shattered look in his eyes.
His thumb brushed Andre’s lower lip, smearing saliva. “You’re ruined for anyone else now.” He said it like a fact, peeling himself off the bed. The loss of his weight left Andre cold and strangely exposed.
Draven stood, fastening his trousers with an unsettling normality. He looked down, his gaze a physical touch. “The maids will bring food,” he stated, turning toward the door. “Eat it.”
He paused at the threshold, not looking back. “The door will be locked.” The click of the latch was deafening. Andre lay amidst the wreckage of sheets and the smell of sex and blood.
The metallic scent of his own blood clung inside his nostrils, a raw counterpoint to the musk of sweat and spent desire. Every heartbeat pulsed a fresh throb from the ripped flesh on his neck, a crude echo of the deeper ache between his legs. He stared at the canopy, the dark fabric swimming in and out of focus as his body shuddered through aftershocks he couldn’t control.
A soft click at the door preceded the sweep of cooler air from the hall. Draven stepped back inside, his earlier harshness smoothed into an unnerving quiet. He carried a basin of water and a cloth, his movements economical. “Sit up.” Andre flinched at the sound, his muscles protesting as he pushed himself onto his elbows. Draven perched on the edge of the mattress, the dip of his weight tilting Andre toward him.
Without a word, he wrung out the cloth and began cleaning the blood from Andre’s chest. The water was tepid, the touch clinical. “Look at you,” Draven murmured, not unkindly, dabbing at the bite. “A fucking mess.” His thumb stroked over Andre’s jawline, a possessive gesture that felt more confusing than the violence. “My mess.” He dropped the cloth into the basin, the water tingeing pink. His hand slid down Andre’s stomach, past his navel, and cupped him. Andre gasped, his spent cock twitching weakly at the touch. “Still responsive,” Draven noted, a low chuckle in his voice. He squeezed, just enough to make Andre’s breath hitch. “Your body knows its owner, even if your mind struggles.”
He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of Andre’s ear. “I can smell your confusion.” His other hand pressed between Andre’s thighs, a firm pressure against his sore, used hole. “And I can smell how wet you still are for me.” Andre’s protest died as Draven’s tongue traced the outer rim of his ear. “You want to hate this.” A finger, slick with the mess still leaking from inside him, pushed back inside. Andre cried out, his back arching off the bed. “But your cunt is dripping.” Draven worked the finger in deeper, a cruel mimicry. “Tell me to stop.” He added a second finger, stretching him open again with a wet, obscene sound. Andre couldn’t. His hips rocked, a tiny, involuntary spasm. Draven’s smile was a flash of white in the dim room. “That’s what I thought.”
Draven withdrew his fingers, slick and gleaming. He wiped them slowly across Andre’s lower lip. "Taste it," he murmured, his emerald eyes holding a dark hunger. "Taste what you do to me." Andre’s tongue, betraying him, darted out to lick the bitter salt from his own skin.
Draven’s hand returned to Andre’s hip, his grip vise-like as he flipped him onto his stomach. The quilt scratched his cheek. A knee nudged his legs wider apart. "You’re still dripping," Draven observed, his cockhead dragging through the wetness. "Good." He drove in without ceremony, a single, brutal stroke that buried him to the root.
Andre’s scream was muffled by the bedding. Draven set a relentless, deep rhythm, each thrust a raw slap of skin. "Fuck," Andre gasped, his fingers twisting in the fabric. Draven leaned over him, his sweat dripping onto Andre’s spine. "Louder," he grunted, hammering into him. "Let the whole fucking castle hear you."
He fucked him with a punishing, possessive pace, his balls slapping against Andre’s skin. "This hole is so fucking greedy," Draven snarled, gripping his hair to yank his head back. "Tell me you love it." Andre choked on a sob, his body convulsing around the invading thickness. "I love it," he whispered, the lie tasting like truth.
Draven growled, his pace becoming frantic, a deep, jackhammering pistoning that stole Andre’s breath. He came with a raw shout, flooding Andre’s depths, his body shuddering. He collapsed his weight atop him, both of them slick and heaving. After a moment, Draven pulled out, the loss a cold shock.
He stood, breathing heavily, looking down at the wreck he’d made. "Get on your knees." Andre moved, his limbs clumsy. Draven’s semi-hard cock brushed his lips. "Clean it," he commanded, his voice rough. Andre opened his mouth, taking him in, the taste of himself and Draven overwhelming.
Then he left.
The door shut with a soft, final click. Andre lay still for a long time, listening to the fading echo of Draven’s footsteps in the hall. He finally pushed himself up, every muscle protesting.
He stumbled toward the bathroom, his gait unsteady. The mirror showed the savage bite on his neck, the bruises blooming on his hips. He turned the taps, steaming water crashing into the tub.
He lowered himself into the scalding heat, hissing as it bit into his raw flesh. The water clouded almost immediately, tinged pink and beige from blood and spend. He scrubbed at his skin with a coarse cloth, but the feeling of violation was embedded deeper.
His own touch felt alien, too gentle. He thought of Draven’s hands, the brutal certainty of them. His mind replayed the words, “You’ll remember this.”
He slid under the surface, letting the water roar in his ears. For a moment, it was quiet. He surfaced, gasping, the copper tang of his own blood still on his tongue. He washed his hair, fingertips grazing the fresh scar.
The bathwater grew cool. He stayed in it until his fingers pruned, staring at the tiles. Somewhere in the castle, a distant door slammed. He climbed out, dripping, and wrapped himself in a towel.
The room was empty, just the rumpled bed and the quiet. Draven was gone, and the evening stretched ahead, long and hollow. Andre stood there, listening to his own breath, waiting for nothing at all.