Chapter 2: The Morning After
The lingering euphoria of the bite faded, leaving a hollow, gnawing ache. Hel came back to herself slowly, the sensations separating: the chill of drying sweat on her skin, the deep, pleasant soreness in her muscles, the stark, wet proof of him between her thighs and the twin stinging punctures on her neck.
She was still bound. The silk beneath her cheek was damp.
A soft clink drew her attention. Klaus stood by the open window, fully dressed in dark trousers and a tailored shirt, the sleeves rolled to his forearms. He held a crystal glass of amber liquor, swirling it slowly. The early morning light, pale and grey, cut across the room, failing to soften him. He looked like a king surveying conquered land.
“The feed will sustain you for a day, perhaps two,” he said, not turning. His voice was conversational, as if discussing the weather. “Your particular biology is fascinating. A succubus who can take a vampire’s bite without desiccating. A fey creature who doesn’t burn at my touch.”
Hel tugged at the cuff on her left wrist. The leather held. “Let me go, Klaus.”
“I think not.” He finally turned. His eyes were calm, deeply blue, and utterly remote. “You’re a singularity. A weapon I didn’t know I needed. You stay.”
Anger, hot and bright, cut through the post-coital haze. “I’m not a fucking pet.”
“No. Pets are obedient.” He took a sip, watching her over the rim of the glass. “You’re a wild thing. And I will be the one to leash you. Your feeding will be monitored. Controlled. You will take what is given, when it is given.”
Hel laughed, the sound harsh in the quiet room. “And who, exactly, is going to do the giving? Your brooding puppet, Stefan?”
He moved.
It wasn’t the fluid vampire speed she’d seen before. This was a blur, a displacement of air that ended with him standing beside the bed, his glass placed neatly on the nightstand. His expression hadn’t changed.
“It will include me,” he said, his voice dropping to that dangerous, intimate rumble. “When I desire it. But make no mistake, this is not a negotiation. It is a decree.”
She stared up at him, her irises shifting to pure, heated gold. Her hunger, temporarily sated by the sex and the blood, began to stir again, provoked by his dominance, by the sheer fucking audacity of him. “You think you can decree what I need? You have no idea what I am.”
“I know you’re dripping onto my sheets right now,” he said, his gaze dipping down her body for a pointed second. “Just from this little chat. Your body knows its master, Hel. It’s your mind that’s stubborn.”
“Fuck you.”
“That’s the idea.”
He reached for the headboard. Instead of unbuckling the cuffs, he wrapped his hands around the carved wooden posts above her wrists. With a sickening crack of tearing mahogany and splintering wood, he ripped both posts free from the bed frame.
Hel’s arms fell, still bound to the severed posts. Before she could process it, he flipped her onto her stomach with a brutal shove. Her face pressed into the silk, the scent of their sex overwhelming. He yanked her hips up, the ruined posts dragging beside her, useless weights.
She heard the rustle of his clothing, the sharp zip of his fly.
There was no preamble, no softening touch. The broad, blunt head of his cock pressed against her entrance, still sensitive and slick from their last joining. He pushed.
He was impossibly large, and this angle was deeper, more invasive. Her body stretched to take him, that impossible, elastic tightness yielding to his relentless pressure. A ragged gasp was torn from her, muffled by the bedding.
He didn’t wait for her to adjust. He buried himself to the hilt in one savage thrust and stilled, his body draped over her back. She felt the heat of him, the solid wall of his chest against her spine.
“Is this control?” he breathed into her ear, his hand fisting in the silver fall of her hair at the nape of her neck. He pulled, arching her head back. “Do you feel owned?”
She tried to speak, but all that came out was a broken moan as he began to move.
His pace was brutal, a hard, driving rhythm that pushed her across the bed with each snap of his hips. The slap of flesh was louder now, sharper, punctuated by the wet, filthy sound of him pistoning into her over-sensitized cunt. Each thrust hit a spot so deep it felt like he was splitting her in two, a fusion of pain and blinding pleasure.
“You take it… so well,” he grunted, his control fraying. The bedframe groaned in protest, slamming against the wall. “Like you were fucking made for my cock. Emptying myself inside you. Marking you.”
The vulgarity, the raw possession in his words, sent another jolt of white-hot need through her. Her own pleasure, a coiled spring, began to tighten beyond bearing. She was reduced to animal sounds, to the desperate clench of her inner muscles around his invading length.
“Klaus—!” His name was a plea, a curse.
“Come for me,” he snarled, his grip on her hair tightening. “Come on my cock, you hungry little bitch. Show me.”
It was the command that broke her. The orgasm erupted, a violent seizure that ripped through her core, her cunt spasming around him in frantic, milking waves. She screamed, the sound raw and unfiltered, her body shaking uncontrollably as pleasure scourged every nerve ending.
Feeling her climax, he lost the last vestige of his rhythm. His thrusts became short, frantic jackrabbit punches. With a guttural roar that was pure wolf, he pulled out of her dripping heat.
The sudden emptiness was a shock. Before she could process it, she felt the hot, urgent splatter of his release across her lower back, her ass, painting stripes of possessive heat on her skin. Each pulse was a claim, a vulgar brand.
He collapsed his weight onto her for a moment, his breath harsh in her ear. The smell of sex, sweat, and his spend filled the air.
Slowly, he pushed himself up. He deftly unbuckled the cuffs from the shattered bedposts, freeing her wrists. Her arms fell, numb and heavy.
He tucked himself back into his trousers, zipped up. He looked down at her, a disheveled, marked, panting creature sprawled on the ruined sheets. His expression was unreadable.
“Get dressed,” he said, his voice once again cool and composed. “There are clothes in the armoire. Stefan will show you to your room. Do not leave the property.”
He turned and walked to the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. He didn’t look back.
“The marks will fade. My claim on you will not.”
The door clicked shut.
Hel lay there, trembling, her body humming with spent energy and fresh need. The cooling come on her back felt like a target. She pushed herself up, every muscle protesting. She looked at the destroyed bed, the splintered wood, the soaked silk.
A slow, defiant smile touched her swollen lips. She brought her fingers to the punctures on her neck, then lower, through the wet mess between her legs. She brought her slick fingertips to her mouth, tasting herself and the faint, metallic remnant of him.
He thought this was about leashing her. About control.
He had no idea that for a creature who fed on hunger itself, his voracious, monstrous appetite was the most potent lure in a thousand worlds.
The game was far from over. It had just begun.