When The Clock Strikes Midnight | Part Two
Pairings | Alpha!John price x Omega!reader, Alpha!Simon Riley x Beta!Johnny MacTavish, Beta!Kyle Garrick.
Summary | You’ve always hated being an omega, it goes against your every wish and your entire personality. It is your curse and your wicked step mother and step sisters seem to make it their mission to make your life even more miserable than it already is.
…Or in which you attend The Winter Solstice Ball and Alpha John price falls in love with you and hunts you down when you run away.
Warnings | Depression, Anxiety, angst, cruelty, abuse, suicidal thoughts, dark themes, mating rituals, courting rituals, heat mentioned, abo dynamics, omegaverse, nesting, some fluffy moments, smut. Let me know if I left anything out.
The first thing you notice is the quiet.
Not the silence of loneliness or fear, but the rare, comforting hush that only comes when the world is still asleep. No shouting. No cruel orders. No slamming doors or breaking porcelain. Just the muffled crackle of dying embers in the hearth, and the faintest whisper of wind against the castle windows.
The second thing is the warmth.
Not from the furs tucked around your body, but from him — John. The King. The Alpha. Still curled behind you, chest pressed to your back, his breathing deep and steady against the curve of your neck.
His arm is heavy over your waist, possessive even in sleep. Your fingers rest on his, and for a moment, you don’t move.
His scent wraps around you, stronger now than it was the night before — grounding, like smoked cedarwood and something subtly spiced. Warmth clings to your skin from where his body touches yours, and without thinking, you press back into it a little more.
Instead, his nose brushes the crown of your head and you hear it — that soft, gravelly sound of him waking. A low hum in his throat. Not a growl. Something content. Drowsy.
His hand shifts just slightly, pulling you closer. “Still here,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep.
You smile before your eyes even open. “Where would I have gone?”
He exhales against your neck, slow and warm. “You’ve run before.”
A pause. He turns you slightly, enough to see the outline of his face in the pale morning light. He looks less severe like this — the hard edges softened, the weight of a crown momentarily gone.
“You know,” you murmur, your voice still hazy with sleep as you curl into the soft sheets once more, “if you hadn’t moved when you did, I probably would’ve had my first slip into omegaspace.”
You smile a little at your own joke, eyes flickering toward him. But John doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t even respond with the usual dry wit that curls from his lips like smoke.
He just stares at you. Still. Too still.
His jaw ticks. A faint furrow appears between his brows, and when he finally speaks, his voice is quieter than you’ve ever heard it.
“…You’ve never dropped before?”
You shrug, trying to keep it light. “Wasn’t exactly in the cards. Not many chances to feel that safe when you’re being starved and worked to death.”
His eyes darken at that — not with anger toward you, but toward the world that made that your truth. He looks away for a second, breath caught in his throat, and you catch it. The faint shimmer in his eyes. The war raging inside him.
His alpha is loud in the bond now, even though you’re not fully connected yet. You can feel it — the restless pacing in his chest, the soft, aching whimper that presses behind his sternum like a caged animal. Wanting to fix it. Wanting to give. Wanting to soothe.
“You should’ve had that long before now,” he says, his voice low and rough with restrained emotion. “You should’ve had a nest of your own. Space. Warmth. Safety. You should’ve known what it feels like to let go without fear.”
You blink at him, surprised by the depth of his reaction. You hadn’t meant for the comment to cut so deeply.
“I didn’t mean to upset you,” you whisper.
“You didn’t upset me sweetheart.” His hand moves, slow and deliberate, to brush the hair from your cheek. “But my wolf—” He presses his palm to your ribs, where your heart beats steadily. “He’s howling for what you never got. What you were denied. And I—” He swallows thickly. “I want to help you. With your first nest. Your first drop. I want you to know what it feels like when an omega is cherished.”
You feel your throat tighten. It’s too much. Too soft. Too real. So you look away, just for a second, to gather yourself — but his fingers on your chin bring you gently back.
“I can help you if you want me to.” he says firmly, searching your eyes.
Your breath stutters in your chest. His stare alone nearly undoes you — steady and unflinching, so full of promise it cracks something inside you. You feel it then, subtle and sure — your omega stirring, pressing up from beneath the years of suppression. She paws at your ribs like she wants out, like she recognises safety and won’t be denied this time.
Your fingers tremble slightly as you clutch the blanket. “I–I don’t know how to build a nest,” you admit, barely above a whisper.
The confession burns with shame. Nesting is instinctual, a birthright for omegas. But you were never taught. Never allowed the space. The luxury. The safety.
“I know they’re important. For dropping. But… I never had one.” You look down, teeth sinking into your bottom lip. “I don’t even know where to start.”
A silence stretches between you — warm, not heavy. And then John shifts closer, his palm settling softly over yours. “Let me help you.”
Your eyes flick to his. He’s so close, and yet not crowding — holding space in the way only a true alpha can. There’s no pity in his gaze, only quiet resolve. A vow forming in the stillness.
He rises from the bed and moves to a tall armoire in the corner of the room. You watch as he opens it, revealing an assortment of plush pillows, fur-lined blankets, and silken sheets in muted shades of cream, navy, and dusty rose.
“You…already had all this?”
He nods. “I had them brought here a few days after the ball” He returns to you, his expression soft. “You deserve to know what it feels like.”
With gentle guidance, he shows you — layering the blankets near the hearth, placing pillows in a wide crescent. You mimic his movements, slowly gaining confidence. He doesn’t hover or take over. He just helps — letting you lead, letting your omega hum approval as the nest begins to take shape.
When it’s done, it’s imperfect but warm, plush and safe. Your omega keens quietly, pressing close to the edge of your mind, aching to curl into it.
John settles beside you, not inside the nest but close enough that his warmth radiates toward you.
You hesitate. Then crawl into the centre. You’re quiet at first, wrapping a soft fur around your shoulders, you shift beneath the layers of softness, curling deeper into your nest. It’s warm and safe, a small cocoon that smells faintly of fresh linen, woodsmoke, and him. You glance up to see John still perched just outside it, sitting cross-legged on the floor with his arms resting on his knees, gaze fixed on you.
“You’re not coming in?” you ask, voice small and uncertain.
He smiles softly, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’d never enter without permission,” he says. “A nest is sacred, little one. Only those the omega invites are allowed in. You have to want me there.”
You blink, heart stuttering. No one had ever explained that to you before. No one had ever made you feel like you held any power. Your fingers fidget with the corner of a downy pillow, and then you whisper, “I want you to come in.”
His whole body shifts at once — like he’d been holding tension you hadn’t even seen until it melted away. He crawls toward you slowly, deliberately, and when he reaches the edge of your nest, he pauses again — just to be sure.
You nod once more. He enters.
It feels like a moment that should be marked by something — a bell toll, a kiss, a thunderclap — but it’s quiet. Just him folding into the space behind you, arms wrapping around your middle as he draws you against his chest. His scent surrounds you now, stronger, grounding. You breathe it in, and your body immediately begins to let go.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss into your shoulder. His hand moves over you slowly, a gentle stroke from hip to thigh and back again. “You’re doing so well.”
“I feel…” you begin, but words float away, airy and useless. You don’t know how to describe it — the way your thoughts blur, how soft everything becomes. Your bones seem to dissolve. You feel floaty. Fuzzy.
“That’s it,” John whispers against your neck. “Let it happen, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”
His praise is a balm to the quiet ache inside you. Your omega, long-caged and starved, purrs under the affection, drinking it in. The scent of your own contentment mixes with his — warm sugar, soft earth, summer peaches. He holds you like he never intends to let go.
You twitch once, letting out a soft, broken whimper as the drop deepens.
“You’re safe,” John tells you, voice thick with emotion. His thumb brushes over your belly, soothing. “I’m right here. No one will ever hurt you again.”
A small sob bubbles out of your throat — not from pain, but from release. The kind of shattering that happens when something long-denied is finally granted. You press your cheek to his chest, lulled by his heartbeat.
“You’re so perfect like this,” he says, voice raw and reverent. “Mine.”
John’s never seen anything like this.
Not in all his years of courtship, battle, or politics. Not in any of the forced pairings presented to him in his youth, nor the desperate attempts of highborn omegas trying to curry his favour. None of it ever touched what he sees now:
You — nestled deep into your first true nest, soft as moonlight and twice as sacred — becoming undone just for him.
Your scent is intoxicating now, sweeter than before, like warm sugar spun in the air, like comfort and promise and home. His Alpha drinks it in like lifeblood. It stirs every instinct within him, not with urgency, but with reverence. You are not something to conquer. You are to be honoured.
A soft, tipsy sound that bubbles from your throat like a stream in spring. Giddy, glowy, like the sunshine you’ve always been denied now lives inside your chest.
He freezes as you stretch, limbs uncoordinated with sleepy contentment. You arch, showing your belly, utterly exposed. You bare your throat — that beautiful neck of yours, the most vulnerable place an omega can offer — and look up at him with stars in your eyes.
You don’t speak. You offer. And John… John nearly falls apart.
His Alpha surges forward, snarling in his head with desperate, aching teeth. But John stays still, rooted in place, fingers trembling from the force of restraint. He doesn’t dare move too fast. Doesn’t dare break this sacred moment.
“You’re…” His voice cracks. He clears his throat and tries again, softer. “You’re giving me everything.”
You blink up at him, lashes fluttering, mouth curved in a smile that’s all trust and no fear.
He leans over you, slow and sure, one hand bracing beside your head as the other cups your cheek. His thumb strokes over your skin — reverent, soothing — and his lips press into your throat, right where his mark would go. He doesn’t bite. He only lingers.
“You don’t know what you’ve done to me,” he murmurs. “How much this means.”
“I want you to stay with me.” you whisper, barely audible.
His chest caves inward with the force of how much he wants that. “I’m not going anywhere.”
You giggle again, brushing your nose to his. “Good. ’Cause I don’t think I could walk right now even if I wanted to.”
He huffs a breath of laughter — relieved, undone, wild with adoration. He tucks you against his chest again, pulling every blanket over you both, wrapping you up like something precious.
“I’ve got you, little wolf,” he murmurs into your hair. “Rest now. Let your Alpha guard you.”
Because for the first time in your life — you don’t have to do anything else but close your eyes.
Moonlight. It spills silver across the stone floor and stretches over plush bedding, casting long shadows that flicker with the movement of the fire. The balcony doors are cracked just slightly, letting in a breeze that carries the scent of a fresh snowfall and distant hearth fires.
You blink slowly, still wrapped in the soft fog of your drop. Everything feels heavier — but not in a bad way. In a settled way. Like gravity finally makes sense.
His warmth, solid and steady at your back. One arm loosely around your waist, the other balancing a tray as he shifts slightly behind you. His voice is the next thing you register — low, soft, reverent.
“You’re awake, little one,” John murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “You’ve been sleeping for hours.”
“Mmh,” you hum, not quite a word. You stretch slightly, muscles loose, body still warm from being tucked into his. Your senses are dulled and dreamy, but not gone. You notice the faint flicker of firelight dancing over his tan skin, and the contrast of cool night air against your cheeks.
There’s a quiet clatter below your chest — a small porcelain dish. You glance down, bleary-eyed, and see a neat row of apple slices resting beside delicate cuts of cooked meat.
“You need to eat,” he says gently. “Come here.” His voice dips into command, but it’s soft — the kind of tone meant only for you. For his omega. Because you suppose that’s what you are now.
He shifts behind you until your back is pressed more fully to his chest, your head nestled just beneath his chin as he adjusts the tray. Then, with practiced care, he picks up an apple slice and holds it near your lips.
You blink up at him sleepily.
You obey, letting the sweet tartness hit your tongue. It’s cold, crisp, and refreshing. Your eyes flutter shut again as you chew slowly. The sounds of the kingdom — faint laughter, music, the distant clatter of hooves and carts — drift up from far below. The city is still alive under the cloak of the night.
You feel like you’re in a different world.
John’s arm wraps around your middle again, holding you still as he lifts another piece of food — a bite of steak, tender and warm. You chew obediently, unable to fight the small sigh of contentment that escapes you.
He chuckles, the sound rumbling into your spine. “Good girl.”
You turn your head slightly to glance at him, dazed but aware enough to tease. “You’re spoiling me.”
“I haven’t even started,” he replies, voice rough with honesty. He kisses your cheek, stubble grazing your soft skin. “You’ve gone your whole life without care. Let me make up for it.”
You don’t know what to say to that. You just lean back into him more fully, letting your weight rest against his chest, your hands curled in the blanket over your lap. You’re not trembling anymore.
The balcony breeze tugs at the sheer curtains, and the moonlight glows brighter, catching in the strands of your hair. He looks down at you like you’re something holy. Like the entire world exists only so this moment could happen.
He offers another apple slice. You take it. You take all of it until it’s gone. And in the quiet of the royal chambers, under moonlight and warmth. The tray is pushed aside now.
Your body rests fully against him, warm and boneless, the food having settled something deep inside you — not just your hunger, but that gnawing emptiness that had lived in your chest for so long. For the first time in what feels like forever, you’re full. Not just of food. But of life. Of want.
John’s fingers drift along your arm in slow, lazy strokes, grounding you with each pass. He’s gone quiet, but not distant. You can feel the tension in him — not uncomfortable, just watchful. As if he’s still marveling that you’re really here.
You break the silence first, your voice low and soft. “Do you ever miss it?”
“The city,” you nod slightly toward the open balcony doors. “The freedom of moving through it without being followed. Without the title. Without the crown.”
John breathes in through his nose. “Sometimes.” He glances toward the balcony too, where moonlight bleeds silver across the stone. “There are moments I wish I were just a man in the street, not the one ruling the kingdom.”
You tilt your head to look up at him. “You don’t act like most kings.”
“That’s because I never wanted to be one.”
Your brows lift slightly in surprise.
He smiles faintly, eyes still on the moon. “My brother was meant to inherit. I was supposed to be a knight, a commander — the sword, not the crown.” He pauses. “But fate had other ideas.”
You watch him for a moment. “I’m sorry.”
He looks down at you finally, his gaze soft but sharp, as if you’ve surprised him again. You nestle your cheek against his chest again. The beat of his heart is strong beneath your ear, steady and slow. You listen to it for a while, let the silence grow between you — not uncomfortable, but intimate.
“Do you… still want that?” you ask eventually. “To be a man in the street?”
His arm tightens around you. “No,” he says without hesitation. “Not now. Not after you.”
You blink, heart skipping.
John continues, voice low and sure, “I would rule a thousand kingdoms if it meant protecting you. I’d give them all up if it meant you were safe. Whatever path the goddess carves out for me — it led here. To you. That’s the only part that matters anymore.”
Your breath hitches, tears prickling quietly at your lashes. You blink them away before they can fall, but you know he notices. Of course he does. He presses a kiss to the side of your head. You shift slightly, turning just enough to face him fully, your fingers brushing his jaw.
“I was so afraid,” you whisper. “That this wasn’t real. That I’d wake up and still be on the cold floor of that house.”
“You’re never going back there,” he says fiercely, cupping the back of your head. “Never.”
You nod. “I know. I think… part of me is starting to believe it now.”
His thumb brushes under your eye. “What does the rest of you need?”
You think for a long moment.
“Time,” you whisper. “And patience.”
John leans forward and kisses your forehead — soft, firm, eternal.
“Then I will give you both,” he murmurs. “As long as it takes.”
The world beyond the balcony is a blur of silver and laughter. But here, inside, wrapped in warmth and the soft rhythm of John’s heartbeat against your back, time has slowed to something sacred.
Your body relaxes deeper into his lap, the last remnants of tension unraveling. You feel it in the way your shoulders ease, the way your head tips gently toward his, like your very being is leaning into him.
His fingers trail absently along your forearm, light and slow, like he’s memorizing your skin. You turn your face slightly, enough to glance at him from over your shoulder.
His gaze meets yours, quiet and burning all at once. There’s no command in it, no push — only invitation. A pause between heartbeats. A breath caught between what is and what could be.
Your eyes flick to his lips. Just for a moment. And that’s all it takes. He tilts forward. You do too. It’s soft. Barely there. A brush of lips — gentle, testing — the question unspoken but clear, Is this okay?
You answer it by leaning in again. Slower. Longer. This time, his hand comes up to cup the side of your face, steadying you, anchoring you in the moment. Your fingers find the edge of his shirt where it’s open at the collar, curling into the fabric like it might hold you together.
There’s no hunger in the kiss. No desperation. Just something deeper. Like he’s trying to show you with his mouth what his hands already have — that you are safe. That you are wanted. That you are home.
When you finally pull back, your eyes flutter open, dazed and breathless. He looks much the same, his lashes lowered, thumb still brushing your cheek as if he can’t bear to stop touching you now that he’s started.
Neither of you speak right away.
It’s too fragile, too precious.
Eventually, you swallow the lump rising in your throat. You settle back into his chest, limbs languid, the last of the food long forgotten on the tray beside the chair. The fire crackles low, casting golden shadows that dance across the stone walls and wooden floor. There’s a hum beneath your skin now, something deeper than contentment — something more settled.
Your omega stirs faintly inside you, no longer pacing like a caged animal, no longer resisting the presence of another. She’s quiet. Peaceful. At ease in a way she’s never been.
You breathe in deep — smoke, spiced orange, and something distinctly him — and feel it settle in your chest. A click. A soft, invisible lock finally turning into place.
John notices. Of course he does. His arms tighten just slightly around your waist, and he leans forward enough to press a kiss to the space between your shoulder and neck — soft, reverent.
“You feel different,” he murmurs against your skin.
You hum in agreement. “I think I do.”
“It’s like your body’s finally stopped… bracing,” he says, voice low. Careful. “Like it’s not waiting for something awful to happen anymore.”
You tilt your head to the side to meet his gaze, and he smiles — slow and warm, the kind that pulls something tight in your chest and loosens it all at once.
“Come with me tomorrow,” he says softly. “To the gardens.”
You blink. “The gardens?”
He nods. “We’ll take a picnic. It’s beautiful this time of year. The frost laces over the hedges, and the roses still bloom under the snow.” A pause, then a slow, playful smirk. “I’ll provide the warmth.”
You huff out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Admit it,” he leans closer, nuzzling his nose gently against your temple. “You like it.”
You smile — not out of politeness, or fear, or habit — but because you do. “Fine,” you whisper. “I’ll come.”
“Good.” He kisses your hair once more, content. “Then it’s a date.”
The morning light slips through the velvet curtains, pale and silvery, painting the room in quiet tones of blue and gold. The fire has died down to glowing embers, but the sheets around you are still warm — mostly because of him.
He’s already awake, but he hasn’t moved far. Just sitting beside you at the edge of the bed, shirt halfway buttoned, fingers absently rubbing over the top of your hand still resting on the duvet. Watching you as if he’s afraid to blink and miss something.
“You slept through the sunrise,” he says softly, that ever-present fondness curling into his voice.
You blink up at him slowly, the lingering haze of sleep still softening your thoughts. “I don’t even remember falling asleep.”
He smiles — not the sly one he gives the court, but something gentler. Private. “You were snoring, actually.”
You squint at him, and he grins wider. “Liar.”
“A little,” he admits, smirking. “I liked having you tucked against me. You so were relaxed.”
You sit up slowly, and he steadies you with a hand at your back. There’s no rush in the movement. No expectation. Just a quiet awareness of your rhythm — of what you need.
“I had a bath drawn again,” he says, standing now and smoothing a hand through his hair. “And something soft laid out for you to wear. I wasn’t sure what you’d want, so I chose something for you.”
You arch a brow. “Did you now?”
His smile turns a little smug. “Yes. You’ll look perfect no matter what though.”
You roll your eyes, but your heart stutters a bit anyway.
After bathing, you find yourself slipping into a warm woolen gown the color of moonstone, trimmed with the finest fleece along the collar and cuffs. There’s a matching cloak, plush and deep blue, draped across a nearby bench with a note sat on it that read;
If your teeth so much as chatter, I’ll carry you back up here and never let you out again.
You grin as you slip it on.
By the time you make your way down the stairs, John is waiting at the front arch of the castle’s garden wing, his own cloak flared open over dark slacks and boots dusted with frost. In one hand is a woven picnic basket, the other reaching for you the moment you come into view.
You hesitate for only a breath — then slip your hand into his.
The castle doors open, and the cold hits your cheeks immediately — but it’s fresh and invigorating, the kind of cold that makes your lungs ache in the best way. The gardens stretch before you like something out of a painting, hedges kissed with frost, rose bushes blooming despite the freeze, glimmering in the morning light like they’ve been dipped in diamonds.
A little clearing just ahead has been set up with a thick fur blanket and overstuffed cushions. John leads you there, guiding you down gently before settling beside you, his thigh pressed against yours for warmth.
From the basket, he pulls out warm bread, soft cheese, dried berries, and a flask of something sweet and spiced. You take the first bite and sigh softly.
“You weren’t exaggerating,” you murmur. “This is beautiful.”
John turns toward you, his eyes softer than the morning light. “It’s nothing compared to you.”
You smile sheepishly as you finish the piece of bread slowly, savoring it more than you expected. Everything tastes better out here. Or maybe it’s just the way he watches you — attentive but not overwhelming, quiet but never distant. There’s something grounding in the way John is simply there.
“You keep looking at me,” you murmur, brushing a few crumbs from your fingers.
John doesn’t look away. “I can’t help it.”
You huff a soft laugh, feeling heat creep up the back of your neck despite the cold. “Is that what you do with all the mysterious unregistered omegas who turn into wolves and run from you?”
A deep chuckle rumbles from his chest, his eyes glinting like sunlight off ice. “You’re the only one, I promise.”
“You must think I’m…” You trail off, unsure how to finish that sentence. Wild? Unhinged? Dangerous?
But John simply shakes his head. “I think you’re surviving.”
That silences you for a long moment. The wind shifts gently through the evergreens around you, scattering a few crystalline flakes down onto the blanket. You glance at him again — and something in your chest gives a soft, uncertain flutter.
He offers you a berry from the basket. You take it with fingers brushing his, feeling the quiet weight of the moment settle between you.
“You’ve never had peace,” he says suddenly, voice low and thoughtful. “Not really.”
“I want that for you.” He leans closer, gaze unwavering. “I want to give you things no one ever did. Comfort. Rest. A future you can actually imagine.”
Your breath catches in your throat.
“I’m not asking for promises,” he adds quickly, like he’s afraid he’s said too much. “But I would like to know you more. Not just the pain or the past. You. What you like. What you dream about. What makes you laugh.”
Your lips curl into something shy, unsure. “You’re very good at this.”
Silence stretches between you for a moment — soft, and full of meaning. The sound of distant bells ringing in the city below filters through the trees, mingling with the rustle of snow-covered branches.
Finally, you break it. “I used to dream about running.”
John’s brow lifts slightly.
“Not away,” you clarify. “I was born here. My mother lived here. I wouldn’t ever want to leave it. Just… running. Free. Without someone waiting to punish me at the end of it.”
His jaw tenses — and then his hand finds yours, curling over it with gentle warmth. “What do you dream about now?”
You hesitate. Then whisper, “I haven’t dared yet.”
He lifts your hand, presses a kiss to the back of it. “Then start small. Dream of lunch. Dream of kissing me again.”
You try not to smile — you fail.
“Dream of tomorrow,” he says softly. “Because I promise you’ll wake up with me still here.”
You shift sitting cross-legged on the thick wool blanket, john puts a small plate of cheese and warm, buttered bread on your lap.
The cold doesn’t bite like it should — not with John beside you, your cloak draped over your shoulders, and his warmth so close it feels like sunlight hidden in flesh.
You chew slowly, your gaze drifting across the castle gardens blanketed in frost. Icy petals curl at the edges of winter roses, but they still bloom defiantly, stubborn against the cold. You admire them quietly, drawn to their fragile strength. Beautiful and brittle and still standing.
“Those are frostfire blossoms,” John says softly beside you, watching your expression. “They only bloom in winter. Rare. Temperamental.” He tilts his head. “Much like someone else I know.”
You roll your eyes with a small, amused huff, but don’t look away from the flowers.
Another quiet stretch passes as the wind brushes through the hedges, carrying with it the subtle scents of snow, spice, and pine. Then John speaks again — softer this time. Measured.
“How did you do it?” he asks.
You blink, turning toward him. “Do what?”
“Shift.” His eyes search yours — not demanding, but deeply curious. “You turned into a wolf, a true one. I haven’t seen a shift like that since I was a child. It’s all but myth now. Most think it’s something that faded out with the old bloodlines.”
You freeze, breath caught. The half-eaten bread in your hand forgotten. You look down at it, at the crumbs caught between your fingers. Your voice, when it comes, is quieter than you mean it to be.
John watches you for a beat, brows furrowing slightly — not in frustration, but in concern.
“I didn’t even know I could,” you admit. “I just… ran. Everything in me screamed to run. I was scared and desperate and—” Your voice shakes slightly. “And then I wasn’t me anymore.”
His gaze is unwavering, but not sharp. Not judging.
“It didn’t feel wrong,” you continue, more to yourself than to him. “It felt like… like opening a door I didn’t know was locked. Like she’d been there all along. Waiting.”
John’s hand finds yours again, grounding you.
“Most shifters,” he says slowly, “have to be trained. Coaxed. Guided. You… became. Like it was instinct.”
You swallow. “Does that scare you?”
He shakes his head, his thumb stroking slowly over your knuckles. “It makes me want to protect you even more.”
That draws your eyes back to his — startled, a little breathless. But there’s no teasing in his expression. Only reverence.
“It makes me think the world doesn’t deserve you,” he adds quietly. “But I’ll make damn sure it treats you better from now on.”
You nod faintly, unsure how to reply — unsure how to accept so much warmth when you’ve lived with cold for so long.
So instead, you lean into his side and close your eyes for just a moment. The food, the frost, the flowers — they all melt into the background.
For the first time, you don’t feel like something broken trying to be put back together.
The days pass like something out of a dream you’re terrified to wake up from.
Each morning, John is there — sometimes with breakfast already laid out, other times with boots in hand and a mischievous glint in his eyes, urging you to come now, before the frost melts off the hills.
You ride across open fields, Sunfyre’s hooves pounding over snow-dusted grass, your hair loose and wild behind you. You laugh more now — not the quiet, careful kind, but the deep, open sort that echoes out across the trees. John watches you like he’s seeing the moon rise for the first time, every single time.
One afternoon he takes you to the mountains, hiking up a winding path until your legs ache and your breath fogs the air — and just when you’re about to tease him about dragging you to the edge of the earth, you round the final bend and see it.
A waterfall, frozen at the top, but melting into a glittering cascade beneath. Rainbows scatter in the mist, like something from a myth. You swear you hear music in the wind. He doesn’t speak. He just pulls you close, lips pressed to your hair, holding you like the moment itself is sacred.
The next day, it’s a hidden cave warmed by ancient hot springs, steam curling in the winter air as you dip your feet into the mineral-rich pool. John sits behind you in the shallows, fingers massaging your shoulders, and the sound you make earns a low chuckle from his throat — one that sends a ripple through your core.
It’s strange. You’re not ill, but you feel different.
Your muscles are leaner, more defined, your thighs firmer beneath your dresses, your arms stronger. The reflection in your bathwater isn’t the girl who scrubbed floors and hid behind masks. Your skin glows. Your lips are fuller. Your hair slips through your fingers like silk.
Even your scent — it’s stronger now, richer. Cinnamon and sugar, yes, but something more complex. Something potent.
You’ve noticed other things, too.
The way your breasts feel heavier, fuller beneath your bodices. The faint, pulsing warmth that simmers low in your belly when John’s voice dips an octave, when his breath grazes your neck, when his hands settle on your hips without thought.
And then there are the cramps. Dull, low, and always blooming behind your navel when he gets too close. Not painful — not exactly. Just insistent. As though your body is shifting, preparing. Ready for something it’s been waiting for all along.
You don’t tell him. Not yet. Maybe because you don’t understand it yourself.
But you catch him watching you, sometimes, his nostrils flaring almost imperceptibly, his jaw working as though keeping something deep inside.
Almost like he knows something he doesn’t quite wish to tell you yet.
You can feel it in the way he touches you now. Softer. Hungrier. Reverent.
The bond between you isn’t just forming — it’s tightening. Like a silver thread wound between your ribs and his, tugging you closer each time you breathe.
And you don’t know where this ends. But for the first time in your life, you’re not afraid of what’s coming.
John wakes you gently, but something in his touch is different this morning.
His hand brushes along your arm, steady but quiet, and when you blink awake, the look on his face steals the breath from your lungs. Grim. Heavy. As if he’s already mourning the weight he’s about to place on your shoulders.
You sit up slowly, the sheets pooling around your waist, and his voice is hushed when he finally speaks. “Today is the trial.”
He doesn’t have to say whose.
Your breath stutters in your chest, your body already curling inward from instinct — a memory your bones remember too well. But John reaches out, his thumb brushing beneath your chin, lifting your face to his.
“You need to speak,” he says gently. “I’m sorry. I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t essential.”
You nod, wordless. Your throat is too tight to trust it.
He dresses you himself. Silks the colour of moonlight and frost. Diamonds drip from your ears and collarbone, glittering with quiet vengeance. The weight of them feels like armour — like proof that you are no longer the girl who cowered in her own home.
“You look like a queen,” John murmurs, kissing the crown of your head. “My queen.”
Your breath remains unsteady the entire walk to the courtroom, each step an echo of the past — but John never lets go of you. His hand rests firm and grounding at the small of your back, leading you forward with a quiet, devastating pride.
The doors open with a thunderous groan, and you walk the length of the hall beneath a ceiling of gold and judgment. Nobles and guards bow as you pass, but you barely notice them. You’re too focused on the thrones.
One carved of dark mahogany and gold leaf — his.
And one just beside it, smaller, more delicate, but no less commanding — yours.
John helps you turn and sit, regal and resolute, and only then do you look forward.
They’re there. Your stepmother. Your stepsisters. Shackled in chains of polished steel, faces pale beneath their court-painted masks.
You inhale sharply. But it isn’t fear that tightens your chest. It’s satisfaction. It curls through you like smoke — hot and dark and earned. You feel it in the way your spine straightens, in the way you tilt your chin just so. You feel it when your stepmother dares to meet your gaze and flinches, realizing she cannot touch you anymore.
John leans in, voice low beside your ear, a steady warmth against your cheek.
“Take your time,” he murmurs. “Say everything you need to say.”
You rise slowly, your silken skirts whispering around your feet as the courtroom holds its collective breath. The high judge, cloaked in maroon and gold, addresses you with reverence. “Please speak your truth my Queen.”
You take one slow breath.
“I was raised in my father’s house. After his passing, I lived under the care of his widow and her daughters. They never called me by name. Only girl, or you, or it. I was not raised with kindness. I was raised with cruelty.” Your voice is steady despite the tremble beneath your skin.
Your stepmother scoffs from where she stood, the chains clinking. “How dare you—”
“Silence,” the judge commands, striking his staff once against the marble. Your gaze remains locked on her. Cold. Unflinching.
“They beat me. Starved me when I made a mistake or didn’t scrub the floors fast enough. I slept on straw. Ate scraps if I was lucky. They locked me in the attic for days on end, especially when I presented as an omega. I was told no one would ever want me. That I was dirty. Worthless. A burden.”
The nobles gasp, and the king’s guards shift uncomfortably. Your stepsisters lower their eyes, but your stepmother glares defiantly.
“I was forbidden to register as an omega,” you continue, voice gaining strength. “She was afraid the crown would take me away and she’d lose her free labour. That someone might care enough to notice the bruises. That someone might look at me and see what she didn’t want them to.”
You feel the heat of John beside you — burning like a wildfire barely held in check.
“I made my own dress,” you say. “Snuck out. I just wanted one night of freedom. I never expected…” Your voice falters for just a breath, and John’s hand tightens around the hilt of his sword. “I never expected to be seen. To be—”
Your stepmother lunges forward, basically frothing at the mouth. “Lies! The girl was feral! Ungrateful! She seduced—!”
“Enough,” John’s voice cuts through the room like a blade. He stands from his throne, towering, radiant with fury. “You dare to speak? You dare to say she seduced anyone after what you did? What you allowed your daughters to do?”
“Your Majesty—” she begs.
“No,” he growls, the entire court silencing at his wrath. “You are no mother. You are no lady of this realm. You are filth wrapped in jewels, and this kingdom will no longer rot under the weight of your venom.”
You watch her pale. The judge turns to you. “Do you wish to submit your statement as full testimony under the law, to be used in judgment?”
He bangs the staff again. “So be it.”
Then he turns to John. “Your Majesty?”
John’s voice is quiet now, cold and final. “Strip them of their titles. Banish the daughters to labor farms. The woman… lock her in the dungeon until I decide if she’s even worth the trial of exile.”
Screams erupt behind the chains. Your wicked stepsisters sob. Your evil stepmother curses. But you remain still. Calm. Satisfied.
John reaches for your hand and lifts it to his lips.
“Let the record show,” he says, loud enough for the court to hear, “This magnificent woman is my mate,” John declares, voice like thunder crashing through the high-ceilinged courtroom, “and she will be your queen.”
A tremor rolls through the chamber.
Your stepmother’s eyes fly wide—wider than you’ve ever seen them—and she staggers. The moment the words leave his mouth, the wolven hierarchy embedded deep in her blood responds. That primal magic that governs all alphas, betas, and omegas hums to life. She drops.
She doesn’t even fight it—she can’t. Her legs buckle, her hands hit the floor, and her eyes brim with panic as her bones lock into submission.
Every other noble in the room shifts uneasily, instinctively lowering their gaze or tilting their head to bare their necks—to the king, to the Alpha of Alphas, and now to you.
But the moment of stunned silence is broken—By you. A broken, high-pitched whine slips from your throat.
“John…” your voice cracks, and then a sharp, cruel cramp tears through your abdomen. You double over where you sit beside him on the throne, gripping your stomach, your breath coming in panicked little gasps.
John is on you in an instant, already turning you toward him, his arm around your waist the only thing keeping you upright.
“Sweetheart?” he murmurs urgently. “Look at me, what is it?”
“I don’t know,” you whimper. “It hurts.”
And then the scent hits the room. Thick. Potent. Raw. Cinnamon, sugar, wildflowers and heat, all alight with something raging, ancient, and untouched. Like a wildfire being born. Like a sun blooming behind storm clouds.
Every noble stiffens. Some gasp. Others avert their gaze completely. Your scent floods the air, heavy and unrestrained, too much too fast because your body was never allowed to prepare for this, never taught how to handle what it means to be an omega. Suppressed for too long. It snaps free now—and it hurts.
“It burns,” you cry, sweat starting to bead along your hairline, your fingers curling into his chest. “John—it burns.”
“I know,” he says softly, calmly, a soothing force despite the chaos around you. “It’s your first. Your body’s never done this before. It’s coming on hard because it’s been waiting too long.”
You can hardly hear the gasps and rustling behind you. Court forgotten. The world narrowed to this moment—you and him.
John’s eyes don’t leave your face, even as the scent swells. And he isn’t shaken. He isn’t panicked. He is calm and collected.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I know how to help you, sweetheart. Just breathe for me, alright?” Your muscles twitch, your thighs press together instinctively, your body trembling with uncontainable energy, the ache gnawing at the core of you.
John stands and lifts you into his arms in one fluid motion, holding you against his chest like you’re the most sacred thing he’s ever touched. His scent envelops you, clean and strong, already doing the work to soothe yours.
“Court is dismissed,” he growls to the stunned room without even turning around. “Anyone who lingers will answer to me.”
No one dares move as the King strides out with his mate clinging to him, body trembling from the storm within. And as the doors close behind you, his voice drops to a soft, low murmur, “I’ll fix this, love. I’ll show you what it means to be cherished.”
John lowers you gently into the nest—your nest, woven by your own hands just days ago with his help. Pillows and blankets layered in silks and soft cottons, warm and welcoming, still scented of you and of him.
But now your scent is different. Overwhelming. Undeniable. You’re flushed, cheeks glowing like embers and hot to touch, eyes glazed with need as you wriggle against the cushions. Your skin is too tight, everything burns.
The diamonds around your neck sparkle against the firelight until your trembling fingers claw at them, tearing them free in frustration. The chain snaps, scattering gems across the floor. John doesn’t flinch.
He doesn’t care about the jewels.
The way your hands grasp at the bodice of your gown, tugging it down, struggling to breathe under the weight of it all. The silk that once made you feel like royalty now feels like a prison.
“Too hot,” you whimper, almost delirious as you kick at the skirts. “Too much—John, it hurts.”
Your mating gland, flushed and swollen—pulsing. It calls to him like a beacon, every throb like a heartbeat he can feel in his chest.
John kneels beside the nest, reverently, watching as you writhe beneath the flickering firelight. There’s no hesitation in his gaze, only control—lethal, consuming control.
“You need me,” he says softly, “And I will not fail you.”
Your eyes find his, wide and wet and desperate. You don’t have the words, your body has taken over—but the cry that slips from you when your hand brushes the mating spot on your own neck speaks volumes.
John’s jaw clenches, the cords of restraint tightening inside him. He could take you here and now. Could bury his teeth and knot himself into you. But you are his omega, not a thing to be conquered.
So he waits. Just long enough. Until you reach out, fingers brushing his chest, his shoulder, until your body arches toward him and you whisper, “Please.”
John is on you the moment the word leaves your lips.
You don’t even know what you’re asking for—only that your body is screaming, molten in your veins, pulsing heat deep in your belly, clawing up your spine. And he knows. He’s known since the first painful cramp curled you forward on that throne.
His hands are firm as he eases you back into your nest, fingers tugging the remaining fabric of your gown down your body. You gasp as the cold air touches your fevered skin, but John is there, his palms soothing, stroking, grounding.
“You’re burning up,” he murmurs, voice low and deep with restrained need. “Your body’s ready, isn’t it, little one? It needs me.”
You nod, eyes wet, breath shallow, “Make it stop,” you whimper. “Make it better.”
That breaks something in him.
“Shh,” he soothes, leaning down, lips brushing your cheek, your jaw, the shell of your ear. “I’ll take care of everything. I promise.”
He strips his shirt over his head, baring the strong, broad body of a warrior—your alpha. He lowers himself over you, surrounding you, his scent pouring over your senses, cool and strong and warm all at once. You shiver despite the heat as your omega keens in relief.
You feel claimed—before he’s even touched you where it matters.
John’s mouth captures yours, and this time, it’s not gentle. It’s consuming. Claiming. His hands cradle your jaw as his lips part yours, tongue stroking deep into your mouth with a groan that rumbles in his chest.
Your thighs part instinctively, and John presses between them, groaning at the slick heat waiting for him. He breathes deep—cinnamon and sugar and the sweet ache of you in heat—and it undoes him.
“You’re perfect,” he growls. “So perfect, my sweet little omega.”
When he enters you, it’s slow—but not hesitant. He rocks into you in a single smooth thrust, stretching you around him, your gasp turning into a breathless cry. Your body clutches at him like it knows him, like it’s always been waiting for him.
John cups your cheek, pressing his forehead to yours. “You were made for me,” he whispers. “Mine.”
Your nails dig into his shoulders.
His hips move, building a rhythm, deep and steady, each stroke driving you closer to the edge. But even as your body tightens, ready to fall, the ache in your neck flares—the mating gland throbbing, begging.
“Look at me,” he commands gently, his hand guiding your face to his. “This will hurt for a second then it will never hurt again.”
You nod, trusting him with everything.
His fangs sink into your gland, sharp and deep, and you cry out at the jolt of pain that flashes white behind your eyes—but it’s gone as fast as it came, replaced with a rushing wave of bliss, like your soul just cracked into place.
You feel the bond snap into being like a thread woven between you and John , pulsing with life and love and belonging.
John licks the wound tenderly, soothing it, his thrusts deeper now—more urgent. His voice is raw in your ear, whispering, “Good girl. You took me so well. That’s it buck those his for me. So perfect.”
The pressure was so harsh, strong and powerful and nothing you’ve ever felt before. And when John whispers for you to cum for him it feels like a permission you didn’t know you needed.
Your climax hits you like a storm and you howl, body wracked with it, clinging to him as he follows, his knot swelling and locking him deep inside you. His mouth is still on your neck, his arms cradling your body as he groans your name.
You feel whole for the first time in your life.
John shifts slightly, making sure you’re not uncomfortable in your nest, brushing the damp hair from your forehead as you tremble, boneless and overwhelmed. He kisses your brow, his voice soft and reverent.
“Well done Omega.” He praises.
Your eyes flutter shut, overwhelmed in the best way.
Cradled in your nest, the scent of cedar and fresh rain enveloping you like a second skin. John’s arms are still wrapped tightly around your body, the heavy weight of him anchoring you in the deepest sleep you’ve ever known.
But that peace doesn’t last.
Your body stirs with a sudden jolt, a low, hollow ache blooming in your belly again — deeper this time, raw and urgent. You gasp softly, trying to shift, but the movement pulls against the knot still seated inside you. You whimper in surprise, the pulse of pain-turned-need making your eyes fly open.
“John,” you whisper, voice already trembling. “It… it hurts again—”
He’s awake before you finish the sentence.
His eyes blink open, sharp and alert despite the sleep still clinging to them. He props himself up on an elbow, his other hand gently smoothing down your side, over your hip, grounding you.
“Shh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, lips pressing to your temple. “It’s alright. You’re alright. I’ve got you.”
“But—” you try again, breath hitching. “Why is it back? I thought… I thought it was done—”
John’s eyes soften with understanding, the corners of his mouth tugging upward as he brushes a damp strand of hair from your forehead. He kisses the skin there, soothing and unhurried.
“Heats can last for days, sweetheart,” he says gently, voice warm and low like honey over gravel. “Especially your first one. Your body’s still figuring everything out — balancing your hormones, adjusting to the bond. You’ll ride these waves, and I’ll be right here through every one of them.”
You swallow thickly, tears of confusion and frustration beginning to sting your eyes.
“But I—I already—” you pause, voice cracking. “You already claimed me.”
“I did,” John murmurs, pulling you closer, his knot slowly softening, allowing you just a little more movement. “And I’ll keep claiming you as long as your body needs it. That’s what an alpha’s for.”
His hand slides over your belly, palm splayed across the place that aches most, warm and firm. The pressure soothes something primal in you, makes you gasp and sag into his touch.
“You’re going to be okay,” he promises, nose brushing yours. “Let me take care of you. Just like before. Let me help you ride it out.”
His words settle the panic clawing at your chest.
You blink up at him, breathing ragged. “…You…” you huff at the confusion still clinging to your brain.
John chuckles, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Sweetheart,” he growls low against your skin, “I want you like this. I need you like this. I’ll take care of every single need you have. For days. For weeks. Forever.”
You nod, soft and unsure but trusting.
And when he shifts over you again — patient, reverent, letting your body guide his — your omega yields with a soft, trembling sound.
And he’s not going anywhere.
Your skin burns like fever beneath silk.
The faintest brush of the sheets, the shift of your own thighs, the simple act of breathing in his scent — it’s all too much. Too sharp, too necessary. You don’t know whether you’re starving or drowning, only that you need.
He watches you come undone in slow motion, eyes heavy and hungry, but still so tender. His alpha stirs beneath his skin, barely leashed, but his control is not for himself — it’s for you. For your comfort. Your safety.
“Breathe for me,” he murmurs, voice a low purr, curling around your ear like smoke. “There you go. Let me take care of it, let me—”
You whimper, a ragged little sob as you arch toward him, hands clutching at his bare chest like a lifeline. Your heat has found its rhythm again — waves that start in your lower belly and spread outward, curling like fire through your limbs, sparking beneath your skin.
You gasp loudly, dazed and shaking. “I—John, it hurts. Please…”
He kisses you, slow and deep, silencing your panic, his thumb gently stroking your hip as the other hand cups the back of your neck. “I’ve got you,” he whispers. “You don’t have to think. Just feel.” He groans as he thrusts deep.
You whimper again, the scent of both your bodies thick and heady now. His knot has softened enough, but your body is already aching for the stretch, the claim again.
John growls low in his throat, scent sharpening. “You’re close again, aren’t you?” he says softly. “That little body begging me to fill it up, to knot you again like you’re mine—”
“I am yours,” you whimper, mind soft and pliant, eyes hazy.
The switch in him flips. His alpha floods forward in full — no longer soft, but reverent in its possession. He kisses down your neck with agonising slowness, his nose brushing over your mating gland already marked, already claimed. It pulses for him, and he groans when it does.
“I’ll make it better,” he promises, his voice dark and velvet-rich. “You’ll be full, you’ll be satisfied, and I won’t stop until this pain is just a memory.”
You barely hear him through the haze.
All you can do is reach for him, whimpering as his knot begins to swell again. The stretch, the fullness, the relief—it’s instant. You sob as your omega keens, wrapping around him like a ribbon, your body arching in welcome.
Each thrust hitting just where you need it, as his hand slides to your belly, pressing just enough to make you feel him even deeper.
“Beautiful,” he grits out. “So damn perfect, taking me like this. You were made for me.”
You nod, lost in the pleasure, in the bond, in the sense of finally belonging.
It builds again. That tight tension curling in your spine, in your womb, your entire self begging to break apart. When it does, your heat surges with it — a climax so intense it makes your vision flash white. And John doesn’t stop, knot swelling again, locking you to him until you cry out his name.
His arms around you, his lips against your jaw, your pulse syncing to his.
Like lightning under your skin.
The next wave of heat slams into your body with no warning, a guttural moan tearing from your throat as your back arches off the bed. The scent of your own arousal spikes, sticky-sweet and potent, and John — Alpha — growls like he’s been shot through the chest with it.
His head snaps up from where he was lying beside you. In a blink, he’s on his knees, crouched like a predator above you, golden eyes glowing, nostrils flaring as your scent coats the air thick and heavy. His thumb is on your clit rubbing in slow circles.
“You feel that, sweetheart?” His voice is low, wicked, hungry. “You smell like need.”
His rough palm drags down your side, over your hips, gripping and kneading, spreading you open like a meal laid out just for him.
“You’re soaked for me,” he groans, rubbing his cheek along your inner thigh, marking you with his scent, with the sweat and musk of an Alpha fully possessed by his mate. “So fucking pretty when you’re burning.”
Your nails dig into the nest, eyes fluttering.
“John—” you gasp, voice cracking as your omega whimpers, writhing beneath his touch, begging for more.
He licks a long stripe up your neck, slow and deliberate, before biting down just enough to leave a bloom of bruised skin.
“You need me, don’t you?” he breathes, voice gravel-rough. “Need your Alpha to fuck the ache away.”
Your body jolts. You don’t mean to moan — it just happens. The sound rips from your throat, desperate and raw.
“Say it,” he demands, one hand wrapped around your throat, thumb still stroking just enough to ground you. “Say what you need.”
You sob it — “You! I need you! I need my Alpha!”
He groans, dark and filthy, shoving his face between your legs, scenting you deeper, harder, until your thighs are slick with both his saliva and your need.
“Mine,” he snarls. “Every fucking part of you.”
And then his hands are everywhere.
Gripping your hips, pulling you down into his mouth. Splaying across your belly, feeling the twitch of your womb with each breath. His fingers dance over your breasts, thumb swiping across your nipples, watching how you writhe for him, mindless in the lust.
You’re crying from the pressure — from the overstimulation, from the need. Your omega is howling inside you now, all instinct and no inhibition, clawing for his knot, for his weight, for his claim.
“You were made for this,” John pants against your skin, rutting into the nest beside you, so close, so feral. “Made to take me. Take your Alpha. Beg for me, little omega.”
You don’t even know what you’re saying anymore, slurred moans and broken words spilling from your lips, pleading for more, for all of him. His hand wraps around your jaw, tilting your head as he stares into your tear-bright eyes.
“I’m gonna wreck you,” he growls. “Gonna fuck you so full you’ll never forget who you belong to.”
And then he’s pushing inside again, slow at first — a torment — and your whole body tightens, a scream locked in your throat as you claw at his shoulders. His pace builds quick, deep, possessive. Every thrust knocks the breath from your lungs and your mind from your skull.
John leans down, lips at your ear.
“I want my scent so deep inside you no one will ever dare look at you.”
Your body trembles, your omega bows low — and he takes. Ruts.
The scent of slick and Alpha, of mating, fills the room, thick and inescapable. You feel your bond thrum hot and tight like a live wire ready to snap. Your eyes glow faintly now too — as primal as the wolf pulsing beneath your skin.
And when he knots you again, locked in deep, you scream his name like a prayer — not because it hurts, but because it feels like everything.
You don’t know how long it lasts. You don’t even know your name.
Just his voice, rough and worshipping at your throat:
“That’s it, omega. You’re mine. All mine. Forever.”
Everything feels soft. Heavy. Like you’re floating in warm honey, your limbs boneless, your skin still tingling. The air smells of crushed petals and John. Of musk and pine, of home.
A gentle hand brushes back the hair from your temple, and you blink blearily up into his face — your Alpha’s face — calm now, composed again, though the gold in his eyes still flickers low, banked like fire beneath ash.
“There she is,” he murmurs, voice wrapped in silk and gravel.
You shift, instinct making you curl toward his heat, but your muscles protest, too tender, too worn out. A whimper catches in your throat before you can stop it pulled from the ache in your bones.
“Easy, sweetheart,” he soothes, already cradling you higher against his chest. “You’re done. Let me take care of you.”
His hand is at your back, the other lifting something to your lips — a slice of pear, cool and juicy. You part your lips, chewing slowly, tasting the sweetness. Another follows, then a sip of water from the goblet he tilts carefully for you to drink.
“You’ve got to stay hydrated,” he says, his thumb brushing over your jaw. “Heat drains everything from you.”
Your throat works to swallow, still raw, but you manage. “How long…?”
“A day and a half.” He smiles faintly. “You slept most of it, after… after the last wave.”
You can barely remember it — just flashes of white heat, of his voice grounding you, of your body finding that unbearable bliss again and again.
“I feel… achy,” you mumble, eyelids drooping again as your body melts into his hold. “Tired. But not bad.”
John shifts behind you, just enough to settle the two of you further into the nest. His warmth surrounds you — his scent, his presence, his heartbeat thudding slow and steady beneath your cheek.
“I could stay here forever,” you whisper.
“You will,” he replies, his hand sliding over your side, not with lust, but comfort — protective, loving, yours. “This is your place now. Your nest. Your home.”
You hum in response, half-lost to sleep again as he feeds you one last piece of fruit, then kisses your temple.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, “You can sleep love.” And you do knowing you’re safe in the arms of the man who loves you.
You tried so hard everyday to hang onto the snagging rope you had been dangled from against your will; desperate to climb to the top.
And you finally found the strength to, John waiting for you at the top with a proud smile.
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