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She glances back, and the unique dance of her dilated pupils—wild, dilated pools of mismatched hunger—answers prayers she has surely never voiced to the indifferent light. It is permission wrapped in silent confession, and triumph surges through me, possessive and obsessive.

This woman, who has survived cages and betrayals with a mastermind’s precision, offers me this vulnerability. I hum low in approval.

“It’s time to enjoy this confessional box, my darling. Confess thy sins.”

I am achingly hard again, my shaft glistening with her earlier release.

Using that generous slick as lubrication, I coat myself thoroughly before testing her with a single finger, pressing past the tight ring of muscle.

She quivers, a needy moan escaping as impatience colors her scent—strawberries sharpening to something tart and demanding.

“Patience, Violet,” I tease, adding a second finger to stretch her carefully, scissoring with deliberate slowness. “Or shall I make you beg like the brilliant deviant you are?”

“Crowe,” she warns, voice edged with that insane glint I adore, pushing back against my hand.

The bickering undertone sparks laughter in my chest even as lust spikes higher.

I withdraw my fingers and align myself, pressing the blunt head against her entrance.

“As you wish.” Inch by torturous inch, I slide into the impossible heat of her ass, groaning at the vise-like grip thatthreatens to unravel me instantly. The sensation is exquisite torment—tighter, hotter, a forbidden claiming that feels like absolution for every shadowed corner of my soul. We pant in unison, bodies locked, her scent now laced with deeper musk and surrender, mine blooming into something feral and possessive.

“This little hole is certainly just for me, hmm?” I murmur, voice thick with dark delight as I bottom out, hips flush against her. “Your sweet, tight secret. Not that I suggest hiding me, my love—never that. But only Crowe gets to savor this particular darkness until our pack is forged unbreakable. First dibs, darling. A privilege I will guard with my life.”

She moans in agreement, the sound guttural and raw, her mastermind’s calculations momentarily drowned beneath waves of sensation. I still, savoring the pulse of her around me, the way her body yields yet fights in the most intoxicating manner.

“Use your words, Violet.”

“Fuck yes,” she grits out, glancing back with eyes that promise both ecstasy and potential violence. “Now fucking move.”

I chuckle, the sound low and manic, and obey with building fervor.

My hips snap forward, establishing a punishing rhythm that draws gasps and curses from her lips. Pleasure builds dangerously, coiling like a spring in my core, her ass clenching with every thrust.

The room fills with the symphony of skin meeting skin, our mingled scents a heady fog that clouds reason. Sweat slicks our bodies; I reach around to tease her neglected clit, circling with precision that has her keening.

We teeter on the brink, her walls fluttering wildly, my knot beginning to swell with insistent pressure.

At the peak, I pull out swiftly—ignoring her frustrated whimper—and plunge deep into her pussy in one fluid stroke. The contrast draws a shared cry. I press her down into the carpet by the nape of her neck, dominating yet protective, my chest to her back as I drive into her with relentless force.

“Cum for me,” I command, lips brushing her ear, voice laced with obsessive possession. “Like the good psychotic Omega you are. Let me feel that brilliant mind shatter around my cock.”

She comes undone at my words, body convulsing in powerful waves that milk me with ferocious intensity.

Her release triggers mine; I bury myself as deep as possible, the bulge of my knot pressing insistently against her entrance. Breath saws from my lungs into the curve of her neck, body draped over hers in a claiming blanket of heat and devotion.

“You want my knot, my pretty peony?” I mutter against sweat-damp skin, fighting for control even as instinct screams to seal us.

She catches her breath in ragged pulls, the switch flickering in the air between us. I slide a hand to the front of her throat, gentle yet firm, tilting her head up until our eyes lock.

No longer Violet’s feral edge, but Vex’s glittering calculation stares back—mastermind and madness intertwined, intrigued and utterly captivating.

For a solid, suspended moment, she studies me, the strategist weighing fates while her body still trembles from aftershocks.

Then, voice husky and certain:

“Knot me up, Crowe.”

Triumph and tenderness collide within me. I grin, savage and adoring, and smother her with a devouring kiss as I inch my knot forward. It pops inside with a shared gasp, locking us together in exquisite fullness.