Page 10 of Broken By the Battleship

I weave my fingers into her hair, but she grabs the hem of my shirt and rises. The silky flesh of her stomach rubbing on my dick erases the pain of my stab wounds as she lifts my shirt.

I pull her hair, forcing her face toward the ceiling, and press my palm to her lower back, trapping my thick length between us.

Her entire body trembles and the stench of her fear clogs my nostrils.

I want more.

She tugs my shirt higher until the hem digs into my underarms.

“You told me to undress you. Raise your arms,” she says through gritted teeth.

I tilt my hips and groan at the smoothness of her belly along the underside of my shaft.

She digs her elbow into my side, reawakening the pain from my stab wounds. I hiss and cup her ass in warning. The heat of her flesh makes me want to check if I left a handprint from spanking her.

“Lift your arms,” she hisses.

I quirk a brow, the challenge in her stare both enticing my alpha instincts and engaging my higher thoughts. Her stiff nipples rub against my front, mere inches from the tip of my cock. Our size difference hits me for the first time.

I could break her body with little effort, but her body isn’t what I want most.

I release her and lift my arms. She rises onto tiptoe, testing my restraint as her body glides against mine, and pulls my shirt over my head and off my arms with only a little difficulty.

The stench of her father’s death clings to our pores.

I wrap my hand around her nape and open the inner door to my den.

Not meant to be a retreat for anyone but myself, I push my spoils of war over the threshold and force her to bend at the waist and look at the floor as I seal and lock the door. She stumbles as I push her across the room, but I don’t slow even when I enter the washroom.

Every surface, except for the massive mirror stretched over the row of sinks along the wall by the door, reflects the overhead lighting with a dull gleam. The burnished silver walls, fixtures, and flooring are from a time before the rains began, but they remain in surprisingly good condition. When I found the oasis almost a decade ago, I vowed to make the suite of rooms my own and maintain them to my standards.

And I have. I removed the partitions between the shower heads, tore out all but one toilet, and added a large basin to use as a soaking tub.

I lead my omega across the room and push her against the wall before leaning down to growl in her ear.

“Don’t move, kitten.”

I step back and wait. When she doesn’t move, I turn on all six shower heads before grabbing the soap off the sink counter.

“What do they do at the ward?” she asks, loud enough for me to hear her over the rushing of water, but the stunned awe in her tone as she watches the spray ruins her attempt to sound in control.

I smirk and stick my arm in the shower to test the temperature.

Her hungry eyes track my every move as I adjust the dials.

“Train future soldiers.”

The moment my words pierce her stupor, she snaps her gaze to mine.

“No.”

The angst in her tone heightens my senses. I chuckle and stalk toward her.

“If your brothers survive, they’ll be loyal to me,” I say as I push her under the spray.

She hisses and fights, but I grab her upper arms and force her back into the water. Her breasts bounce as her chest heaves with angry breaths, and she kicks and squirms so hard I almost lose my grip on her wet flesh, but the fiery pain in my side keeps me grounded.

I enjoy her wriggling as I lather her body with soap, the slippery glide almost as enticing as her anger.

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