Page 5 of Stolen By the Submarine

With his massive hand holding my head to his chest, his muscular arm blocks most of my view, but flashes of red light reveal well-kept, painted walls and legible signs. The steady beat of his heart against my ear tempts me to nuzzle into him, but with only his shirt between my sex and his abdominals, I’m too aware of my predicament.

Despite the terror flowing through my veins, his promise to use me for years comforts me, even though a large part of me doesn’t believe him.

My entire life, I’ve only seen and heard stories of alphas using their strength for violence. The crazed men swarming my cage represent my expectations.

Maybe it’s because I’ve spent years hardening my heart against what The Sisters taught me to expect in the rutting room, but my fear seems so much easier to handle than the hope sneaking into my heart.

An embarrassing squeak bursts from my throat as the ground disappears out from under The Submarine.

He lands on the lower level, ignoring the ladder built into the wall, and continues without missing a stride.

I don’t want to give him access to my heart, but if he were the same as the other alphas, he would have savaged me on the deck of the slave market. I can’t ignore the restraint he’s shown, even if I hate how easily he could decimate my soul.

Hope hurts. That’s why I buried it so long ago.

I tell myself that living is enough, but to have an alpha claim and care for me would fulfill my omega heart’s deepest desire.

He mentioned offspring. I want younglings with every fiber of my being, but sourness coats my tongue.

The Sisters wanted to breed me, but any babe I birthed would belong to them. They never planned to allow me to raise my younglings.

I blink back tears as The Submarine stops and removes his hand from my head. My mind races as he spins the handwheel at the center of a large airtight hatch.

I don’t want to be his broodmare if he plans to take my younglings away from me, but I can’t imagine this giant, virile male suffering the fragile existence of a babe in his den.

It’s safer to send my younglings out of reach, where he can’t hurt them. Just the thought of separating from my theoretical children makes my heart ache, but I’ll accept his violence alone if it means protecting my offspring.

I jolt out of my musings as he ducks through the hatch into a tiny compartment. He shuts the first door and cranks the wheel until it seals with a hiss. I loosen my grip on his shirt, but duck closer to his chest to avoid scraping along the wall as he pivots to face the other door.

After breaking the watertight seal, he swings the inner hatch open and steps inside.

My core clenches at the delicious pheromones permeating throughout the space. I fill my lungs and hold my breath to savor the scent, but the stench of death wafting from my body ruins the rich bouquet.

He flicks a switch and bathes the room in painfully bright fluorescent light. I flinch and hold my eyes closed as he spins and seals the hatch.

My fear neither heightens nor diminishes as he locks us away from the world. The danger hasn’t changed. The sealed door is nothing compared to the submerged vessel. By hauling me onto his ship, he’s already ensured I have no escape.

I study the space through my lashes as The Submarine sits on one of the two benches lining the walls. Gear hangs from hooks in the ceiling and boxes sit under the benches. The rigid organization unsettles my omega instincts while my logical side appreciates the practicality.

A built-in ladder on the wall opposite the door leads to both an upper and lower level, each with their own watertight hatch, but with levers instead of wheels.

Cold air replaces the arms wrapped around me, but before I can react, the alpha pushes me onto my knees between his legs and uses my hair as a leash to lift my face toward his.

“Take out my cock.”

His guttural voice arrows into my abdomen and broadcasts his barely leashed desire while his stiff shoulders and tensed thighs confirm his waning control.

Mouthwatering musk punches into my nostrils. More enticing than the dessert I once earned from The Head Sister, the wet spot on his thigh wafts spicy cinnamon and alpha power.

Yearning fills me. Instinct demands a taste. I lean down and run the flat of my tongue over the soaked fabric.

His groan pulls me deeper into need.

I hiss as he tightens his grip on my hair.

“Don’t test me, angel. Take out my cock and put it in your mouth before I rut you on the floor,” he rumbles.

My core clenches. Pinching pain plagues my insides. Wetness seeps onto my folds. Saliva floods my mouth.

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