Page 24 of His Mate

But more than anything, I hated how desperately I wanted to see him again. Because even in the dark, even in the endless silence, I could still feel the ghost of his touch, the way his eyes had looked at me, like I was something more than a vessel to be bred.

The bite mark on my shoulder had faded, the bruises yellowing and turning ugly as they healed, until even that reminder of him started to disappear, just another scar among many. A part of me liked that his bite left a scar, because it wouldn’t let me forget what had happened between us.

Sometimes, when the silence of my cell grew too thick, I could feel him through the mark, like a faint pulse that thrummed beneath my skin. It was as if some invisible thread tied us together, a tether that twisted with his emotions, sending them rippling through me in waves I couldn’t ignore.

In those moments, it was impossible to tell where I ended and he began. I would lie there, eyes closed, and sense him—his anger, intense and blistering, burning through the connection like a live wire. I didn’t know where he was or what had stoked that fury, but I could feel the edges of it clawing at my insides whether I wanted it to or not.

I thought of him often.

I replayed the way he’d looked at me, those eyes shifting between amber and blue, wild and fierce, but with something softer hidden beneath the feral heat. It was maddening how vividly I could recall the warmth of his breath against my neck, the scrape of his teeth when he’d bitten me, the feeling of his cock erupting deep inside of me.

Everything.

At night, when I lay alone on the cot, staring up at the cracked ceiling, I let myself drift, let myself imagine what it would be like if he were here with me. I pictured his hands on me, demanding, possessive, like he couldn’t stand the thought of anyone else touching me. I imagined the way his body would feel pressed against mine, the heat of him filling me up completely and making me scream for him as I came for him over and over again until I passed out.

I fantasized about the way he’d whisper my name, the way his voice would drop into that low, rough growl that sent shivers racing down my spine, telling me that I belonged to him, that I was his and his alone.

I touched myself many times thinking about that. It broke up the day bit by bit. At first, I was embarrassed that someone might see me reaching my fingers between my thighs, touching my needy little clit until I came with a shout, but the more I did it, the less I cared.

It was one of the only things that made me feel good.

Two days later, the men came again. The same two that had dragged me into this place when it all began. I’d learned to recognize their heavy footsteps, the way they never bothered to knock before opening the door, as if I were nothing more than an animal to be herded around.

My loathing coiled deep inside me like a living, breathing thing.

I stood as they entered, refusing to cower, even as I felt that familiar twist of dread coil in my stomach. They didn’t bother speaking to me—just nodded to each other, grabbed me by the arms, and marched me out of the cell and down another dimly lit corridor.

We entered a different room this time, one I hadn’t seen before. It was bare, almost clinical, with padded walls and a single fluorescent light that buzzed audibly overhead. In the center was a sawhorse—a sturdy, padded wooden structure with straps dangling from each side.

My breath hitched as they led me to it, and I tried to dig my heels into the floor, tried to yank my arms free, but they were too strong, too practiced at handling women like me who still had some fight left. Plus, there were two of them and only one of me.

“Please,” I started, my voice rough, desperate.

“Quiet,” one of them muttered, not even glancing at me. They pushed me down onto the sawhorse, forcing my stomach to press against the padded wood, my arms stretched out in front of me as they fastened the straps around my wrists and ankles, binding me in place. I struggled, testing the restraints, but they held firm, leaving me face down, staring at the cold, unforgiving floor.

Then one of them flipped up my dress, exposing me completely. If anyone walked in the door right now, they’d be able to see every bit of my pussy and probably even between my ass cheeks.

It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what was going to happen next.

I was going to be fucked again. Maybe my first breeding hadn’t taken the first time, but there was a sick and twisted part of me that leapt at the chance to do something other than stare at the ceiling of my cell for another day. There was an even more deranged part of me that hoped this time wouldn’t take either, that the wolf that had bitten me would come back and breed me over and over again.

My pussy clenched just thinking about his thick cock sinking deep inside me and a lightning bolt of desire struck straight down to my clit.

One of the men grunted as he tightened the last strap, standing back to admire his work, and then they started talking, as if I wasn’t even there.

“I heard the higher-ups are getting antsy,” the first man said, scratching at the stubble on his jaw. “They’re saying production’s down. Way down.”

The second man nodded, leaning against the wall with a tired sigh. “Yeah, I heard the same. They’re starting to worry. Said we might have to change the age limit soon.”

My heart skipped a beat, and I craned my neck to look at them. “What do you mean?” I demanded, my voice harsher than I intended, cutting through the air like a hot knife through butter. “What are you talking about?”

But they ignored me. It was as if I hadn’t spoken at all.

“Eighteen,” the second man continued. “That’s what they’re saying. Start taking them at eighteen instead of nineteen. See if that boosts the numbers.”

The first man shook his head, letting out a low chuckle. “Used to be twenty back in the old days, you know. But I guess they can’t afford to wait anymore. Not with how things are going these days.”

I swallowed hard, my mind reeling.

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