Page 51 of Fated Wolf's Redemption

I take with a kiss that feels like a whispered prayer interlaced with a fervent claim—a sensual communion of longing and desire. His lips, coarse from the high mountain air, carry a surprising warmth and an intimate familiarity, as if both nature and shared memories sculpted them. My fingers trail insistently down his chiseled chest, the scratch of my nails leaving subtle, burning marks that echo the intensity of our passion. Slowly, deliberately, I lower myself to my knees, my eyes tracing every shift in his expression.

I do not hurry this moment. I watch him with rapt attention—his head tilts back, eyes closing in surrender, and his jawclenches in a mix of anticipation and pleasure. His fingers grasp the ledge behind him so tightly that they render the space almost sacred with their silent plea. I move in sync with the rise and fall of his breath, attuned to the subtle tremors of his body as it strains against a delicious, restrained force. In the delicate pause of his movement, I see his vulnerability in the trembling of his thighs and the nearly silent gasp that slips past his lips.

Kneeling before him, Lucas smiles down at me with a mix of mischief and longing, and, emboldened by his look, I continue my exploration. I free his rigid erection, a proud, throbbing declaration of his arousal, and let my tongue swirl around it in languid, skilled circles, savoring the raw, intoxicating taste of desire and anticipation.

My hand finds its way along his thick, commanding shaft—from the base of the plum-like tip where his passion begins, down towards the dense balls that speak of his need. I lower my mouth, enveloping him gently at first in soft, teasing suction that blooms into more insistent, determined strokes as his quiet moans turn into stifled, pleasure-filled gasps. His hand, light as a caress, runs through my hair, guiding me up and down his length while each pulse of his veins under my tongue becomes a rhythm in our shared dance of lust. I circle the head with reverence, tasting him deeply as if each drop carried the essence of his inner fire. His fingers nestle into my hair, holding me in a tender grip even as the rhythm of his shallow thrusts into my mouth intensifies.

The taste of him is a heady blend of raw power and simmering desire—a flavor so addictive it drives my hunger higher. Even as I pleasure him, my own desire flares palpably; the throbbing ache of my body hints at the promise of what awaits, a silent longing for the moment we become one again in every sense. The rough fabric of his jeans grazes my cheek as he grows ever more insistent in my mouth, urging me to welcomeevery part of him. His grunts of ecstasy meld into soft groans of yearning when I pause, only to meet his arousal with slow, demanding kisses that speak of shared impatience.

Hovering above him, I guide his throbbing desire toward the warm, inviting entrance of my core. Anchoring myself by gripping his hips firmly, I allow him to steady me as I take him within me once more. In that sacred alignment, he lets me set the pace, and our mutual desire leads us into a slow, hypnotic rhythm where our breaths merge into a single, primal cadence. My head falls softly against his shoulder while he presses his face into the tender hollow of my neck, his warm, trembling breath sending shivers of delight across my skin.

No words pass between us. We converse only through the language of movement—complementary and unspoken, free from the desire to fight or dominate. Instead, we are simply together, our bodies entwined in a delicate balance of need and reverence. His hands cradle my hips as if I were a rare treasure, and my fingers navigate the soft terrain of his hair while my lips linger on the warmth of his shoulder. Every thrust, every shallow gasp, every meeting of skin against skin builds slowly into a crescendo that transcends mere physical release.

When our passion finally peaks, it is not an explosive burst, but an all-encompassing flood—an overwhelming cascade that consumes us. In that ultimate surrender, my nails dig deeply into him as I shatter into fragments of ecstasy. He groans against my skin, his arms wrapping around me with a desperate, protective strength, as if in that embrace we were the last bastions of solidity in a world on the brink of collapse.

Later, when I slide off him, my body hits the cold tile. He settles beside me, one hand under my chin, the other drawing slow shapes on my stomach.

“We’re not breaking,” I whisper. “We’re bending toward each other.”

His voice is rough, but sure. “Then let’s break the rest of the world first.”

CHAPTER 14

SOPHIA

The lodge is already buzzing when I walk in. Not the usual soft hum of Nightshade wolves coming and going through the halls, not even the tense silence we’ve all learned to live with over the past few weeks. No, this is louder. Sharper. Voices raised just enough to be threatening, boots too heavy on hardwood floors, the kind of energy that settles under the skin like a live wire.

Lucas walks beside me, his presence a wall of calm, dangerous purpose. Ryder and Isabella flank us, both dressed like they’re ready for a war that might start in the next five minutes. Because it might.

They cleared the main hall, pushing every table to the side, creating a wide circle of chairs filled with wolves from nearly every regional pack. Ironclaw’s delegation sits to the right—older, more reserved, all in muted armor and colder expressions. Thornfang’s wolves glare from the opposite side, as if they regret being forced to surrender their weapons at the door.

And us? Nightshade’s front and center, Ryder gives way to Lucas, who takes the lead. Not just by design. But by instinct.

He doesn’t pause when he reaches the center of the room. He just turns, folds his arms across his chest, and speaks.

“We called this summit because the world you think you’re still living in is gone.”

No preamble. No apologies. Just truth, thrown like a blade.

I step up beside him, holding the journal we recovered and a data slate with the latest findings. I meet every gaze I can as I speak.

“We’ve uncovered glyphs—ancient, corrupted ones. We now know Lina, the Windrider, thought dead, is alive. She and Cain have been working together. Experimenting. Creating hybrid creatures with shifter DNA twisted by something pulled from the Deep Below.”

There’s a flicker from Ironclaw. No surprise. Recognition.

I nod to Lucas, and he gestures to the slate Ryder’s just passed to the closest elder. It cycles through images—Cain’s lab, the hybrid fetus in the tank, the glyphs on the walls.

“We believe they’re trying to open the gate permanently,” Lucas says. “Not to step through. To bring what’s beneath to the surface.”

Grumbles rise across the room. Doubt. Frustration. I wait. Let it build. Then I strike.

“These are not legends. They’re not Windrider campfire stories. I’ve seen Lina. I’ve felt her power. And Lucas has heard the call from beyond the gate. Something is waking, and it’s using Cain and Lina to clear the path.”

“She’s a Windrider,” one of the Thornfang elders scoffs, waving a hand. “They’ve always believed in ghosts and doors that should stay shut. This is superstition wrapped in science fiction.”

“No,” I say calmly, “this is your reality now.”

“You expect us to believe Cain—a mortal scientist—is summoning demons from ancient realms?”

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