Page 58 of The Alpha's Broken Oath

And her neck? It calls to me like an electric charge.

The second my fangs touch her neck, Winter lets out an animalistic growl, I sink my fangs inside her, my cock moving inside her in one single thrust as well.

Winter doesn’t just scream. She calls my name like a saving grace.

The blood on my fangs as they retract from her neck is the most erotic thing I’ve ever seen in my life.

Being one with her, our minds almost becoming one, and my wolf feeling hers is catalytic.

I lick her mark as she sobs.

I’d never marked anyone before. When I was eighteen years old, my father taught me how to do it on the occasion I found my true mate.

I know there’s pain. Correction: I know she’s feeling the most intense pain of her entire life, and maybe some part of me is filled with doubts that I marked her and went overboard.

And yet, those doubts are completely erased as I taste her sweet blood off the mark. The intensity of it all solidifies my certainty that this is a primal act and a declaration of my ownership of her. It’s also a symphony of my devotion to her and our passion interwoven together.

My mate believes that, too, because her hands clutch my shoulders tighter, her body arching against mine.

“More.”

“Please…”

“I need…more, Deacon.”

I thrust deeper, the sounds of her cunt and her body accepting me echoing through my room like loud rock music.

Each thrust inside her cements something deeper between us. Every sob she lets out as I lick her mark over and over confirms we are bonded forever.

And the feverish kiss I give her when she clenches around me, triggering my orgasm, speaks one thing and one thing only.

Winter Cavanaugh is mine forever.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

WINTER

Darkness hovers above us, the only light coming from Deacon’s room being that of the moonlight streaming through his windows.

My legs feel like jello, any attempt of trying to stand will inadvertently lead me to the floor. Not that I plan on ever leaving this bed given the many hours we’ve rolled in Deacon’s sheets.

“I’m tired. So tired but I don’t feel like I ever want to stop, Deacon,” my voice comes out hoarse and raspy from screaming Deacon’s name all night. “The mark makes you crave me, and as much as I want to go at it again, baby. I know you’ve reached your limit. Sore?” Deacon asks, his voice low and rich, I can’t help it when a shiver runs down my spine.

The world slows around us, the intensity of the moment we had a few hours ago echoing in my body as I lie in his arms. I can feel his mark on my skin—his claim, his power—still burning lightly beneath his touch.

The bite on my neck throbs faintly, a constant reminder of the primal bond Deacon has just sealed between us.

I breathe in deeply, the air in Deacon’s room thick with our combined scent. His sharp, intoxicating musk melds together with mine in a way I didn’t expect and a way I’d never thought possible. It’s like combining two jagged pieces of a Jigsaw puzzle and watching them fit. Me and Deacon fit together.

Even as his hand gently brushes through my hair, fingers stroking the curve of my jaw, I can’t help but lean into the touch, savoring the softness of said hand against my skin.

The sense of us being finally complete charges over me with a certain buzz of happiness and euphoria. Deacon’s touch is tender like I’m something precious he fought for and won.

His hand feels soft with an undercurrent of something stronger, something fiercer, something possessive, something that relates to me owning him and him owning me.

I wait for the guilt after letting Deacon mark me, for the self-loathing and the unease to come, but they never do. The minute I let this man devour me in his kitchen, I knew I didn’t loathe him.

I knew I wanted him the way he wanted me.

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