Page 79 of Storms of His Wrath

The raw honesty in his admission shattered the last of her resistance. With a soft sound that was half-surrender, half-relief, she let him pull her closer until she was straddling his thighs, careful to avoid jarring his injured shoulder. Her borrowed Ilia clothing had been replaced with flowing silk in deep emerald that made her copper hair shine like fire in the lamplight.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, hands skimming up her sides with reverent appreciation. “Always so beautiful.”

Despite his injury, his arousal was hard and ready through the thin fabric of his sleeping clothes. The knowledge that he wanted her with such intensity sent answering heat pooling between her thighs, her body responding to his with the desperate hunger of too many careful days.

“I missed this,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “Missed you.”

“Show me,” he commanded softly, and the gentle dominance in his tone made her core clench with need.

Her fingers moved to the ties of her sleeping gown, undoing the silk with slow, practiced ease. The fabric slipped down her body, pooling at her waist and baring her breasts to the warm lamplight.

Akoro groaned—rumbly and deep. Even injured, the shift in him was unmistakable. His gaze dragged over her skin like a physical touch, eyes darkening with hunger, with something deeper—possessive reverence. The tension between them thickened. Her slick stirred at once, her body responding to the silent command in his stare. His uninjured hand lifted, rough palm cupping the soft swell of her breast. His thumb grazed the peak with maddening slowness.

“Perfect,” he rasped, voice deep and wrecked. “My perfect Omega.”

The possessive claim sent fire racing through her veins, a moan escaping her lips as heat bloomed low in her belly. She arched into his hand instinctively, her scent spiking, thick with need and submission. The reaction was visceral, beyond thought.

Even now—even injured—he was hers. But more importantly, she was his.

He sat back against the pillows, muscles straining with control, his chest wrapped in fresh bandages that did little to disguise his size. The wound slowed him, but it didn’t stop the way he watched her, hungry and unrelenting.

Naya climbed over him with care, straddling his lap, guiding her slick folds along the hard length of him. He groaned, low and desperate, his hand tightening on her hip as she teased him, rocking forward until the head of his cock slid through her slick, coating him in her arousal.

She reached down and guided him to her entrance, locking eyes with him as she sank down slowly, inch by inch, claiming him with her body. The stretch made her whine and pant.

His jaw clenched, eyes rolling back, the cords in his neck taut as he tried to hold still for her. His scent exploded around them, thick and heady, instinct at the ready. When she finally took him to the hilt, fully seated on his cock, they both froze—just for a breath—lost in the rightness of it. Of being joined and connected.

She started to move, hips rolling gently, keeping the rhythm slow to protect his wound, but the tension in him was building fast. His hands roamed her body—possessive, reverent, tracing the curve of her waist, the dip of her spine, the trembling of her thighs. Every drag of her cunt over him was slick and tight and devastating.

Her scent flooded the room, Omega heat rising with each pass.

She could see it in him—the need to take control, to claim, held back only by pain and sheer force of will. And it turned her on even more. Her body squeezed around him, clamping every inch.

His breath grew ragged.

“Let me,” she whispered against his throat, her voice breathless, lips brushing his skin. “Let me do it this time.”

He didn’t answer, but the low growl that rumbled in his chest was all the permission she needed. She rode him gently, then harder, finding that angle, that grind, that pressure that made them both come apart. When her orgasm hit, she cried out, body clenching hard around his cock, slick gushing between them. Her release pulled him over the edge.

He surged up, teeth bared in a snarl of pleasure, and slammed his hips up into hers once, twice—then knotted. The swell stretched her open, locking them together in a perfect,primal seal. She collapsed against his chest, panting, his scent wrapping around her like warmth, like territory, like home.

His knot throbbed inside her, pulsing with slow, possessive satisfaction as he emptied into her. Her body trembled with aftershocks, every part of her marked, filled, and sealed.

And beneath the heat and bond and thick breathless haze of satisfaction, she knew: This wasn’t just physical. This was belonging. This was where she was meant to be.

Afterward, they lay tangled together in the lamplight, her head pillowed on his uninjured shoulder while his fingers traced lazy spirals across her bare back. The satisfaction of their joining hummed between them, but beneath it lurked the same unspoken tension that had haunted their every interaction since stopping the storm.

“Akoro,” she began hesitantly.

“Don’t,” he said quietly. “Not tonight.”

She lifted her head to study his face, seeing the same conflict she felt reflected in his dark eyes. They both knew what needed to be discussed—the future, their agreement, the impossible choice that waited for them both. But neither seemed ready to voice the words that might shatter the fragile peace they’d found in each other’s arms.

“All right,” she agreed, settling back against his warmth. “Not tonight.”

But as sleep claimed them both, Naya couldn’t shake the sense that time was running out. Soon, they would have to face the reality waiting beyond these chambers—his duty to his people, her responsibility to her empire, and the devastating truth that love alone might not be enough to bridge the distance between their worlds.

For now, though, she was content to exist in the sanctuary of his arms, breathing in his scent and memorizing the steadyrhythm of his heartbeat beneath her palm. Tomorrow would bring its own challenges.

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