Page 94 of Prey

“You’re human.” I kiss his forehead, his cheeks, tasting salt. “You’re broken, but you’re human. The fact that reliving this for me causes you pain proves it.”

He buries his face in my neck, his shoulders shaking. I hold him while he falls apart, our bodies still joined in the most intimate of ways. The physical connection becomes emotional, a bridge between two damaged souls who found each other in the wreckage.

“I don’t know how to be anything else,” he confesses against my skin.

“Then don’t be.” I tighten my arms around him. “Be exactly who and what you are. Be mine.”

He kisses me softly, reverently, like I’m precious.

“Mine,” he breathes.

“Yours,” I confirm.

And in this moment, surrounded by mirrors that reflect our brokenness intertwined, I mean it.

34

NIKOLAI

My body aches in ways I’d forgotten possible. Three days of relentless fucking have left us both wrung out, trembling with exhaustion that goes bone-deep. Jenna lies curled against my chest, her breathing finally steady, her pulse no longer racing.

I can’t stop touching her. My hands map the landscape of her skin—every bruise I’ve left, every bite mark, every place my fingers dug too deep. The evidence of my possession covers her like a second skin, and regret twists in my chest.

“Jenna.” Her name comes out rough, abraded by forty-eight hours of growling commands and desperate confessions.

She shifts against me, wincing slightly. I trace a particularly dark bruise on her hip bone, the perfect imprint of my grip. “I marked you everywhere.”

“Good.” Her voice is barely a whisper, but fierce. “I want them.”

The simple acceptance in her tone makes my chest ache. I press my lips to the crown of her head, then trail kisses down her temple, her cheek, along the column of her throat where finger-shaped bruises bloom purple against pale skin.

I kiss every mark. Every bite. Every place I claimed her too roughly, apologizing without words because I don’t know how to say sorry for taking what I needed from her body. My lips map her ribs, her hipbones, the tender skin of her inner thighs.

“Nikolai.” She threads fingers through my hair, tugs gently. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to be gentle.” The confession scrapes out of me.

Her laugh is soft, breathless. “Little late for that.”

But she lets me continue my silent penance, lets me worship the damage I’ve done with careful kisses and touches. When I reach the bite mark on her shoulder, I linger there, tasting salt and the faint copper of blood I drew.

“Come on.” I gather her carefully, supporting her weight when her legs shake. “Let me clean you up.”

The bathroom connects to this room, all black marble and chrome fixtures. I start the water running hot, steam rising like incense while I help her step into the oversized tub.

I climb in behind her, settle her between my legs so her back rests against my chest. The hot water makes her sigh, muscles relaxing as I reach for soap and begin washing her.

My hands shake as I clean her. This intimacy feels more dangerous than anything we’ve done in the breeding room. More vulnerable than confessions whispered in darkness. I’m washing away two days of sweat and sex and claiming, and with it go the walls I’ve built around myself.

I work shampoo through her hair, massage her scalp until she melts against me. Soap her shoulders, her arms, careful around the marks I’ve left. When I reach between her thighs to clean where I’ve been buried for hours, she makes a soft sound that shoots straight to my cock.

“Still sore?” I murmur against her ear.

“Everything hurts.” But she rocks back against my growing erection, a deliberate tease. “But I don’t care.”

The admission undoes me. My careful, gentle washing becomes exploration, hands relearning every curve while clean water sluices over us both. She turns in my arms, faces me with water droplets caught in her eyelashes like diamonds.

“Can’t keep my hands off you,” I admit, the words dragged from somewhere deep. “Even now. Even when you can barely move from exhaustion.”