Page 45

"Most battlefield victories require bad ideas." His hand releases my wrist, instead rising to cup my face with surprising gentleness. "The question is whether the potential gain justifies the risk."

The calculated risk assessment, so typical of his strategic mind, somehow makes this moment more intimate than pure passion would.

He's considering this—considering us—with the same tactical precision he applies to military operations.

Yet beneath the strategic thinking, I detect something rarer, something his guarded nature rarely shows.

Want. Need. Desire beyond biological imperative.

My decision crystallizes with sudden clarity.

I lean forward, pressing my lips to his deliberately.

Not the desperate battlefield kiss outside the caves, not the tender contact as he drifted into injured sleep, but something claiming in its own right.

His response is immediate, mouth opening beneath mine with hunger that defies his weakened state.

The kiss deepens, his tongue—rougher than human, made for grooming and claiming rather than just pleasure—exploring my mouth with thorough intent.

The rasp of it against my own tongue sends shivers down my spine, a sensory reminder of his alien nature that now excites rather than repels.

The taste of him floods my senses—medicine herbs and something uniquely feline, wild and powerful even in injury.

When we finally break apart, both breathing harder, his eyes have darkened to burnished gold, pupils expanded in the low light and heightened emotion.

"You aren't strong enough for this," I say, my words undermined by my hands already moving to unfasten my clothing, my fingers trembling with an urgency I don't try to hide.

"Then you'll have to do the work," he counters, a flash of the commanding alpha emerging through the injured warrior. "Take me, omega. Show me what you need."

The challenge ignites something within me—not submission but its opposite. Power. Control. The ability to reduce this fearsome commander to something vulnerable beneath my hands. My core clenches at his words, slick already gathering between my thighs embarrassingly fast.

I strip efficiently, practical rather than seductive, though his gaze tracks each revealed inch of skin with predatory appreciation. When I stand naked beside the bed, his nostrils flare wide, drinking in my scent with visible satisfaction.

"Gods, you're dripping for me already." His voice drops an octave, rumbling from deep in his chest. "The pregnancy makes you even sweeter down there. I can smell how wet you are from here."

The crude words from his usually controlled mouth send another rush of heat through me. I've never heard him speak so explicitly outside of rut-driven claiming.

"Come here," he growls, one hand reaching toward me while the other moves to unwrap the simple covering around his hips. "I need to feel you, to be inside you."

I comply, but on my terms—carefully straddling his hips while avoiding his worst injuries.

The position puts me above him, a reversal of our previous encounters that feels significant beyond mere practicality.

His cock springs free, already fully hard, the specialized ridges that will become barbs clearly visible along its impressive length.

My mouth goes dry at the sight—no longer something to fear but something my body has come to crave with embarrassing intensity.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he murmurs, hands settling at my waist with deliberate gentleness. "Carrying my cub, your breasts fuller, your scent richer. Take what you need, Aria."

The use of my name—not "omega," not "mate," but my actual name—creates intimacy more potent than the dirty talk.

I reach between us, wrapping my fingers around his thick shaft, feeling it pulse against my palm.

The heat of him burns against my skin, his temperature several degrees higher than human normal.

"Careful," he warns, muscles tensing beneath me as I position him at my entrance. "My control is... not great when you're this close. When you're this wet for me."

The admission of vulnerability, of potential weakness, creates trust I never expected to feel toward my captor.

I lower myself slowly, taking him inside with careful movements.

The stretch is exquisite—burning pleasure-pain as my body accommodates his inhuman size.

The ridges along his length catch against my inner walls, stimulating nerves with precision that draws a broken moan from my throat.

"Fuck," I gasp, the crude word escaping before I can stop it. "You're so deep."

His pupils contract to vertical slits at my profanity, hands tightening slightly on my hips. "That's it. Let me hear how good I make you feel."

When I'm fully seated, his cock filling me so completely I can feel him against my cervix, we remain motionless for a breathless moment. The sensation is overwhelming—the ridges pressing against places inside me that make my thighs tremble, the heat of him radiating through my core.

"Move," he growls, the single word vibrating through his chest beneath my splayed hands. "Ride me. Take what you need."

The permission—the command that is also invitation—breaks something open inside me.

I begin to rock against him, finding an angle that grinds my clit against the base of his shaft with each movement.

Each roll of my hips sends lightning pleasure spiraling through my pelvis, building with ruthless intensity.

"That's it," he encourages, voice barely recognizable through the rumbling growl underlying each word. "Use me. Use my cock to make yourself come."

The explicit direction floods me with fresh heat.

I move faster, lifting myself nearly off his length before sinking back down, feeling every ridge and vein drag against my sensitive inner walls.

Sweat beads between my breasts, my thighs burning with exertion, but the pleasure building at my core makes everything else irrelevant.

His hands guide my movements without controlling them, strength carefully restrained even in passion. One slides from my hip to between my thighs, his thumb finding my clit with perfect accuracy. The contact sends a shock through my system, my inner walls clenching around him involuntarily.

"You're so fucking tight," he groans, the crude words strange from his usually controlled mouth. "Your body squeezing mine like it never wants to let go."

With each thrust, the specialized ridges along his length extend further, the barbs creating almost unbearable friction against my most sensitive spots. It's too much and not enough simultaneously, pleasure so intense it borders on pain but which my body craves with animal need.

"Fritz," I gasp, abandoning any pretense of control as I chase my release. "I need—I can't?—"

"I know exactly what you need," he growls, his thumb circling my clit with merciless precision. "Come for me. Come all over me, let me feel that sweet body milk me dry."

The explicit command paired with the dual stimulation shatters me completely.

Orgasm crashes through me like a physical force, my back arching, walls clamping around him in rhythmic pulses that tear a scream from my throat.

Wave after wave of pleasure radiates from my core, vision blurring at the edges as my body surrenders completely to sensation.

As I convulse around him, I feel it beginning—the distinctive swelling at the base of his cock. My body responds instinctively, inner walls fluttering around him as the knot grows.

"You're going to take my knot," he growls, hands tightening on my hips as the swelling grows more pronounced. "Going to let me lock inside you, keep you filled with my seed."

The pressure against my entrance is intense, bordering on too much. Yet my body yields, craving this final joining despite rational thought.

"Fritz—" I gasp, torn between caution and overwhelming need. "Your injuries?—"

"Need this," he grits out, pupils contracted to mere slits in pools of molten gold. "Need to knot you. Feel you take all of me."

With a deliberate downward thrust of my hips and an upward surge of his, the knot pushes past initial resistance, stretching me to burning fullness. The sensation of being so completely filled triggers a second climax that crashes through me with even greater intensity than the first.

The contractions of my inner walls around his knot trigger his own release, his cock pulsing as seed floods me in hot spurts. With a roar that would terrify me in any other context, he bucks upward despite his injuries, instinct temporarily overwhelming pain.

"Mine," he growls, the possessive claim punctuated by another pulse of his release. "My mate. My omega."

The word no longer feels like reduction to biology but acknowledgment of connection beyond rational choice. My inner walls continue to squeeze his knot, milking every drop of his seed, our bodies communicating on a level far more honest than words.

Locked together, I carefully adjust my position to avoid putting pressure on his wounds, settling against his chest as aftershocks of pleasure continue to pulse through me.

"I can feel your heartbeat," he murmurs, one hand sliding to rest over my lower abdomen where our child grows. "From inside. Your pulse around my knot."

The intimate observation creates warmth that has nothing to do with physical exertion. I press a kiss to his chest, tasting salt and that distinctive flavor that is uniquely Fritz.

"I should finish changing your bandages," I say eventually, though I make no move to leave the shelter of his arms.

"You should," he agrees, though his hold doesn't loosen. "But not yet."

His cock, still inside me, gives a twitch that shouldn't be possible given his injured state and recent release. I lift my head to look at him in disbelief, finding his golden eyes watching me with unmistakable hunger.

"Felines recover a lot faster than humans," he explains, a hint of smug satisfaction in his voice. "Especially when properly motivated."

"You're wounded," I remind him, though my body has already begun responding to the renewed hardening inside me.

"Then you'll just have to keep doing all the work," he counters, hands sliding to my ass to guide me into gentle rocking motion against him. "Unless you'd prefer to stop?"

The question is genuine—I can see it in his eyes, the willingness to yield to my preference despite his obvious desire. This, perhaps more than anything, shows how far we've come from that first claiming—the alpha offering choice rather than demanding submission.

In answer, I roll my hips deliberately, drawing a groan from him that's half pleasure, half pain. "I'm not finished with you yet, Commander."

As aftershocks subside, I carefully lift myself from him, mindful of his injuries despite post-pleasure haze. His hands guide me to lie beside him rather than withdraw completely, arranging my smaller form against his uninjured side with protective care that belies his fearsome reputation.

"Your wounds," I murmur, suddenly remembering the purpose of my presence in his quarters.

"Will heal," he finishes, arm curling around me with possessive security. "This was healing too."

The simple statement creates warmth beneath my ribs that has nothing to do with physical pleasure. I rest my head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart—faster than human normal but strong, resilient, like everything else about this alpha I once feared and now... what?

Not love—that human concept seems inadequate for what exists between predator and former prey. But partnership, perhaps. Connection forged through conflict and reluctant respect, evolving toward something that transcends both our expectations.

His breathing gradually steadies, sleep reclaiming him as his body's healing demands rest. Even in unconsciousness, his arm remains curved around me, protective despite his vulnerable state.

I should rise, should complete my nursing duties, should maintain the careful distance we've established outside of heat necessity.

Instead, I find myself relaxing into his hold, my own exhaustion from days of constant care finally catching up. The claiming mark at my throat—once symbol of captivity—pulses with my heartbeat, recognition of the profound shift that has occurred between us.

The commander whose monstrous aspects once terrified me now lies injured beneath my hands, his lethal strength carefully controlled even in semi-conscious state. The predator whose claiming I once resisted now creates security I never expected to find in this conquered world.

Most confusing of all, the captor whose domination I once endured now invites my control, my pleasure, my active participation in whatever strange partnership we've begun to forge between conquest and surrender, between dominance and choice.

As sleep claims me alongside the injured alpha, my hand rests protectively over the slight swell below my navel where our child grows—living evidence of how biology can create connections even when minds resist. The physical proof of the bridge forming between conquered and conqueror, between human and Prime, between reluctant mates becoming something neither tradition nor conquest has prepared us to name.