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Each contact point sends fire racing through nerve endings already singing with mounting heat and systematic arousal.

The combination of pain and pleasure, revelation and concealment, truth and systematic deception creates sensory overload that threatens conscious control.

Yet through mounting sensation, his voice continues systematic excavation with clinical persistence.

"Tell me which Alpha you need most," he commands with authority that demands honesty rather than a strategic response or a calculated answer.

The question strikes with devastating precision.

Not a simple preference but a ranking that would reveal hierarchical emotional investment despite careful maintenance of equal treatment and balanced attention.

The truth would destroy pack harmony.

Would create territorial competition and hierarchical conflict that systematic cooperation depends on avoiding.

Would expose the fundamental deception underlying pack formation.

I can't answer.

Won't answer.

The mirrors show my resistance through reflection that amplifies psychological conflict and systematic suppression.

Multiple versions of myself stare back with expressions of calculated evasion and strategic deflection.

His response proves immediate and overwhelming.

Positioning shifts with Alpha authority that transforms gentle exploration into systematic dominance and territorial control.

My body finds itself pressed against an obsidian surface while his considerable presence dominates from behind with possessive precision that eliminates escape routes or defensive positioning.

The mirrors reflect our joining from every angle with technological enhancement that creates comprehensive visual documentation.

Multiple perspectives of territorial claiming and pack formation, systematic domination that serves psychological excavation alongside physical satisfaction.

His technique proves relentless in its analytical precision.

Each movement is calculated to build pleasure while maintaining psychological pressure that demands honesty rather than strategic performance or calculated response.

Physical sensation combined with systematic revelation creates an experience that transcends simple territorial claiming or designation fulfillment.

The words emerge without conscious permission.

Torn from depths where strategic facades cannot reach or influence.

The admission carries weight beyond simple preference.

“You…” I dare to whisper.

Recognition of emotional hierarchy despite careful attempts to maintain balanced investment and equal treatment across pack formation.

His breath ghosts over the back of my neck, where exposed vulnerability meets the hungry press of his body— coiled, controlled, dangerous.

“You always needed someone to see you,” Corvus murmurs, voice low and threaded with dark reverence, “Not just what you made yourself into. But the flesh and bone beneath the strategy. The trembling, calculating Omega beneath the scars and sharpness.”

His palm slides down the slope of my hip, reverent and proprietary, until it curls beneath the dip of my stomach. The other hand cups my throat from behind, not with force, but with intent—claiming the conduit between mind and body. The pulse point of everything I am.

In the mirror, I watch us.

My reflection is flushed and trembling, lips parted as if already in plea. His form towers behind mine, dark as vengeance and curved like protection. His eyes meet mine through the glass—not the deadly eyes of the Blood Prophet, but the man behind it.

The only one I’ve ever let see me break.

“I never wanted perfect,” he says roughly, dragging his lips along my shoulder. “I wanted you. The sharp. The savage. The liar and the longing. And fuck, Jinx…” His voice catches—barely. “Your body was made for worship. For war. And for me.”

The press of his cock at my lower back makes the promise of that worship feel dangerously real.

“You're so close, ” he groans against my ear, dragging his teeth over the shell. “The scent of your Heat is already blooming in your skin, isn't it? Tempting me like you want me to fail this whole fucking mission.”

My breath stutters, thighs clenching involuntarily.

He shifts behind me, dragging my dress up with a single hand until it pools at my waist. Exposing me—my slick thighs, the soft swell of my ass, the damp between my legs. Every mirror shows it. Every single one.

“Look,” he growls, his palm tightening at my throat—not enough to cut breath, only enough to anchor. “Look what I get. Look what they don’t. ”

I meet my reflection.

A trembling Omega, marked and wrecked with want, and a monster Alpha behind her. Protective. Possessive. Hers.

He guides the thick head of his cock through the slick folds of my cunt—so slowly it’s torment.

“Every inch of you is perfect,” he murmurs, reverent. “The curve of your back. The way you arch like a question only I can answer. This pussy—sweet, soaking, mine.”

A breathless moan slips from me, spine bending without command, presenting for him. The mirrors catch the way he watches me—hungry, awed.

“I could knot you right now,” he whispers darkly, the threat pressed like a knife against the skin of my sanity. “Fill you, stretch you until there’s no room for doubt or reason. Until you're nothing but mine.”

My hands brace against the obsidian mirror, the surface cold and unforgiving under my palms.

"But we can’t, can we?" he hisses, even as he pushes just an inch inside, making my entire body jolt. " We don’t get to lose this. Not when we’re this fucking close."

His words are torn between control and hunger, between Alpha and man. His forehead presses to the back of my neck, sweat slick and trembling with restraint.

“You think I don’t want to knot you so deep you forget your own name?” His voice is hoarse, cracked open. “I’ve dreamed of it. Every night. Of wrecking this body I worship. Of marking you inside where no mirror can ever show it.”

He thrusts forward, slow, sure—claiming me from behind with devastating precision. His hips press flush, cock dragging through my soaked channel until my body jerks with the ache of being filled. There’s no violence in it—only possession. Measured. Absolute.

I cry out, and his hand returns to my front, spreading across my lower belly, possessive. “That’s it,” he praises, hips rocking in slow, maddening rhythm. “Take me. Let them all see.”

The mirrors show everything. The way I writhe, impaled on him. The flush down my chest. The glisten on my thighs. The stretch of my body, the arch of my back, the surrender in my eyes.

“I need you to see this,” he growls. “See how I hold you. How you come apart just for me. Look how fucking beautiful you are when you're mine.”

His hand at my throat tilts my chin higher.

“Say it.”

I pant, barely able to form words. “I’m yours…”

“And no one else,” he finishes. “No other Alpha gets this. No one else gets to see you like this, fuck you like this, break you like this.”

His thrusts deepen—still slow, still controlled, but each one perfectly angled to drag a cry from my throat. Each one a mark branded into my body, memory, soul.

“I see you ,” he growls. “Not the strategist. Not the facade. I see the Omega who survived everything and still came back for us.”

The words hit harder than any thrust.

Tears blur the edges of the mirror. But I don’t look away.

Because this is the truth.

This is Corvus, not just the Blood Prophet but the man who never let the world steal his soul completely.

This is me, not just the liar and the weapon, but the woman who chose to love monsters instead of live without them.

And this?—

This is ours.

His satisfaction proves immediate and comprehensive.

Not simple sexual gratification but the psychological victory that validates analytical assessment and systematic excavation methodology.

Truth extracted through systematic pressure rather than voluntary disclosure or strategic cooperation.

The mirrors reflect our continued claiming with technological enhancement that amplifies every sensation and psychological revelation.

Multiple angles of systematic domination and territorial establishment, comprehensive documentation of pack formation, and psychological excavation.

His thrusts deepen with intent now— no longer a slow torment, but a claiming carved into flesh and bone. Every movement slams into me with precision, his hips snapping forward so hard that the echo of our bodies colliding reverberates across the obsidian chamber.

The sound of his balls slapping against me joins the symphony of breathy gasps and ragged groans.

I can’t hold on. Not when he fucks me like this. Not when he speaks with that rasping, reverent hunger like he’s exalting my body as holy.

“Arms forward,” he growls against the nape of my neck, and I obey on instinct, bracing against the glass, palms splayed flat, leaving smudged handprints in slick condensation. “Let them all see how you fall apart for me.”

He pins my wrists gently to the mirror, trapping them there—not out of cruelty, but to steady me as his rhythm grows brutal. Each slam of his hips has me crying out, my voice trembling on the edge of sanity.

“You feel how deep that is?” he grits out. “Right where you need me.”

I sob a moan in answer, hips arching back to meet him, desperate for every punishing, perfect thrust.

“Harder,” I beg, trembling, unable to contain it. “Fuck, Corvus, please—don’t stop. I’m—I’m gonna?—”

“You come for me,” he snarls, fucking into me so deep I swear I can feel it in my throat. “You fall apart right here. Mine.”

His teeth find the curve of my neck—sharp, hot, claiming. He bites, and the pain tips me over the edge.

I shatter with a breathless cry, every nerve set alight as pleasure detonates through me in whimpering mayhem.

My legs nearly give out. My cunt clenches around him in tight, desperate pulses, and he growls— Alpha-deep —as he thrusts once, twice more, then slams in hard and stills, the length of him twitching inside me.

His breath stutters.

“Fuck—Sweet Jinx.”

Hot ropes of cum flood me, his cock jerking inside my trembling walls—and then I feel it.

His knot beginning to swell.

He starts to pull out, always the soldier, the tactician, ready to move forward.

“No,” I pant, body instinctively tightening around him. My voice is hoarse, pleading. “I want it. I want your knot.”

He freezes.

Then he groans— low and pleased —and catches me as my knees buckle.

My legs are useless, slick trailing down my thighs, but he lowers us both to the cold obsidian floor like I weigh nothing.

“You want it now?” he murmurs with a dark chuckle, nudging my thighs apart with his knee as he settles behind me. “Even tired and shaking, your body knows. ”

I can’t lie. Not to him.

“Yes,” I whisper, head tipped back against his shoulder. “Please. I need it. Need you. ”

He presses his forehead to the back of my neck, mouth curling in a smile both wicked and adoring.

“I always satisfy my Jinx,” he whispers. “Our Omega. My muse.”

He adjusts his angle with precise control, gripping my hips as he begins to rock into me again—short, shallow thrusts. I can feel the thick knot grinding against my entrance, my body slick and ready and pulsing around the head of his cock.

And then—he pushes.

I cry out, the stretch intense, the pressure just at the edge of pain—but it’s perfect. He hisses, gripping tighter, muscles locking as the thick knot finally slips inside with a wet, obscene pop.

We both groan.

“Fuck, you’re tight, ” he growls. “Taking me so well. You were meant for this.”

The moment his knot locks in place, I come again—helpless, overwhelmed, my whole body clenching down around him in fluttering waves. I collapse forward onto my elbows, breathless, wrecked.

He holds me from behind, knot pulsing as he fills me again and again with every twitch.

And we stay like that.

Tangled.

Breathing.

Claimed.

The mirrors show it all—every shiver, every moan, every trace of slick that glistens across my thighs.

A slow, lazy chuckle rumbles from his chest, and I can feel him smirk against my skin.

“You know they saw all that,” he murmurs, voice soaked in amusement and dark pride. “Every angle. Every moan. Every damn second.”

I manage a weak sound that might be defiance or might be surrender.

Does it matter?

I can’t move. I don’t want to move.

He gathers me closer, wrapping around me, the knot still locked inside me as he pulls me into his lap, my back flush to his chest.

“You did so good,” he murmurs, brushing a damp curl from my cheek. “Let go, Omega. No one will interrupt us until I say so. You can rest. I’ve got you.”

I try to argue—try to remind him we still need to enter the final level.

But the words slur.

My lids flutter.

And all that heat, pain, and love collapse into silence.

He cradles me tighter.

“I’ll wake you when it’s time,” he whispers, voice softer than I’ve ever heard it. “We’ll walk in as one.”

The final level we failed to reach.

The reckoning complete.

The foundation established.

The pack ready for the finale…

I sleep in the arms of the Blood Prophet.

Wrecked. Knotted. Loved.