The Blood King's Pet

Chapter 3

*Yes,* she thought, the word burning through her like a brand. *Yes, yours. Please, please, I need—*

Adrian descended on her, tearing at his clothes—centuries of restraint shredding like tissue. He needed to be naked, needed to feel her blood smearing across his skin as he split her open.

His c**k sprang free, monstrous and heavy, veins standing out along the shaft, the head flushed dark and weeping precum that smelled of old power and new hunger. He was huge, inhumanly so, built to ruin.

Lyra's mouth went dry. She should have been terrified—he would split her in half, he would tear her, he would—but her cunt clenched around nothing, a fluttering, empty ache that only that impossible thickness could fill. She was so wet she could feel it pooling beneath her, obscene and undeniable.

"You're going to take it," he told her, gripping her thighs to push them wider, folding her until her knees pressed the bench, cunt offered up like a altar. "You're going to take my c**k and my fangs and you're going to bleed for me every night for the rest of your immortal f*****g life, because I *feel* again, Lyra. You made me feel."

*Immortal.* The word registered somewhere in the back of her mind, but then he was pushing into her, and thought became impossible.

He drove into her.

The stretch was devastating, burning, perfect. Lyra's back arched on a silent scream, her cunt spasming around the invasion, slick enough from her arousal and his venom that he bottomed out in one brutal thrust, balls slapping against her ass. He was so deep she could taste him in her throat, her cervix kissing his head, the pain bright and sharp and twisted into ecstasy by the venom still singing in her veins.

*Full,* she thought, her vision sparking white at the edges. *So full. So deep. Don't stop. Don't ever stop.*

Adrian didn't wait. He couldn't. He set a pace that was less lovemaking than claiming—savage, pounding, the bench creaking dangerously as he f****d into her with the pent-up frenzy of three centuries of starvation. His hands gripped her hips, thumbs pressing into the hollows where blood gathered, marking her with bruises that would last weeks. Blood from her neck still ran freely, painting her chest crimson, and he dipped his head to lap at it, fangs grazing her breast, her shoulder, reopening the neck wounds to drink in rhythmic pulls that matched the snap of his hips.

Lyra came apart.

It wasn't a single o****m; it was a cascade, her body convulsing helplessly around his c**k as he hit that spot deep inside with every vicious thrust. She wailed, nails raking down his back, drawing ancient blood that mingled with hers, creating a slick, filthy mess between their bellies. She was squirting around his shaft, her arousal gushing out to soak his thighs, the velvet bench, dripping onto the carriage floor in obscene patters.

*This is what I am,* she realized through the haze of pleasure. *This is what I was always meant to be. His. Just... his.*

"Again," Adrian commanded, biting her breast, drawing fresh blood. "Come for me again. Milk my c**k with your cunt, little blood bag. Show me how grateful you are that I decided to *keep* you."

The words should have humiliated her. They did humiliate her. And the humiliation pushed her over the edge again, her body obeying his command before her mind could catch up. She was sobbing now, tears streaming down her face, but they weren't tears of pain or fear. They were release, surrender, the catharsis of finally—*finally*—being exactly where she belonged.

He shifted her, hauling her up until she was impaled on his lap, facing him, his c**k buried to the root while he held her suspended by her waist. From this angle, she could see his face clearly—the black eyes, the blood on his chin, the desperate, hungry need that mirrored her own. She clutched at him, her fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer even as he bit her again, lower this time, over her heart.

The pain was exquisite, perfect, and she convulsed around him, coming with a sharp cry that sounded like worship. She could feel his pleasure in the tension of his muscles, the way his hips stuttered, the growl that vibrated against her breast where he drank.

Adrian felt his own c****x building—not the cold, detached release of centuries past, but a roaring, tidal wave of *sensation,* pleasure so intense it bordered on agony. He was going to fill her. Mark her inside and out. Breed her if he could, bind her so thoroughly to his existence that the Registry would crumble to dust before they could take her back.

"Look at me," he snarled, fangs dripping her lifeblood, black eyes boring into hers. "Look at your King while I ruin you."

Lyra's eyes locked on his, pupils blown wide, tears and blood and sweat mingling on her cheeks. She was his. Deeded, f****d, bitten, claimed. The barcode on her shoulder was smeared beyond recognition, replaced by his teeth marks, his bruises, the slick evidence of her surrender dripping down her thighs.

*My King,* she thought, the words settling into her bones with a rightness that transcended reason. *My monster. My master.*

Adrian roared as he came, a sound that shook the carriage windows, spending himself in thick, endless pulses deep in her womb, flooding her with ancient seed while he sank his fangs one final time into her throat and drank her c****x down, swallowing her heartbeat, her fear, her pleasure, making them his sustenance, his addiction, his eternal f*****g property.

Lyra felt him flood her, hot and endless, and she came one final time around the pulse of his release, her body milking him instinctively, her consciousness fragmenting into pure, white sensation. She was nothing now. No one. Just a vessel for his hunger, his pleasure, his resurrection.

When he finally stilled, she was limp in his arms, breathing shallowly, blood-splattered and f****d raw, his c**k still hard inside her—the curse of his kind, insatiable once unleashed.

Adrian licked the wounds closed—not healing them fully, leaving raised scars that would brand her—and pressed his forehead to hers, still tasting her pulse.

"No more auction block," he whispered, voice raw with nine centuries of newly awakened hunger. "You sleep in my bed. You bleed for me alone. And every time I sink my c**k into this tight, dripping cunt, you're going to remember—you're not livestock anymore, Lyra. You're the Crown's favorite f*****g vice."

He felt her flutter around him, wet and hot and *alive,* and knew three centuries of control were ash. He would keep her. He would break her. He would worship her with teeth and c**k and possessive rage until the world burned.

And she would scream for more.

Lyra pressed her face into his throat, breathing in the scent of him—old stone and power and the copper tang of her own blood—and felt the last of her resistance crumble. She was his. Not because he'd bought her. Not because she had no choice.

But because she wanted to be.

"Yes," she whispered against his skin, the word barely audible, but she knew he heard it. "Yes, my King."

She felt him smile against her hair, sharp and predatory and impossibly tender, and knew she was lost. And for the first time in her life, Lyra didn't want to be found.