5: Blood and Virgin Panic
1290 Words
Zolani’s POV
The door clicked shut behind me, but I could not move.
My heart was hammering so hard I swore the blood on the floor pulsed in time with it.
The room reeked of the metallic tang of fresh death mixed with pine, smoke, and that dark, spiced scent that had haunted my dreams for months.
Cassian Blackthorne stood in the middle of it all. Shirtless. Blood smeared across his chest like war paint. Black trousers slung low on his hips. A dagger still dripping in his fist.
I should have screamed.
I should have run.
Humans bolted whenever they saw monsters, right? That was what the movies taught me.
But my feet were glued to the rug.
My eyes locked on the corpse sprawled across the bed. Throat slashed wide. Blood soaking the duvet. My overturned suitcase beside him.
A pair of my pale pink lace panties dangled from the dead man’s fingers like some sick trophy.
I wondered what had happened.
I dared not ask.
Cassian’s storm-grey eyes pinned me in place. Burning. His nostrils flared, and a low growl rumbled from his chest, vibrating through the floor and into my bones.
My thighs clenched involuntarily. A fresh rush of slick coated my folds.
God. What was wrong with me?
There was a dead body ten feet away, and I was getting wetter.
Was I born a slut?
My family would be so disappointed right now.
“Little human,” he rumbled, his voice rough and thick, and I wondered why God had ever created a voice like that.
I did not flinch. I could not.
If anything, my body leaned toward him, traitorous and starving.
A tiny sound slipped from my throat. Half whimper. Half moan.
His eyes flashed darker. Pupils blowing wide.
His wolf liked that.
I could feel it in the way the room temperature spiked.
Or maybe I was imagining it again.
“Morning… afternoon… I mean, hi, Alpha,” I stammered, dipping into the clumsiest bow imaginable. Like I had rehearsed it drunk and still botched it.
The movement made my sweater ride up, flashing a strip of skin above my jeans.
His gaze snapped there so fast I gulped.
He flicked the dagger once, sending a drop of blood spinning through the air.
“Sorry for the mess,” he said, his voice flat and controlled. The kind that made kings kneel, enemies piss themselves, and me unbearably horny. “He was stealing from your luggage. I delivered justice.”
Justice.
Like murder was just Tuesday chores.
My eyes drifted down his body. I could not help it.
Blood streaked over carved abs. Tattoos curled like shadows. And lower…
Fuck.
The bulge straining his trousers was obscene. Thick and hard. Like he had enjoyed the kill a little too much.
Or maybe it was me standing here, smelling like arousal and fear.
My tongue darted out to wet my lips.
His c**k jerked visibly.
Heat flooded my face, but I did not look away.
“It’s fine,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “I understand. I mean, I’m trying to understand werewolves…”
My gaze dropped to the dagger. Silver. Etched with runes that glowed faintly.
“And… nice dagger.”
The words slipped out before I could stop them.
Breathy. Stupid.
His lips curled slowly. Predatory.
He spun the blade between his fingers like it was an extension of his hand.
My p***y clenched hard.
Control it, b***h.
“Your clothes will be replaced,” he said, his voice dropping to gravel. “Room will be changed. Top floor. My wing.”
He let it hang. Watched my throat bob as I swallowed.
“Staff will move your things. New everything by dinner.”
I opened my mouth to say thank you. Probably. Like the polite little human I was supposed to be.
He cut me off.
“Until then, you stay close.”
He stepped forward. Slow. Deliberate.
Six-foot-six of lethal muscle. Heat rolling off him in waves.
“This house is full of wolves who have not learned restraint the way I demand it,” he continued. “Some catch your scent and forget their manners. I will not have you wandering alone.”
Stay close.
To him.
In his wing.
Oh. That was a death trap.
My breath hitched. Fresh slick slid down my thigh, and from the way his nostrils flared again, he smelled it.
He stopped an arm’s length away. Close enough that his heat brushed my skin. Close enough that I could see the pulse hammering in his neck. The way his chest rose and fell like he was fighting something.
Then he leaned in. His lips nearly brushed my ear.
“Run along now, little human,” he murmured, his voice low and lethal. “Before I decide blood is not the only thing I feel like spilling tonight.”
I shivered hard.
The words shot straight to my c**t like a vibrator on high.
Fresh arousal flooded me so thick I swore the room smelled like s*x now.
But I was not running.
Not yet.
I lifted my chin and met his eyes. Red-rimmed. Wolf peeking through.
“Which way is the new room, Alpha?” I asked, my voice steadier than I felt.
He smiled.
All teeth.
Feral. Beautiful.
“Follow the scent,” he said, like it was a dare. “You will know it when it makes your knees buckle.”
My breath snagged in my throat.
I turned, legs wobbling like a newborn foal. My p***y throbbed so hard I felt every pulse in my teeth.
I walked out on shaking legs, his gaze burning straight through my clothes and into my skin the whole way.
How the hell was I supposed to follow a scent?
I was not a werewolf. I could barely smell when milk had gone bad, let alone track some mystical Alpha musk through a maze of hallways.
Which scent was it anyway?
The blood?
The pine?
The pure s*x rolling off him?
Because if it was that last one, my knees were already halfway to buckling and I had not even left the crime scene.
Before I could spin around and demand directions, my own traitorous hand slammed the door shut behind me.
I sagged against the nearest wall, chest heaving like I had run a marathon.
My thighs were slick and sticky with evidence of just how f****d I was. Literally and figuratively.
Fourteen days.
Fourteen days in his wing. His house. His world.
With the Alpha who had just murdered a man for touching my stuff and looked at me like he wanted to do things that would make the corpse blush and the devil take notes.
I was supposed to be here for a wedding. Aradia’s big day. Snow. Cake. Vows. Happy tears. The whole wholesome shebang.
But the way my body ached, the way my virgin cunt pulsed for the monster behind that door like it had its own demonic agenda, told me the truth.
I was in deep s**t.
Self-control. I needed industrial-strength self-control.
Maybe fasting. Ten days and ten nights. No food. No water. Definitely no fantasizing about blood-smeared Alphas railing me against antique furniture.
Or night vigils. On my knees. Praying.
A lot.
Dear God, it’s me, Zolani. The girl who just got wet over a murder scene. Please send help. Or a chastity belt. Or a one-way ticket back to LA. Amen.
Who the hell was I even asking?
Last time I checked, saints did not specialize in curing Alpha-induced horniness.
Lord, have mercy.
Because if Cassian Blackthorne gets his hands on me, I sure as hell will not stop him.
Or… should I?
- Writer
