Cruelly knotted

Maybe

The chamber doors were sealed, the air thick with her leaking pheromones—wild, desperate, a siren's call that made Arthur's vision haze at the edges. He loomed over her on the table's edge, her wrists still pinned above her head, her gown a ruined crimson pool around her hips. His free hand traced the curve of her jaw, thumb pressing hard enough to tilt her chin up, forcing her eyes to his.

"Silverridge," he growled, voice low and furious, laced with the anger that had simmered since the meeting. "They invite *you* by name. Like you're something separate from me. What did you do, Olivia? Whisper to your little ghosts? Send messages through those Christopher rats you've been gathering?"

She glared up at him, chest heaving, heat pooling low in her belly despite—or because of—the rage. "Ghosts? You mean the wolves you didn't slaughter? The ones who remember my father wasn't a monster like you?" Her voice cracked with hatred, but her thighs trembled, pheromones spiking harder. "I haven't done anything. But maybe Thorne sees what your pack whispers: that I'm no willing mate. That you're a conqueror who knots what he can't truly claim."

Arthur's eyes darkened, arousal twisting with frustration. He leaned closer, breath hot against her mouth. "Can't claim? I've marked you. f****d you. Knotted you until you sobbed my name. And still you cling to the past—like that necklace. Tell me, little Omega: what secrets did Daddy dearest whisper about the relic? Was it in bedtime stories? Or did he teach you how to hide it while he bled out on that ridge?"

"f**k you," she spat, hatred burning bright even as her core clenched emptily. "He taught me strength. Loyalty. Not to break under brutes like you. You think interrogating me here changes that? You're pathetic—hiding your doubts behind your cock."

He laughed—rough, angry, the sound vibrating through her. "Doubts? The only doubt is why I haven't broken you yet." His hand released her wrists only to slide down, cupping her breast roughly, thumb circling the peaked n****e. She arched despite herself, a frustrated whimper escaping. "Your pheromones are screaming for me. Heat pooling like you're in rut. Admit it—you hate me, but your body begs."

"I hate you more than anything," she hissed, frustration cracking her voice, nails digging into his forearms as she tried to shove him back. "You stole my life. My pack. My *choice*. And now you drag me to Silverridge like a trophy? What if I tell Thorne everything? The forced bond, the nights you pin me until I can't walk?"

Arousal flared in his eyes—dark, possessive. "You won't. Because the bond won't let you." He kissed her then—furious, biting her lower lip until copper bloomed. She moaned into it, anger fueling the heat, her hands clawing at his shirt in futile rage.

"Someone might come," she gasped when he pulled back, doubt flickering in her eyes. "Elias could—"

He smirked, freeing himself fully—thick, throbbing—and dragged the head across her lips again. "Then shut up." Before she could retort, he pushed in—shallow at first, then deeper, filling her mouth to silence the hatred spilling out. "That's better."

She glared up at him, eyes watering, but her tongue swirled involuntarily, heat howling through her veins. Hatred burned, but the bond twisted it into need. She gave in then—clawing his thighs with her nails, drawing red lines as she sucked harder, howling muffled around him in frustrated heat.

He groaned, hips rocking. "Good girl. Hate me all you want—your mouth says otherwise." He f****d her there—slow thrusts turning relentless—until her jaw ached, her pheromones drowning the room in dizzying lust.

Then he pulled out with a wet pop, hauling her off the table. "Not enough." He pinned her to the wall—back against cold stone, her legs wrapping around his waist on instinct. He caught both her wrists in one hand, forcing them above her head so she couldn't brace against the wall, couldn't hold anything but him.

"Arthur—wait—" Frustration laced her plea, anger flaring as he thrust in deep, filling her core in one brutal slide.

"No waiting," he threatened, voice velvet over steel, cradling her ass with his free hand while he f****d her standing—slow, deep rolls that made her head fall back. "You think you can insult me in council? Question my control?" Lust thickened his words; he nuzzled her neck, teeth grazing the mark tenderly even as his hips snapped harder. "I'll knot you here until you forget your precious past. Until you're howling only for me."

She clawed at his back—nails raking through fabric, drawing blood—hatred giving way to heat's howl. "I hate you—ah—gods, I hate how you make me—" Her words fractured into moans, body giving in as he cradled her closer, one arm banding her waist like a cage of warmth.

"Shh, little queen," he murmured, threat laced with lust, kissing her temple while thrusting relentlessly. "You're mine. Hate it. Fight it. But feel it."

They moved then—him carrying her, still buried deep, to the table. He bent her over the scarred wood, entering from behind with a growl, hands pinning hers to the surface. "This is where you taunted me. Now take it."

She howled—heat peaking, nails scratching the oak as he f****d her senseless, doubts and anger dissolving into raw need.

Finally, he pulled her into the high-backed chair—his throne at the head. He sat, hauling her onto his lap, facing him. "Ride me. Show me that hatred."

She did—clawing his chest, howling as the knot swelled, locking them together in a cozy tangle of threats and lust. He cradled her close, one hand in her hair, the other stroking her back—tender cruelty as she shattered around him.

The chamber echoed with their breaths.

And the doubts lingered, unsatisfied.

The high-backed chair creaked beneath them like an old throne protesting its new occupants.

Olivia straddled him—knees braced on either side of his hips, crimson gown hiked to her waist, wrists still caught in one of his large hands behind her back. The knot at the base of his c**k had swollen just enough to tease—thick, insistent, stretching her entrance without locking fully. She rode him slowly at first, deliberate rolls of her hips that dragged every ridge against her walls, punishing them both.

Arthur’s head fell back against the carved wood, throat working on a low groan. His free hand gripped her hip, guiding but not forcing—yet. Sweat gleamed on his chest where her nails had left fresh red trails. The chamber was dim now, torches guttered low, night pressing against the narrow windows like a voyeur.

“Beg,” he rasped, voice rough with restraint. “Beg for my knot, little queen. Say it.”

She laughed—breathless, venomous. “f**k your knot. And f**k you.”

He thrust up once—sharp, punishing—making her gasp and clench around the teasing swell. “Wrong answer.”

The night had swallowed them whole. What started in fury on the council table had spilled into hours of relentless claiming—wall to floor to chair. No one would dare interrupt; the pack knew better than to approach the sealed doors when the Alpha’s scent saturated the corridors with possessive rage and lust. Inside, they were lost in a haze no one could have imagined: her riding him like vengeance incarnate, him cradling her waist like something precious he refused to break.

Olivia cursed him then—frustration boiling over as the knot pressed but didn’t lock. “Don’t even enter my room again, you bastard.”

He tilted his head, eyes glinting in the dying firelight. “It’s *our* room, sweetheart.” The word dripped with cruel tenderness, a velvet blade. He released her wrists only to band both arms around her back, pulling her flush against his chest so she couldn’t escape the slow grind.

“You haven’t even come to check on me, bastard,” she spat, voice cracking with months of pent-up rage. “One month of your ‘work’ and Shadow Garden, and I’m just the hole you come back to when it suits you.”

He laughed—low, dark, the sound vibrating through her. “I am the leader of the pack, honey.” He thrust hard on the last word, eyes darkening as her accusation struck something raw. The bond flared—his irritation, his need, his twisted affection all crashing into her at once. “You think I don’t watch you? Every whisper with your little Christopher rats. Every glance you steal toward the relic trails. I *see* you.”

“Don’t pretend you love me,” she shot back, nails digging into his shoulders as she rode him faster—violent, punishing. “You just want to breed me. Own me. Knot me until I forget who I was.”

He sucked one n****e into his mouth—hard, teeth grazing—then released it with a wet pop. “What are you saying, Luna?” His voice was mock-innocent, eyes gleaming. “I *am* here to breed you. Doesn’t that count?”

She moved faster—hips snapping, core clenching deliberately around him, forcing groans from his throat that embarrassed even him. A flush crept up his neck; the great Alpha, leader of Blackwood, reduced to raw, involuntary sounds by her violence.

“Oh my honey,” she mocked, smile generous with venom, pride sharp as a blade, “how can an Alpha produce such vulgar sounds?”

His control snapped.

He flipped them—chair tipping dangerously—until she was beneath him again, legs hooked over his arms, body folded open. He f****d her then—deep, merciless thrusts that made the chair groan in protest. Every sound she could make spilled out: gasps, curses, whimpers, howls of frustrated heat. The knot swelled fuller, catching at her entrance with each pull-back, promising but denying.

“Say my name,” he growled against her ear, pace unrelenting. “Or I won’t stop. I’ll keep you here—on this chair, on this table, against that wall—until dawn. Until you scream it.”

She clawed his back—nails carving fresh lines—body arching as pleasure-pain coiled tight. “I hate you—Arthur—f**k—Arthur!”

“Louder.”

“Arthur!” It tore from her throat—half curse, half plea—as the knot finally locked, swelling thick and unyielding inside her. She shattered around him, howling his name again and again, body convulsing, tears of rage and release streaking her cheeks.

He buried his face in her neck—teeth grazing the mark—as he came with her, flooding deep, cradling her trembling form against his chest even as the knot tethered them together.

“Mine,” he whispered, voice wrecked, tender in its cruelty. “Say it again.”

“Arthur,” she breathed—exhausted, defeated for this moment, but the fire in her eyes promised it wasn’t over.

The night stretched on.

And the chair, the table, the chamber walls—they bore silent witness to a war that had only just begun to burn hotter.