Chapter 10: Atonement
1254 Words
Emma’s POV
The east-wing guest room feels like a cage.
Heavy oak door, unfamiliar bed, no trace of Richard’s scent except what still clings to my skin and the ache between my legs. I shut the door and lean against it, chest heaving, tears burning tracks down my cheeks.
I did this.
I opened my mouth and ruined everything.
I crawl onto the bed fully clothed, curl into a ball, and try to think.
How do I fix this?
Apologise on my knees?
Beg?
Offer to leave the pack if that’s what he wants?
None of it feels like enough.
The silence is suffocating. My body, traitor that it is, remembers the exact weight of him on me this morning, the stretch of his knot, the way he growled “mine” like a prayer. My thighs clench involuntarily, a fresh pulse of slick wetting my already-ruined panties. The guilt is a lead weight in my stomach, but the need is worse.
I can’t stop myself.
My hand slips under the hem of the borrowed shirt, fingers trembling as they find my clit. I’m swollen, sensitive and dripping with the memory of him. One touch and I whimper, hips jerking.
I close my eyes and let the fantasy take over.
Richard storming in, eyes gold and furious, ripping the clothes from my body.
“Don’t you dare touch what’s mine,” he’d snarl, pinning my wrists above my head with one hand while the other spreads me open.
I imagine his mouth on me, punishing, relentless, tongue lashing my clit until I’m sobbing apologies into the pillow.
I picture him flipping me over, dragging my hips up, and driving into me in one brutal thrust, no warning, no mercy.
“You want forgiveness?” he’d growl against my ear, teeth scraping the mating mark. “Earn it. Milk my c**k like the desperate little liar you are.”
My fingers move faster, two sliding deep inside where I’m still tender from him, curling hard. My palm grinds against my clit. I’m soaked, the wet sounds loud in the quiet room.
I’m so close.
I spread my legs wider, knees bent, back arching off the mattress. My free hand fists the sheets as I f**k myself harder, chasing the edge, picturing his knot swelling, locking, flooding me while he forces me to say it over and over:
“I’m yours, Alpha, I’m sorry, I’m yours—”
The orgasm hits like a wave, sharp and brutal. I cry out, hips bucking, p***y clenching around my fingers as I squirt messily onto the sheets, thighs shaking, tears mixing with the sweat on my face.
I’m still trembling through the aftershocks when I open my eyes.
And my heart stops.
Richard is standing in the doorway, shoulder braced against the frame, arms crossed.
“Having fun without me?”
My eyes snap open wider, heart slamming against my ribs like it’s trying to escape. He’s been there the whole time—watching, golden eyes burning with lust, and beneath it, a possessiveness that makes my thighs clench all over again despite the guilt.
“Richard—” I start, scrambling to sit up, pulling my hand from between my legs like it’s on fire.
He doesn’t let me finish. In two strides he’s across the room, grabbing my wrist—the one still glistening with my own arousal—and yanking me to my feet. His grip is iron, bruising, and I feel his c**k already hard through his pants.
“You think you can touch what belongs to me?” he snarls, voice low and lethal. “Think you can come without permission after admitting you started this as a lie?”
I open my mouth to beg, to explain, but he’s already dragging me out the door, down the hall, barefoot and disheveled, the borrowed shirt riding up to flash my ass to any servant we pass. They avert their eyes, but Richard doesn’t care. His strides are long and furious, pulling me along like a ragdoll.
We burst into the pack dining hall mid-dinner. The long table is full—highest-ranking betas, enforcers, their mates—forks pausing mid-air, conversations dying as Richard hauls me to the head of the table, the Alpha’s seat.
“Richard, please—” I whisper, heat flooding my cheeks as eyes turn to us.
He ignores me. With one sweep of his arm, he clears the space in front of his chair—plates crashing to the floor, wine spilling. Then he bends me over the table, face down, ass up in front of them all. My bare p***y is exposed, still slick and swollen from my own fingers, dripping onto the polished wood.
The room goes dead silent.
“Eyes on her,” Richard commands, voice pure Alpha thunder. “No one looks away. This is what happens when my mate lies to me.”
Gasps ripple through the hall. I squeeze my eyes shut, humiliation burning through me like fire, but my traitorous body responds—clit throbbing, more slick leaking down my thighs at the exposure, at his dominance.
His belt clinks. His zipper rasps. Then the thick head of his c**k notches at my entrance, rubbing through my folds once, twice, coating himself in my shame.
He thrusts in hard, one brutal stroke that seats him to the hilt. I cry out, hands scrabbling at the tablecloth, the stretch burning sweet and merciless. He doesn’t give me time to adjust—just starts f*****g me with cold precision. No rhythm for pleasure, no grind against my clit. Just piston-like thrusts, in and out, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing through the hall like a sentence.
I sob into the wood, tears soaking the table, the pack watching every humiliating second. His knot begins to swell on the first round, catching on my rim, stretching me wider with every plunge until it locks with a final, ruthless shove. I come despite myself—clenching around him, squirting messily onto the floor—but he doesn’t react. No groan. No praise. No “good girl” or “mine.” Just silence, his hips jerking as he unloads inside me, pulse after pulse of hot c*m filling me until it overflows around the knot, dripping down my legs for everyone to see.
The pack doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. They watch as ordered, faces depicting shock.
The knot holds for what feels like eternity—me pinned, exposed, sobbing quietly—then deflates just enough for him to pull out. c*m gushes from me, pooling on the table, but he doesn’t let me up. He thrusts back in immediately, starting the cycle again. Silent. Knot swelling faster this time, locking us together while I beg incoherently into the tablecloth, my body betraying me with another unwanted orgasm.
Hours pass like this. Thrust. Knot. Fill. Sob. The pack stays, dinner forgotten, witnessing every raw, unwanted second. He knots me four times—each one colder than the last, no eye contact, no touch beyond the iron grip on my hips. I feel it: the punishment of being f****d without being wanted, without the heat of his possession. Just a vessel for his rage.
Finally, after the last knot slips free and I’m a trembling, c*m-soaked mess on the table, he steps back. His voice booms through the hall.
“She is being disciplined for lying to her Alpha. Let this be a lesson. Dismissed.”
- Writer
