BOUND TO THE AVERNUS FAMILY

Chapter 3: The Brothers — Sven

He was still standing in the hallway when Abaddon walked away.

Sven Avernus had not moved a single inch. He had not spoken. He had simply been waiting with the specific, terrifying quality of someone who has learned to contain very large things inside a very still body.

The angry red threading the whites of his eyes has cleared just a fraction now that Abaddon’s oppressive presence is gone, but the pressure rolling off him remains immense.

He steps into my bedroom and closes the heavy door behind him.

He doesn't command me to hold still. He doesn't move with Abaddon's cold, absolute authority. Instead, he stops a few feet from the edge of the mattress and looks at me with a heavy, assessing gaze.

"I need to know how much you can take," Sven says.

It is not a threat. It is a genuine, logistical assessment. He is six-foot-eight, built of thick, heavily scarred muscle, and he is trying to calculate how to survive his own biological necessity without breaking me in half.

I catalogue the sheer physical reality of him as he approaches the bed.

As he moves, I notice him deliberately adjusting his stance, pulling his broad shoulders inward to take up slightly less space in the room. It is an automatic habit. A man apologizing for his own mass.

The size differential between us is staggering. If Abaddon was massive, Sven is structurally terrifying.

He sits on the edge of the mattress. The springs groan in loud protest under his weight. He does not force me onto my back or pin my wrists. Instead, his large hands grip my waist, and he lifts me easily, pulling me forward to straddle his thick thighs.

He wants me on top. He is giving me control of the depth.

He is already painfully rigid, his thick, heavy c*ck pressing hot and heavy against my soaking sl*ck entrance. I rest my hands on his scarred chest and slowly begin to lower myself.

The stretch is profound. I bite my lip, my breath hitching as I take the first few inches.

"Am I hurting you?" Sven asks immediately.

His massive hands grip my hips, instantly halting my downward momentum to support my weight.

"No," I answer honestly, my analytical mind tracking the friction. "Just... wait."

He freezes instantly. It is an incredible display of absolute precision in a body that was clearly built for violence. He doesn't push. He doesn't surge upward. He waits.

I adjust my angle, taking a fraction more of his brutal size.

"Now?" he checks again.

His eyes are locked entirely on my face. He doesn't close them to chase his own pleasure. He is actively monitoring my pain threshold, reading my expressions for any sign of distress.

"I'm fine," I whisper, sinking down until I am fully seated against his pelvis.

The movement begins. I set the pace, my hips rising and falling along his heavy length. My internal voice shifts from clinical alarm to a genuine, startling interest.

This is more complex than the mechanics suggested. He is incredibly careful, handling my hips like glass, yet the deep, relentless friction is completely devastating. I am panting, my nails biting into the thick muscle of his shoulders as the mist transfer begins to build a frantic, coiled heat at the base of my spine.

I shatter first. My swollen cl*t grinds against his rigid abdomen, and a violent *rgasm rips through me, my tight p*ssy crushing around his thick shaft.

Sven groans—a deep, rumbling sound from the bottom of his massive chest—and thrusts upward to meet my release.

He unloads a heavy, scorching flood of c*m deep inside me. At the exact same second, the base of his shaft swells violently.

A thick kn*t expands just inside my entrance, locking our bodies completely together.

I gasp, my eyes widening in shock at the sudden, intense pressure. It is a wolf-shifter trait, a biological mechanism designed to ensure extended contact.

Sven tenses immediately beneath me. "Too much?"

I sit perfectly still, considering the deep, throbbing fullness stretching me wide. The intense, freezing wave of mist absorption is flooding my bloodstream with incredible, extended efficiency.

"No," I breathe. An accurate, considered answer.

The stark, silver-blue light projects from my eyes. It is brighter and lasts significantly longer than it did with Abaddon because the kn*t is holding us together. Sven watches the glow illuminate my flushed face, his scarred features completely unreadable.

When the kn*t finally recedes and I slip off his lap, my legs are entirely useless. I collapse back against the pillows, shivering with residual pleasure and oxygen-rich relief.

Sven dresses quickly in his dark trousers. He doesn't sit on the edge of the bed.

Instead, he lowers himself to sit directly on the hardwood floor beside the mattress. It is a strange choice for a man his size, but he seems to prefer the lower ground in this enclosed space, minimizing his towering height.

Through the bedroom window behind him, I can see the edge of a dirt training yard down below. I file that detail away, connecting it loosely to the faded scars crisscrossing his broad back.

"Is there anything that's wrong for you?" Sven asks from the floor.

It is not a social pleasantry. It is a real question, delivered with the expectation of a factual answer.

"Nothing is wrong," I answer specifically, pulling the tangled sheet over my bare legs. "It just requires adjustment."

He nods once, accepting the data. He stands, moving toward the door with an unexpected, heavy grace.

He reaches the brass handle, then stops and turns back to look at me.

"You'll have Davion this afternoon," Sven says quietly. "He's different from us."

I lean back against the headboard, still tracking the steady rhythm of my own heart. "How?"

Sven considers the question for a long moment. It is a specific quality of his, I am learning—taking a question entirely seriously before offering an answer.

"Faster," he finally says. "And he'll want you to watch."

He opens the heavy wooden door and leaves, the latch clicking shut in his wake.

I turn my head to look at the bright morning light streaming through the glass of the window. Watch what?

I decide I will find out this afternoon rather than imagine it.