BOUND TO THE AVERNUS FAMILY

Chapter 13: How Days

It is day fourteen. I have been inside the Avernus estate for exactly two weeks, and the heavy, terrifying machinery of this curse has simply become my daily life.

I am already awake when the first hint of the morning requirement touches my bloodstream. I am lying alone in the massive bed, staring up at the dark canopy.

I don't need a clock to know the exact time. I can feel the overnight mist accumulation pooling at the base of my spine, shifting and pulling like a deep, unnatural tide turning toward the shore. My body recognizes the subtle, metallic change in the air pressure seconds before it happens.

I know Abaddon is coming.

The heavy oak door opens without a single sound. He steps into the dim room, already dressed in his crisp, tailored slacks, his broad chest bare and marked with the dark, pulsing veins of his unpurified mist.

I sit up, pushing the tangled sheets away.

The morning session with Abaddon is no longer a frantic, terrifying medical emergency. It is a compact, incredibly fluent routine. He walks to the edge of the mattress and pulls me forward by my bare hips, sliding me to the very edge of the bed.

He parts my thighs. He aligns that rigid, devastating upward curve directly against my sl*ck entrance.

He leans down, his lips brushing the sensitive shell of my ear to deliver his standard instruction.

"Hold—"

Before the whispered command can even leave his mouth, I obey it. I lock my knees, part my thighs a fraction wider, and tilt my pelvis upward to perfectly accommodate his angle.

Abaddon freezes.

He doesn't finish the word. His ice-grey eyes flick down to my face, reading the dark flush already spreading across my collarbones. He notices that I anticipated him. He notes that my body moved to accept his massive eight-and-a-half-inch girth before he demanded it.

He says nothing. He simply files the data, his jaw tightening as he drives his thick c*ck deep into my wet core in one smooth, brutal thrust.

I gasp, my internal muscles automatically yielding to his size. He sets a fast, punishing rhythm, driving the mist from his system directly into my bloodstream. My body processes it with terrifying efficiency. I shatter around his thick shaft, my *rgasm perfectly timed to the heavy, scorching flood of c*m he unloads inside my womb.

By midday, the geography of the routine shifts to the dirt training yard.

The midday sun is punishingly hot. I sit on a rough wooden bench at the edge of the perimeter fence, watching Sven work the heavy leather punching bag suspended from a thick oak branch.

He hits the heavy bag for exactly twenty minutes. The massive, heavily scarred muscles of his back and shoulders flex with terrifying, structural violence.

Then, the grandfather clock inside the distant estate chimes noon.

Sven stops hitting the bag. He turns around, his chest heaving, sweat gleaming across his torso. The whites of his eyes are threaded with the violent red of the midday mist surge.

He doesn't speak. He simply walks toward me.

He has started incorporating my biological processing into his training schedule. I am not an interruption; I am the interval. I did not explicitly agree to this specific structure. It simply evolved over the last week, and my analytical mind found no logical reason to object.

Sven lifts me directly off the wooden bench, his massive hands gripping the backs of my thighs.

He drops his dark trousers and sinks his terrifying girth into my soaking p*ssy. I wrap my legs around his narrow waist, my back arching violently as he fills me completely.

He doesn't constantly ask if he is hurting me anymore.

His anxious checking has significantly reduced, not because I offered him empty reassurance, but because I provided him with two weeks of hard, physical evidence. I have taken his immense size every single day. He has learned my exact tolerance, updated his mental parameters, and adjusted his heavy thrusts accordingly.

He grinds his thick c*ck relentlessly against my swollen cl*t, driving the heavy, wolf-adjacent mist toxicity into my veins. When the kn*t swells at his base, locking us together in the blazing sun, I scream his name. A massive, violent *rgasm rips through me, the silver-blue light projecting from my eyes and reflecting off the sweat on his scarred chest.

When the kn*t recedes, he lowers me back to the bench, kisses my forehead, and goes back to hitting the heavy bag.

When the evening mist requirement hits, I am waiting in the glass-walled conservatory.

This is Davion's preferred secondary territory. The sprawling, humid room is filled with massive, exotic blooms, but the aphrodisiac pollen is dormant in the evening. The plants cycle heavily during the day.

It is not the pollen driving the frantic, heavy heat currently pooling between my thighs. I know this.

Davion steps into the conservatory, his skin radiating that blistering, structural dragon heat, and he clearly notes that I know it. He smiles, a sharp, incredibly dangerous expression, and pushes my back against the cool glass of the outer wall.

"I saw you at noon," Davion murmurs.

He doesn't bother with foreplay. He tears my underwear aside and drives his hot, rigid length deep into my soaking p*ssy.

I gasp, my hands flying up to grip his broad, burning shoulders. "Saw me?"

"From the third-floor library window," Davion praises hotly, his hips snapping forward in a fast, relentless rhythm. "I watched him take you in the dirt. I watched your hands gripping his back."

He thrusts deeper, hitting a bundle of nerves that makes my knees buckle. He holds me up against the glass effortlessly.

"You looked beautiful taking that much size," he whispers, his amber eyes completely dark. "Tell me you liked it."

I look at his flushed, heated face. I realize, with a sudden, sharp jolt of clarity, that I do not know when I stopped minding the fact that he watches me with his brothers.

The heavy, unpurified mist from his system hits critical mass, colliding violently with his blistering body heat.

I discover that my analytical cataloguing is no longer running as my primary mental activity. It has slipped entirely into the background. The foreground is consumed by the blinding, filthy, devastating physical reality of his thick c*ck stretching me open.

"Davion," I choke out, my internal muscles clamping down hard.

I shatter against the cool glass. A broken cry tears from my throat as a violent *rgasm rips through my core, frantically milking his hot shaft. He groans in absolute, delighted surrender, unloading a heavy, scorching flood of c*m deep inside me.

The mist processes in a massive wave of freezing relief. The stark, silver-blue light projects from my eyes, fracturing against the hundreds of glass panes in the conservatory, illuminating the dark, exotic plants in a luminescent glow.

Late that night, the estate is completely silent.

I am sitting cross-legged in the center of Davion's massive bed. He is asleep beside me, radiating a low, comfortable ambient warmth.

I have my two-column notebook open on my lap.

I write down the day's logistical data in the left column. Abaddon: morning processed. Sven: midday interval processed. Davion: evening surge cleared. Then, I move my pen to the right column.

I write about the specific way Abaddon's jaw tightened when I anticipated his command. I write about the heavy, measured rhythm of Sven returning to his punching bag. I write about the specific, blistering heat of Davion's chest pressed against my spine.

I stop writing. I look at the page.

The second column—the emotional observations, the intimate details, the things that have absolutely nothing to do with biological survival—is now twice as long as the first column.

I stare at the ink for a long time before I slowly close the notebook.

The next morning, the chapter closes its loop.

I am sitting at the long, polished dining table in the breakfast room. The morning sunlight streams through the tall windows.

Before I consciously decide that I want a drink, I reach my right hand out to a precise, empty spot on the dark mahogany table.

At the exact same fraction of a second, Abaddon’s large, pale hand sets the porcelain coffee cup down perfectly beneath my extending fingers.

I freeze, my hand resting exactly on the curved handle.

I don't look up. I know that in exactly one second, Sven is going to reach for the heavy glass water pitcher on his left. I know that Davion isn't going to sit down at all, and is currently leaning his shoulder against the arched doorway behind me.

My analytical mind races, staring down at the dark coffee inside the porcelain cup.

When did this become data I have?

I pick up the cup, my hand perfectly steady, and take a sip. I do not know when I started tracking their every micro-movement. And I am increasingly terrified that I do not want to stop.