Desiring Her
1455 Words
MALRIK
"She's going to take us."
Praise the goddess for that.
I throw the billiard ball harder than I mean to. It cracks against the others, scattering them across the felt like shrapnel.
She's going to accept.
I should feel victorious. Triumphant, even.
I'm the Alpha. I always get what I want. But my wolf's still pacing beneath my skin, claws scraping against my ribs like it doesn't believe me.
"You don't know that," Tres mutters from the shadows near the door. He's been lurking there for the past ten minutes, arms crossed, jaw tight. "She could still reject us."
"She won't."
"How do you know?"
Because I saw it in her eyes.
It's f*****g stupid to say that out loud. Sounds like something Jarrick would say—soft, romantic bullshit that has no place in an Alpha's mouth.
But those eyes.
Those wide, terrified, wanting eyes that have kept me awake for three nights straight.
I can't stop seeing them. Can't stop replaying that moment when she looked up at me from my office floor, naked and slick and trembling, and whispered *"You're my mate"* like it was the end of the world.
"Malrik."
I blink. Tres is watching me with something between disgust and understanding.
"You're doing it again," he says flatly. "Staring at nothing like she's already in your head."
She is.
"I know," I say, lining up another shot. The stick slides through my fingers, smooth and controlled. Unlike everything else in my life right now.
"She looked at me like I was the monster under her bed," Tres continues, voice low and bitter.
"You are."
He snarls. "f**k you, Malrik."
I don't rise to it. Just sink another ball—red, into the corner pocket. Perfect.
"She's with Jarrick right now," Tres continues, and there's something sharp in his tone. Something vicious. "You really think he's going to let her go? He's probably in her ear right now, convincing her to choose only him."
My hand tightens on the cue.
The image hits me before I can stop it—Jarrick's hands on her. His mouth. The way he knows how to touch her because he's already had her, already learned what makes her gasp and moan and—
The billiard stick cracks in my hand.
I didn't realize I was gripping it that hard. Didn't realize I'd been white-knuckling the thing like it was the only thing keeping me from tearing through the house and ripping Jarrick away from her.
Wood splinters dig into my palm. I stare at the broken pieces.
"If she chooses only him—" Tres starts.
"She won't." My voice comes out harder than I mean it to. Desperate. "The bond doesn't work that way. She can't choose just one of us. The moon made her for all three."
"The moon also made her an omega," Tres snaps. "And omegas are weak. They break. They run."
"She ran from us and survived."
"Barely."
"She survived, Tres." I turn to face him fully now, broken cue stick forgotten. "She fell down a f*****g ridge, bled out, and still had enough fight in her to wake up swinging. That's not weak."
Tres's jaw works. For a moment, I think he's going to argue.
Then he just looks away, eyes distant, haunted.
"She used to be braver," he mutters. So quiet I almost don't hear it.
"What?"
"Nothing." He pushes off the wall, already moving toward the door. "I'm going for a run."
"Tres—"
But he's already gone, the door slamming behind him hard enough to rattle the frame.
I'm alone.
The silence presses in, thick and suffocating. I can hear my own breathing and the steady drip of blood from my palm where the wood split skin.
I don't feel it.
All I feel is her.
The phantom weight of her in my hands. The memory of her scent—heat and fear and that sweet omega musk that makes my wolf claw at my insides. The way she said my name.
*Malrik.*
Talia.
My mate.
Who might reject me.
Who might choose Jarrick and leave Tres and me with nothing but this howling, empty ache for the rest of our miserable lives.
I've led this pack for five years. Survived three territorial wars. Killed more rogues than I can count.
But one eighteen-year-old omega walks into my house, and suddenly I'm the one on my knees.
The bond is supposed to make you stronger. That's what the elders always said. Your mate completes you, makes you whole, gives you purpose.
They never mentioned it would feel like drowning.
I've had dozens of she-wolves offer themselves to me. Beautiful. Strong. Willing.
I turned them all down because they weren't her.
And now that I've found her—now that the bond is real and undeniable—all I can think about is how easily she could slip through my fingers.
Because she's not just mine.
She's theirs too.
I need to move. Do something. Anything to stop this spiral.
The shower.
Maybe cold water will shock some sense back into me. Clear my head. Let me think like an Alpha instead of a desperate, starving wolf.
---
The water's freezing.
I stand under the spray, hands braced against the tile, letting it pound against my shoulders. My neck. Trying to wash away the last three days of sleepless nights and fevered thoughts.
It doesn't work.
Because even here—even under icy water that should numb everything—I can still smell her.
Still feel the phantom heat of her skin.
Still hear the way she whimpered when I touched her jaw, tilted her face up, forced her to look at me.
My c**k thickens.
No.
Not now. Not like this.
I grit my teeth, turn the water colder. So cold it hurts. So cold my breath comes out in visible puffs.
But it doesn't matter.
Because in my head, she's there.
On her knees in my office, tongue pink and visible between parted lips as she pants. Thighs slicked with her heat. Eyes wide and terrified and *wanting*.
My hand drops without my permission.
One touch and I'm already hard. Already aching. Already so desperate it's humiliating.
*Stop.*
I'm the Alpha. I don't lose control. I don't jerk off in the shower like some unmated adolescent who can't control his urges.
But my hand's already wrapping around myself, grip tight, punishing.
Just once.
Just to take the edge off so I can think clearly.
Just—
"f**k," I growl, the sound echoing off tile.
In my head, it's not my hand.
It's hers.
Those small, soft omega fingers wrapped around me, uncertain and clumsy and perfect. Her eyes looking up at me from her knees, pupils blown wide, mouth parted.
Would she be afraid?
Would she want it?
Would she take me in that pretty little mouth and choke on me until tears streamed down her face?
My hips jerk forward, f*****g into my fist like it's her throat.
The water's still freezing but I'm burning. My skin's on fire. My wolf's howling, demanding, needing—
I imagine pinning her to my desk. Spreading those thighs. Burying myself so deep she'd feel me in her throat. The sounds she'd make—those sweet little omega cries. The way she'd tighten around me, body fighting to take me, too small, too tight, too—
"*Malrik*—"
Her voice in my head. Breathy and broken and *mine*.
My hand moves faster. Rougher. Grip brutal enough to hurt but it's not enough, will never be enough, not until it's her cunt instead of my fist, her body under mine, her voice screaming my name while I—
I come with a snarl, spilling across the tile, against the wall, chest heaving like I've been running for miles.
For a moment, I can't move. Can't breathe. Just stand there with my forehead pressed to the cold wall, water still pounding down, my release washing away like it never happened.
Like I didn't just lose control.
Like I'm not completely and utterly f****d.
When I can finally move again, I look down at my hand.
Still trembling.
Still wanting.
Still not enough.
It'll never be enough until it's her.
Until I can bury myself inside her and mark her and make her *mine* in every way that matters.
Until she accepts us.
Until she says yes.
I turn off the water.
The silence rushes back in, louder than before.
Somewhere in this house, Jarrick's with her. Touching her. Talking to her. Convincing her.
And I'm here. Alone. Coming apart at the seams over a girl who might choose someone else.
What the f**k is wrong with me?
- Writer
