Chapter 133: Preferred The Beast
Aurora’s POV
The silence that followed was thick, broken only by the sound of our ragged, synchronized breathing. Oliver’s weight collapsed onto me, his chest heaving against my back as he buried his face in the crook of my neck. The fever seemed to break with his release, the terrifying tension in his muscles finally melting into heavy, exhausted muscles.
For a long time, neither of us moved. I lay draped over the edge of the bed, my fingers still twitching against the silk duvet, my body humming with the aftershocks of a pleasure so raw it felt like a bruise.
Slowly, Oliver shifted. He withdrew and rolled us both onto the mattress, pulling me into his arms with a possessiveness that felt different now—softer, yet more desperate. His eyes flickered, the dark, blown-out shadows of the fever receding to reveal that familiar, sea blue.
He looked down at me, and his breath hitched.
"Aurora," he whispered, his voice cracking.
His gaze traveled over the wreckage of the room. He saw the mahogany desk moved from its spot, the scattered pillows, and then—the clothes. My high-neck blouse lay in shredded, pathetic strips on the floor. My skirt was little more than a rag.
"Oh, gods... I did that." Horror washed over his face, turning him pale. He sat up abruptly, his hands shaking as he reached for the duvet to cover my exposed skin. "Aurora, I’m so sorry. I—I wasn’t myself. The fever... I treated you like..."
"Oliver, it’s okay," I reached out, my voice raspy.
"It’s not!" he snapped, though not at me. He looked at the bruises starting to form on my hips where his fingers had clamped down. He looked at the bite mark on my shoulder—the one he had just placed right over Raymond’s mark, effectively crushing the old bruise under a new, deep crimson claim. "I hurt you. I shredded your clothes. I was rough on you."
He leaned in, his nose brushing my shoulder as he inspected the mark he’d left. I held my breath, my heart stopping. This was it. He was going to scent it. He was going to find the rot.
He took a long, deep breath, his eyes closing. I waited for the growl, for the accusation, for him to realize a stranger had been there first.
But as he exhaled, a look of pure, heartbreaking relief crossed his face. To him, the room didn’t smell like a stranger. It smelled like us. The raw, overwhelming scent of our union had completely drowned out the faint, lingering traces of the club. The musk of the Sex Fever was so potent it had wiped the slate clean.
"You smell like me," he murmured, his forehead resting against my marked shoulder. "Only me."
He pulled the duvet up to my chin, tucking it around me with a tenderness that made my chest ache. He was so busy being the Regretful King, so focused on apologizing for his own brutality, that he didn’t see the relief in my eyes.
"I don’t know why you were wearing that high collar today," he said softly, stroking a stray hair from my forehead, "but I’m sorry I ruined it. I’ll buy you a hundred more. Just... tell me I didn’t break your trust."
I looked into those eyes—eyes that were currently filled with nothing but love and guilt—and I felt like a criminal. He was apologizing to me for being rough, while I was the one who had invited a killer into my bed.
"You didn’t break anything, Oliver," I smiled, the words tasting like ash. "I loved it."
He nodded, leaning down to kiss my forehead before pulling me into his chest. He fell back against the pillows, holding me so tight I could hear his steady, calming heartbeat. He was at peace now, the fever gone, his wolf satisfied.
But as I lay there in the safety of his arms, I looked over at the shredded remains of my blouse on the floor. Oliver was back—my caring, gentle man was back—but how do I tell him that I loved the way he took me?
I stayed tucked into his side, my head resting on his chest. His heart was finally slowing down, a steady thump-thump that should have made me feel safe. Instead, it just made me feel confused.
I looked at the shredded remnants of my clothes again. Oliver was looking at them with shame, his eyes full of a soft, aching regret. He thought he’d scared me. He thought he had crossed a line.
But as I lay there, I realized I was disappointed the beast had gone back to sleep.
Which sane girl would prefer to be fucked roughly, her skin bruised and her clothes torn, over a tender love-making session with a man who worshipped the ground she walked on? Maybe I was the one who was sick. Maybe there was a darkness in me that called out to the monster in him, a part of me that felt more alive when he was claiming me like a beast than when he was kissing me like a lover.
"Aurora?" he whispered, his hand tracing a light circle on my lower back. "You’re so quiet. Are you sure you’re okay? I can call the healer back if you’re in pain."
I let out a small, breathy laugh that felt more like a sob. "I’m not in pain, Oliver. I promise."
I’m just addicted to the way you hurt me, I thought, but I didn’t dare say it out loud.
"I’ll go get you one of my shirts," he said, starting to move. "You can’t exactly walk out of here in... those." He gestured vaguely to the floor, his face flushing with that recurring guilt.
"Oliver," I said, catching his hand. I looked up at him, my eyes searching his. For a second, I wanted to tell him. I wanted to tell him to stop apologizing. I wanted to tell him that the Sex Fever version of him was the most honest thing I’d ever felt. "Don’t be sorry. I meant what I said. I loved it."
He froze, his fingers twitching in mine. He looked at me like I was a puzzle he couldn’t solve, his blue eyes widening with a mix of shock and something that looked suspiciously like a dark, dormant spark of hunger.
"You... you liked it?" he breathed, his voice dropping husky.
"Yes," I whispered, my heart hammering against my ribs.
He stayed still for a long moment, the silence between us heavy with the things we weren’t saying. I saw his jaw clench, and for a heartbeat, the King mask slipped, and I saw a flash of the Monster peeking through—a look of pure, raw pride that he had been the one to make me feel that way.
But then, he blinked, and the caring Alpha was back. He squeezed my hand and stood up, heading for the closet. "I’ll get that shirt," he muttered, his voice strained.
As I watched him walk away, I realized Oliver will never fuck me that way again... not in his right mind.