The Claiming

by Imogen Keeper

  It would be so easy to just let her body win. But this wasn’t a nice man. This was a man worked for the Boss, a man who’d committed murders of his own, rapes of his own, who sold felanas at the Night Market. And the knife was there. All she had to do was use it. She’d solve so many problems.

  She pressed in closer, bracing herself with a palm on each of his muscled thighs. He growled against her temple, stroking hair off her neck, sliding a hand up to palm her bare breast.

  She crooned out a series of low, panting curses. His thumb stroked the bead of her nipple, and his other hand fisted in her hair, yanked her head back painfully, and claimed her mouth with lips and tongue and teeth.

  And the taste of a Prime hit her lips for the first time in way too long. He tasted as good as he smelled.

  She touched her tongue to his. Let herself enjoy it for one long moment.

  It was lulling, like a magical spell, as his hands roved over her, kneading and pulling her closer.

  She could almost forget what this was. A compulsion. A trick of nature.

  It wasn’t real, this desire.

  She angled the knife so it would slide right into his kidney, just as Jonan had taught her. Shove it in. One move. Hard. Right in the softest spot. She’d have to be prepared to move away in the moment of shock, get out of his reach before he could react.

  When he closed his hand around her asscheek, she let her head fall back, lowering the knife in her hand, as he trailed his mouth down her neck.

  He growled again and sank his teeth into the skin of her throat.

  She raked the fingernails of her freehand into his back.

  The knife, she had to remind herself she still had it. Could she do it? Probably. Maybe?

  He froze infinitesimally, and then his teeth sank deeper, his hand clenched tighter, her pleasure-addled brain barely registering him lifting her, and then he slammed her down on the hardwood floor.

  Her vision dimmed for a moment when her head smacked wood. A hard hand manacled her wrist.

  The knife clattered across the floor.

  Oh, shit.

  Hard eyes burned into hers. A massive hand lifted the knife.

  He reared up on his knees, between her spread thighs, panting, chest heaving.

  “What the fuck is with you and knives?” His other hand closed around her throat, and she stared at the point of the knife hovering over. “Why were you at the warehouse that night?”

  “I told you. Looking for the Boss.”

  “Why were the Polizei chasing you tonight?”

  “I was asking a dealer about a gun.”

  “Who are you working for?”

  “Umm…myself.”

  His impassive face seemed to get even harder at that. “Why were those guys chasing you?”

  “The Primes? Take a guess.”

  “And the fat man?”

  “The baker? I stole a roll.”

  His gaze drifted down to her thin arms, her ribs. She felt a flush spread over her skin.

  On a curse, he shook his head, and brought down the knife in a sharp, angry stab.

  16

  sheathe your claws

  THE KNIFE PLUNGED in so deep, the handle quivered, and the metal whined.

  Tessa flinched.

  He released her neck but didn’t back away. Not even an inch, just glared at her with hard, glittering unreadable eyes.

  Tessa held those eyes like a lifeline, still struggling to comprehend. Shuddering, she spread her hands across her abdomen, feeling for a wound. She was waiting for the pain, anticipating the shrieking pierce of a mortal stab.

  It didn’t come.

  He’d plunged the knife into the floor one inch to the left of her ribcage.

  Breathing heavily, his fingers trailed along her hipbone. “How long have you been stealing food?”

  “It was the first time.”

  “Lying.” He stroked his hand lower, dragging calloused fingertips above the top edge of her panties.

  She clenched her teeth, to keep them from chattering. Chills broke over her skin. “Maybe I’ve done it once or twice.”

  “You knew the layout of those stalls.” His thumb dipped into her navel, his long fingers wrapping around her hip. “That wasn’t the first time. You’ve been hungry for a while.”

  She hated that he could read that on her body, just by looking at her, like he was stealing her secrets as easily as she’d stolen the bread. One by one, picking them away. Felana. In heat. Thief. Hungry. Starving.

  Somehow the last one was the worst. Even Leyla didn’t know how skinny she’d gotten. Baggy clothes hid her body from prying eyes. “I’ve always been thin.”

  “Do you ever say anything true?”

  “Not to people who try to kill me.”

  He unbuttoned his pants, drew them down his hips slowly, sighing like it was a great big relief to have them off. Maybe it was. They were wet.

  She swallowed thickly, unable to keep from staring as he fisted his cock, and it was quite a cock. His eyes half closed with pleasure.

  It surged back, harder than ever, the biological compulsion that made her felana, the driving need for Prime. The satisfaction only he could give her. She whimpered around the gut-punch of lust in her lower belly. She wanted that thing inside her, everywhere.

  “I never tried to kill you.”

  “The Boss would see me trapped in the Night Market, a slave, for sale to the highest bidder. And you’re his errand boy.”

  He laughed, sharp, not quite amused, but…stimulated in some way she couldn’t define. “You’re so sure about the Boss. But you’re wrong. He doesn’t put the felanas there. Manivietto does. The Boss helps them. Offers them an alternative.”

  Because he’d struck a nerve, she lashed out with her claws, swiping out to catch his cheek. “The choice of slave or whore?”

  He slapped her hand away easily, with a blow to her wrist that sent her sprawling onto her back. “Freedom. Listen to me, felana. I saved you. Twice now.” He loomed over her, pressing her into the floor, and pawed at her breasts, groping them like he owned them. “Just like we save them.” He grinded his hips against her. “You want this.”

  “I don’t.”

  Her nipples tightened painfully nonetheless, tingles of pure pleasure blasting across her body, from her nipples straight to her clit. His unique scent moved in the air, casting a spell. Calming, sedating, compelling.

  “Lie to me all you want, but don’t lie to yourself.” He drew her panties down, over her hips, down her thighs.

  She lowered her lashes to hide her eyes. She was broken long ago.

  A tear burned its way out of the corner of her eye, trailed down her cheek. “This isn’t what I wanted.”

  The elastic of her panties clung to her heel for a second. He tossed them across the room. The corners of his eyes crinkled. “Getting caught at the market trying to buy a gun? No, I imagine not.”

  “I meant you.”

  Most people would find that rude. Everyone found her rude. But not this guy. His mouth curled up ever so slightly. “This isn’t exactly how I imagined spending time, either. I’ve got a lot going on right now.” His hand stroked a path up her calf, over the sensitive skin at the back of her thighs. “I won’t get you pregnant. I take precautions.”

  She shook. Everywhere. Her whole body, her legs, her hands, her stomach, the air in her lungs shuddered. “You sh-should have just given me a gun. Then this wouldn’t have happened.”

  That hand trailed higher. The tiny striations on the pads of his fingers strummed a rhythm in time with her painful heart, until they reached the place she needed him most.

  He hissed in a rough breath and slid a finger through slippery flesh. “So wet. If I’d given you a gun, you’d have gotten yourself killed. Or gone someplace worse with it in your hands and then gone into heat. What would have happened to you if I hadn’t been there?”

  Her hips lifted, taking his finger deeper, trying to take it all inside. “I wouldn�
�t have gone into heat if you hadn’t been there pumping out rut stink.”

  “My rut stink was just answering the call.” He pressed his thumb down on her clit, and she bucked beneath him. “There’s something about you that called it out.”

  It had been so long since anyone else’s hands had touched her there, since a Prime had touched her, she’d forgotten how instantly the connections formed, emotions tangled.

  Not again. She couldn’t do this again. It would hurt so badly when it was over.

  She shoved pathetically at his chest, a final desperate effort, like an animal bucking in the final throes of death, refusing to acknowledge defeat. “Please don’t do this.”

  He shook his head tightly, trapping her wrists together, and pinning them over her head with one meaty palm. He spoke through gritted teeth. “Your wriggles make it worse. We’re both subject to the demands of our biology. Believe me, felana, I swore long, long ago, I’d never do this again. But this is beyond our control.”

  She pressed her thighs together tight.

  His thumb pressed back onto her clit. “Open,” he said, and it wasn’t a request. It was a demand.

  Her face crumpled, even as she spread her thighs wide, bared herself for his touch.

  He purred, and the low rumbles were bizarrely comforting.

  When the broad, velvety tip of his cock pressed against her entrance, she broke. With a pure animal grunt, she tore her hands from his grip, vaguely registering the surprise that flashed through his eyes. Her fingers turned into claws, wrapped around his neck, clutching deep, pulling him down, to claim his mouth with her own.

  He snarled against her, and shoved all the way inside.

  If she screamed, he swallowed it. And if she tore at his back, he only growled with pleasure. He gave as good as he got.

  He fucked her like she was born to be fucked, and he was born to do it.

  He didn’t treat her as if she were precious and breakable, he treated her like she was strong. He treated her like he knew exactly what she could take, and he’d make sure she did.

  She took everything he had to give, and gave her own in return, slamming her hips up against him, meeting him thrust for thrust with a violence approaching fury of her own.

  The force of their movements had their bodies moving across the floor until her head knocked against the wall behind them.

  “Sheathe your claws.” He fisted his hand in her hair, dragged her head to the side, baring her neck, and sucked at the spot right over her vein. “Or, I’ll do worse than scratch back.”

  She grinned and sank her claws in deep.

  When he hissed, she laughed, and when he groaned, she moaned back wordless responses.

  He did retaliate.

  It wasn’t pretty.

  It wasn’t sweet.

  It wasn’t loving.

  He brought his hand down in a series of short, brutal slaps that left her skin burning from hip to knee.

  She’d be bruised, but she took savage pride in the firm knowledge that he would not be unmarked.

  She raked her nails up his back, gratified by the seep of blood, the scent of iron flooding the air.

  He froze, mid thrust, raising up to meet her eyes, and Tessa writhed in complaint. The shade of a laugh lurked in his breathless voice. “What’s your name?”

  “Who cares?” She frantically tried to angle her hips better, get him deeper, but he resisted, pulling back, denying her.

  “You keep forcing this to happen faster than I expect.”

  She huffed out a breath. “Like hell I do.”

  His eyes glimmered, and he pulled out a few inches. Refused to move, no matter how she squirmed. “Name, felana.”

  She’d been so close. The bastard.

  “Tessa. Shit. My name is Tessa.” She should have lied. Why didn’t she lie? “Why does it matter?”

  “Tessa,” he whispered. “Do you remember my name?”

  She wriggled against him, struggling against him, trying to get him to move.

  Why wasn’t he moving? She could care less about a name. It meant nothing. His smell told her everything she needed to know.

  She wrapped her legs around his waist, trying to pull him closer, dug her fingers into the hard muscles of his ass.

  It was like tugging at a brick wall. “Sanger.” She pulled again, narrowing her eyes. “Is that your last name or first?”

  He still didn’t move. “Question for question. What’s your last name?”

  She lost her patience, bared her teeth, and hissed again. “Keep your name, asshole.”

  Shifting his grip on her hands to just one of his, he slapped a hand down again, this time hard enough to make her cry out, her skin instantly going red hot and angry, and shoved in so deep that for a moment she saw stars as pleasure met pain.

  He dragged out slowly. Shoved back inside, humming. “If you were mine, I’d fuck you until you had no air left to fight me with, and you were too weak to claw at me.”

  She tightened her legs around his waist, raising her hips to keep him from pulling away. “I’d kill you.”

  “You could try, I’d hold you down and fuck your face until you cried for mercy.”

  She grinned up at him. “I’d bite your dick off.”

  He grabbed her by the throat, tightening, not quite enough to cut off her windpipe, but close. “You’d swallow me down and beg for more. I think I’d enjoy it. Most felanas are meek. Not you.”

  She managed to break a hand free and pulled his hair. “Shut up and do your job.”

  His smile was pure evil. He held her face still, so her eyes were forced to meet his. “And what is that, Tessa no-last-name?”

  “To fuck me.”

  The satisfaction, the possession, the claiming of his growl brought every hair on her body standing upright. He didn’t look like a man who did anything casually, especially not fuck. He also looked like a man fighting some personal war inside himself, one she didn’t want to poke too hard.

  “I like the way that sounds. Say it again.”

  When she only shoved at him, and rocked her hips, he brought his hand down again to spank the cheek of her bottom. Her skin burned, the pain only making the pleasure that much brighter. He shoved their bodies away from the wall and thrust inside so hard and so deep she couldn’t move.

  “Quit hitting me,” she grunted.

  “Say it, and this time, call me your Prime.” He growled, pulling her head back by her hair so she’d meet his eyes again. “Look at my face. Meet my eyes. I want to hear you say it.”

  “Why?”

  He stilled completely. “Because it’s been a long time since I let my body do what it was meant to do.” His voice broke on the word meant.

  It made her voice thick. “Fuck you.”

  “Oh, believe me, I am.” He coupled that by releasing her neck, to grip her hair again and pull.

  What he was demanding wasn’t just lip-service and he knew it. For a felana, to claim a Prime as hers was submission. Pure and simple. It meant acceptance, and it wasn’t something anyone could lie about either. He was demanding she give herself to him, not just her body.

  She needed him—or at least her body did. So badly, she’d say anything just to make him stop talking. She lifted her gaze to his, hating the added connection of eyes and names. It would only hurt that much more when all of this was over. “You’re my Prime, Sanger. For this heat, you’re mine. Just fuck me.”

  He snarled at that, tightened his grip on her hair, filled her mouth with his tongue until neither of them could speak.

  He held her pinned and drove into her with such deep penetrating thrusts that an orgasm tore through her so hard and fast, she lost the will to fight.

  Or think. Or even try. She just lay limply beneath him as he bucked and shifted, his massive dick ramming up against her cervix, pumping her full of the first blast of his potent seed, kept the orgasm spiraling, her vision spinning until, finally, relief.

  The minute she relaxed, the
minute her body eased, and her legs unwrapped their death grip around his torso, he relaxed as well. His tongue gentled, and withdrew. His grip on his hair softened. His thrusts softened, and his rhythm slowed.

  “It doesn’t have to be all rough and angry. I can be gentle, if you can. I could be good to you.”

  She blinked, her body stiffening.

  He just laughed and buried his mouth in her neck. He was gentle, and his gentleness was crueler than any slap. He’d crossed too many lines.

  It would hurt when this was over. Her heart would break no matter how she tried to safeguard it. That’s how it was after a heat. The felana biology would tie her to him, she’d long for him, dream of him, crying out in those dreams, and he’d walk away.

  How long since she’d been with a Prime? Three years? Four? The intensity hadn’t been anywhere close to this, and after, she’d wanted to die. She’d been nothing short of forlorn at the separation. Unnatural emotions maybe, but real nonetheless.

  Somehow, lying in his arms, in the aftermath of her own pleasure, while he took his own again and again, until she dripped with his seed, was a whole new layer of intimacy, and she just knew, as clearly as she knew her own name, losing this Prime would hurt astronomically more.

  When he came for real, the big one, not just the build-ups, he threw his head back, and she’d never heard anything sexier than the rough sounds he made in the back of his throat, like a hundred little stamps, embossing themselves on her heart. His muscles twitched, he pushed inside her like he was trying to take up residence in her heart.

  The heat of his release spread within her, and it felt so good just to lie there beneath him, feel his weight and the way his chest rose with his breathing.

  She was so fucked.

  She laid her head back on the hard floor, as his weight settled atop her. She’d forgotten how good that felt. Little aftershocks of their orgasms tightening their groins. He made purring growls against her throat, soothing and almost sweet. His hair tickled her temple, and his heart pounded against hers.

  He rolled them over so she lay on top of him, bodies still connected, her head on his chest. Too soon. She’d have gladly born his weight a little longer, even on the unforgiving floor.