The Alpha's Forbidden Vow novel Chapter 4

POV: Selene

His climax was a guttural roar swallowed against the sensitive skin of my neck, his body convulsing as he emptied himself deep inside me.-

He poured his heat into my womb, a searing, undeniable claim.

My own release was a silent, shattering fragmentation of my senses, my nails scoring crescents into the hard muscle of his back as my vision whited out.

For one suspended, breathtaking moment, there was nothing but the slick slide of our bodies, the ragged sound of our breathing, the animal scent of our mingled sweat and sex.

We were one entity, one secret, one sin.

Then the world came crashing back.

He pulled out of me.

The abrupt emptiness was a cold, desolate shock, a physical manifestation of the void he was about to create in my heart.

He stepped back, and the space between us felt like a frozen, uncrossable chasm.

He turned his back on me, a gesture of ultimate dismissal, and began methodically fixing his clothes.

The crisp click of his belt buckle was the sound of a cell door slamming shut.

The feral beast who had just taken me with such savage, all-consuming passion was gone.

In his place stood the cold, remote Alpha heir, his composure a chilling, impenetrable armor.

I was left a wreck against the kitchen island, trembling and exposed.

My dress was bunched at my waist, my panties a ruined scrap of lace on the floor.

A sticky warmth trickled down my inner thigh, testament to what we had just done, to the part of him he had left inside me.

My body ached with a deep, pleasurable soreness, but a profound, soul-deep agony was beginning to bloom in my chest.

He had taken everything, and now he was going to pretend it was nothing.

He finally turned to face me.

His face was a mask of cool, clinical disgust.

He looked at me, at my disheveled state, not with sated passion, but with the detached contempt of a man looking at a regrettable mess he now had to clean up.

That look, more than anything else, broke me.

“This was a mistake,” he said, his voice flat and empty, devoid of all the emotion that had charged the air moments before.

Each word was a perfectly polished shard of ice plunged directly into my heart.

The roaring in my ears was so loud I could barely hear him.

A mistake.

An orphan.

A charity case.

A whore.

He was talking about a baby.

Our baby.

He was telling me to get rid of it, to erase the one piece of him I might ever have.

The humiliation was a physical entity, a hand squeezing my throat, suffocating me.

Tears burned hot and thick behind my eyes, a tidal wave of grief and shame, but I held them back with the last shred of my pride.

I would not give him the satisfaction of my tears.

I would not let him see that he had utterly destroyed me.

He gave me one last, contemptuous glance, as if I were a piece of trash he was leaving behind.

Then, without another word, he turned and walked out of the kitchen.

His footsteps were even and steady, echoing on the stone floor until they faded into a silence that screamed with his rejection and my desolation.