The den had grown darker, the fire reduced to little more than glowing coals that painted the stone walls in faint, blood-red light. The air was thick with the heavy scent of spent slick, sweat, smoke, and the unmistakable musk of three satisfied alphas. My body felt ruined in the most exquisite way. Every muscle burned with deep, lingering fatigue. My thighs trembled violently whenever I tried to shift my weight. My hole ached with a dull, throbbing fullness that refused to fade, still fluttering weakly around the memory of their knots. My cock lay soft and spent against my stomach, oversensitive even to the cool air. I knelt in the center of the furs, forehead pressed to the pelts, chest heaving with shallow, exhausted breaths. The blindfold had been removed, but my vision still swam. Every part of me felt marked, stretched, and owned. Thorne sat with his back against the hearth, legs spread wide, watching me with that unrelenting green stare. His expression was calm, but his eyes
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