The hum of forgiveness still vibrated in the air, a fragile peace woven from raw confession and breathtaking grace. Sushi, a warm weight on our tangled feet, anchored us to the domestic present. Althea's fingers traced lazy, soothing patterns on my back. But her next words, spoken in a tone of dark, curious audacity, shattered the quiet.
"Haven," she began, her voice deceptively light. "You know, I just realized something. If you built me a cage… is there CCTV everywhere in this house?"
I went rigid. The monster in the vault, momentarily pacified by her tears, surged against its chains. This is it. The final layer. The most intimate violation. The ghost of the old Althea materialized by the fireplace, her face a mask of disgusted comprehension. Tell her. The memory of her whispered "trust me" was a shackle on my tongue.
"Yes," I admitted, the word a gravel scrape. "Every corner, Althea."
She didn't flinch. She hummed, a thoughtful sound. "I figured. I had my suspicions. So…" She propped herself up on an elbow, her amber eyes capturing mine. They held no accusation, only a spark of dark, playful curiosity that sent a jolt straight to my core. "Do you replay our sex scenes whenever you're at the office?"
My brain short-circuited. "What?"
A slow, wicked grin. "Well, since you said there's cameras everywhere, you'd have a record. Our own private porn stash on your server."
A hot flush of shame crept up my neck. The ghost by the fireplace sneered. Voyeur. Pathetic leech. "I'm not that kind of creep, Althea," I protested, voice tight. "They're for live monitoring. Protection. Not… archives."
"Is it really just protection?" she pressed, tilting her head.
I surrendered. She saw everything. "Fine. For watching your every move. To see you. When I couldn't be here."
She leaned closer, her vanilla-strawberry scent enveloping me. "So you're observing me." Her voice dropped to a husky whisper. "Might as well replay the sex scenes. Get the full HD experience of your observational data."
My breath hitched. This wasn't anger. It was… something else. Something that made the monster purr with a different hunger. "I… don't understand."
Before I could process it, she moved. With a fluid, predatory grace that was all the old Tyrant, she climbed on top of me, straddling my hips, pinning me to the couch. Her eyes burned with possessive fire. Then she bent and bit my shoulder—hard. Not a love bite. A claim. A gasp tore from me. She followed it with a series of fierce, sucking kisses along my neck, marking me with a fervor that was pain and ecstasy.
Fuck. This woman. She can bite me, mark me whenever she wants. I don't care. The thought was a primal roar. My body responded instantly, a thick, aching heat coiling low. Fuck, she's making me hard.
She pulled back, lips swollen, chest heaving. "Well," she panted, triumph in her eyes, "it just made me think… the idea of you masturbating to me… would be great. So you won't be lonely at the office. You'll always look forward to coming home. Not being distracted by anyone else. Or that Emara bitch who says she's my cousin. I know she's your co-worker?"
The pieces clicked with dizzying speed. Oh. There you are, my tyrant. A surge of possessive, dark joy flooded me. This was a strategic, territorial play. She was claiming me, ensuring my obsession remained solely on her. Using my own surveillance as a weapon. Her jealousy… it was fucking adorable. And intensely arousing.
"Ah," I drawled, my voice low and teasing. My hands settled on her hips, thumbs stroking the bare skin above her waistband. "So you want to know if I'm masturbating to the thought of you. To make sure I'm not distracted. To make sure you have no reason to be jealous."
"Well, duh, of course!" she huffed, a blush betraying her. "A lot of people are tryna steal you! And with rumors our marriage is failing… they'd take their chance! And if they knew I had amnesia, they'd surely—"
I couldn't let her finish. I surged up, capturing her lips in a deep, searing kiss. It was a claim, an answer, a vow. I poured every ounce of my possessive, obsessive love into it. She met me with equal fervor, fingers tangling in my hair.
When we broke apart, panting, foreheads pressed together, I growled, "Then let me assure you, Althea, I am yours. Completely. Irrevocably." I rolled us, pinning her beneath me on the sofa. "And hmm… do you wanna add a new scene to my hypothetical stash? I'll make sure it's one worth replaying."
A brilliant, wicked grin. She arched up, sealing her mouth over mine in answer.
What followed was a re-consecration. A violent, tender, deeply filthy rewriting of our history.
I kissed her until we were breathless, my hands roaming, relearning every curve. Pulling her shirt over her head, I found her bare beneath. This woman. Always ready for me. The thought sent fresh heat through me. I dipped my head, taking a peaked nipple into my mouth, sucking and teasing until she cried out, back arching.
"Haven… please…"
My right hand slid under her shorts. Of course. No panties. My fingers met slick, molten heat. A groan tore from me. "Fuck, Althea. You're soaked for me."
"Yes," she hissed, hips canting up.
I obliged, circling her swollen clit with slow, teasing strokes, then pinching gently, making her jerk. "Arch for me, yes, just like that," I murmured against her breast. When I slid two fingers inside, she clenched around me so tightly I saw stars.
"Haven! Please, faster…"
I crooked my fingers, finding that spot. Her orgasm hit suddenly, a sharp, keening cry as she convulsed, drenching my hand. The scent of her release—pure, potent Vanilla Strawberry—filled the air, driving me mad.
"Fuck, I wanna taste that juicy pussy," I growled, "but I want to be inside you more."
I was painfully hard, straining against my trousers. Fumbling with my buckle, I shifted her, helping her climb on top. Her eyes were heavy-lidded as she positioned herself, then slowly, torturously, sank down onto me.
The sensation was blinding. So tight, so impossibly warm and wet. I thought I might come from the feel alone. "Fuck, Althea," I choked out.
She began to move, a slow, grinding roll of her hips. I gripped her waist, fingers digging in, and met her thrusts. Our rhythm turned frantic, desperate. The sofa creaked. I was addicted—to her sounds, to the feel of her taking me, to the sight of her above me, lost in pleasure.
"I'm… I'm cumming, Haven!" she cried, body tightening.
"Come for me, songbird," I commanded. That was all it took. Her climax triggered mine; I erupted inside her with a guttural roar, my knot swelling, locking us together. We stayed joined, panting, as the waves receded.
But I wasn't done. The obsession demanded more. As the knot subsided, I began to move again, shallow thrusts making her gasp.
"Haven… again?" she breathed, a lazy smile on her face.
"I want more," I murmured, sucking a bruise into her breast. I needed to be deeper. In a fluid motion, I wrapped my arms around her and stood, her legs locking around my waist. She gasped, clinging to my shoulders.
"What are you—oh!"
I carried her to the nearest wall, pressing her back against the cool marble of the fireplace. The new angle allowed devastating depth. Each thrust was a possessive claim. "So deep… you're so tight, so warm for me," I grunted, vision blurring.
I felt my climax building again. Then I felt it—a hot, gushing flood against my stomach as Althea clenched around me in a second, screaming orgasm. She'd squirted. The sensation pushed me over the edge. I came with a broken shout.
We slumped against the wall, breathing ragged. I nuzzled her neck, inhaling her scent mingled with sweat and sex.
"Haven… sorry, I squirted," she mumbled, embarrassed and satisfied.
I answered with a soft kiss, then carefully extracted myself and lifted her. She was boneless. I carried her towards our bedroom. Sushi trotted after us, whining.
"Sorry, Sushi," I said, not sorry at all. "I'm going to impale your master tonight until she can't walk." I shouldered the bedroom door shut.
I laid her on the bed. She looked up, eyes dark with renewed hunger. "Haven," she whispered. "Can you take me from behind?"
Fresh desire swept through me. I positioned her on her knees, head pillowed on the sheets. I stood behind, admiring the view—the red marks from earlier, the curve of her spine, the glistening evidence of our coupling. I guided myself to her entrance and pushed in with one slow, deep stroke.
"Fuck," I breathed, hands on her hips. "I love this position." I began a relentless, pounding rhythm. The sound of skin meeting skin, her choked moans, her clenching around me—it was animalistic and perfect.
Then, her voice, muffled by sheets: "Spank me, Haven?"
I froze. A storm of shock, dark thrill, and concern crashed through me. "Why?" I managed, voice strangled. "I don't want to hurt you."
"Please." A whispered plea laden with need.
Cautiously, I drew my hand back and brought it down on the curve of her ass. The sound was sharp. She gasped, body arching, inner muscles fluttering. Fuck. I didn't just like it. I loved it. The pink handprint, the submission, the trust… it awoke something ravenous.
"You want this, Althea?" I growled, spanking her again, harder.
"Yes! Fuck, yes!"
Damn. I realized it then. I wanted her completely ruined by me. Marked, claimed, utterly spent. I continued, alternating cheeks, slaps landing in time with my thrusts, until her skin was a warm, glowing red. Our climaxes came in shuddering, explosive unison. We collapsed, a tangled, sweaty heap. I lay on my back, pulling her half on top, my head resting on her shoulder blades. In a final, possessive impulse, I turned and bit down on her shoulder, sucking a dark, perfect bruise into her skin.
She groaned, pure, sated pleasure. "Fuck, Haven. Ha." She was panting, utterly wrecked.
After a few minutes, I shifted us to face each other. She reached up, hands gentle, cupping my cheeks, smoothing my sweat-damp hair. "You're cute," she murmured, voice hoarse, and leaned in to kiss me softly.
The tenderness after the brutality undid me. I rolled us, entering her again, this time in a slower, worshipful rhythm. She broke the kiss, eyes closing as sensation overtook her. Every time they fluttered open, they were glazed, rolling back before squeezing shut. What a sexy sight. She must love this.
"Right there, Haven," she moaned, her voice a breathy command. "It feels so good, Haven. Just like that, Haven."
Her words, guiding me, praising me, sent a new kind of fire through my veins. How dare she be so brazen, so in control even now? But the thought was immediately drowned by a hotter, more desperate one: Shit, she's talking me through it. It turns me on more. I love being ordered by this woman.
"Give it to me just like that, my Haven," she purred, her hips meeting mine with perfect timing. "Keep up your pace, Haven. Don't tell me my alpha has grown weak?"
A growl rumbled in my chest. Weak? I'd show her weak. I drove into her harder, deeper, the pace becoming punishing. "Is this weak?" I gritted out.
She threw her head back, a wanton smile on her lips. "No… that's it… I am all yours, Haven. Now give it to me."
Her moans crescendoed, my name a mantra on her lips. "Haven… Haven… Haven!"
The sound of it, the ownership in it, pushed me to the edge. I was close, so close. I wanted to take her with me. "Cum for me, Althea," I commanded, my voice rough with strain.
She looked up at me through heavy lids, a playful, defiant spark in her eyes. She bit her lip, then coaxed, "Make me."
A feral sound escaped me. I hooked an arm under her knee, opening her wider, changing the angle to hit that perfect, deep spot with every thrust. "You want me to make you? I'll make you. I'll make you scream it."
Her composure shattered. "Yes! Right there! Oh, God, Haven, I'm—I'm gonna—!"
As she began to climax, her body seizing around me, I was mesmerized by her face, by the play of ecstasy across her features. "I really love your eyes, Althea," I gasped out, the admission torn from me in the heat of the moment.
Through her shuddering pleasure, she managed a breathless, wicked retort. "Then make them roll back."
The challenge was too much. With a final, brutal thrust, I pushed her over into a second, crashing wave, and followed her, my own release tearing through me with blinding force. As I pulsed inside her, I watched, utterly captivated, as her beautiful amber eyes indeed rolled back in her head, whites showing for a perfect, exquisite second before fluttering closed.
We lay there, wrecked and breathing in ragged sync. Slowly, she came back to herself. She reached up, her hand gentle, and playfully slapped my cheek—not hard, but enough to get my attention. Her eyes, now clear and blazing with affection and possession, locked onto mine.
"Keep your eyes on me, Haven," she whispered, her thumb stroking the spot she'd just tapped.
A wave of pure submission washed over me. "Yes, ma'am," I breathed, utterly earnest.
I began to move again, slowly, a gentle rekindling. She wrapped her legs around me, pulling me deeper. "Slow down, Haven," she murmured, guiding my hips with her hands. "I'm not in a rush. Yes, just like that, Haven." She smiled, a tender, proud smile. "You're such a good wife."
The word, in this context, from her lips, unmoored me completely. It wasn't about roles; it was about devotion, about servicing her every need. I buried my face in her neck, my movements becoming a slow, deep, worshipful grind, focused entirely on her pleasure, on the feeling of her soft sighs and the clutch of her hands in my hair.
We made love like that for what felt like hours—a cycle of fierce, commanding passion and tender, whispered adoration. She talked me through every peak and valley, her voice my compass. I obeyed every gasped instruction, every moaned request, lost in the bliss of her control.
Finally, spent and trembling, I carried her to the ensuite bathroom. I ran a bath of warm, fragrant water and helped her in before sinking in behind her, cradling her against my chest. This was the aftercare. The sacred counterpart to the storm.
With a soft cloth, I washed every inch of her, paying special attention to the love bites on her neck and the reddened skin of her backside. I was gentle, reverent.
"Does it hurt?" I asked softly, lips against her damp hair.
"A little," she admitted, wriggling slightly. "But in a good way. Like a reminder."
I reached for the soothing ointment. Smoothing it over the marks on her shoulders, my touch feather-light, I murmured, "I'm sorry I was so… rough."
She turned her head to look at me over her shoulder. "Don't be. I asked for it. I… I liked it. It felt like you were really there. Not holding back."
Her words healed a wound I didn't know I had. The old Althea would have seen it as degradation. This Althea saw it as intimacy, as trust.
I applied the ointment to the warm skin of her buttocks, my hands tender. "I've never… done that before. It was… intense."
She hummed, leaning back into me. "It was. For me too." A moment of quiet. "You know, all that stuff before… the cameras, the jealousy… I meant it. I don't want you looking at anyone else. Ever. I want to be the only thing in your head, in your heart. Even if that makes me a hypocrite or a tyrant."
I tightened my arms around her. "You're not a tyrant. You're my wife. And you are the only thing. You always have been."
"Good," she said, a note of finality. She turned in the water, facing me, legs straddling my hips. Her expression was serious. "And the cameras… you can keep them. For safety. But no more archives, okay? We live in the present. We make new memories. Right here."
She was giving me parameters. Rules for my obsession. A way to channel the monster into something she could accept, even desire.
"No archives," I agreed, sealing the promise with a kiss. "Just the present. And the future."
As we sat in the cooling water, wrapped around each other, I knew the external battle wasn't over. The Sinclairs were still a poison in the city's veins. The lies, though shrunk and confessed, still had deep roots. But in this moment, clean and claimed in the fragrant aftermath of passion and honesty, I felt a new, unshakable certainty settle in my bones. I wasn't just a solitary guardian protecting a captive songbird anymore. We were co-architects. We were building a fortress together, stone by stone, truth by hard-won truth. And I would tear apart anyone who dared to lay siege to our walls.
I finished washing her, my hands lingering not out of surveillance, but out of devotion. Then I carried her from the tub, wrapping her in a large, fluffy towel, patting her dry with a care I usually reserved for priceless artifacts. She giggled, swatting at my hands playfully. "I can dry myself, you know!"
"I know," I said, unable to stop the smile on my face. "But let me."
Once she was dry, she insisted on returning the favor. "My turn," she announced, taking the towel from me. "Sit."
I obeyed, sitting on the closed toilet lid. She stood before me, a vision of flushed skin and damp, curling hair, and began to carefully dry my own hair. Her fingers worked through the dark strands, gently rubbing the towel, her touch so attentive it made my throat tight. She had never done this before. The old Althea wouldn't have dreamed of it. She never failed to make me feel I've been taken care for, I thought, a wave of emotion crashing over me. In my life, as her right now, the amnesiac Althea… The thought was chased by the old, familiar fear. I still can't help but to be scared. Her having her memories back…
As if sensing my spiral, she spoke, her voice gentle but firm as she towel-dried the ends of my hair. "You should trust me, Haven. And if ever I did remember, and I hated you for it… I will try to make amends. I will always want to hear your side. To understand you."
She was offering a pre-emptive pardon for crimes she couldn't even fully recall. It was grace of a magnitude I couldn't comprehend.
"Haven," she murmured, her fingers now combing through my mostly-dry hair. "Your hair is so soft. If ever we have a child, I want her to have your hair and my eyes."
Her words were a beautiful, terrifying arrow to my heart. It fluttered wildly—with hope, with a longing so deep it was an ache—but then fear, cold and slick, coiled around it. Babies. Pregnancies. The memory, not of Althea, but of my own omega parent, flickered, dark and painful. I lost my omega parent because of it. Because of me. The old, buried guilt rose like bile. I had been a difficult birth. She had never fully recovered. The shadow of that loss had made the idea of pregnancy, of putting someone I loved through that, seem like a potential death sentence. I don't want that. Maybe that's one of the reasons too, why before, with the past Althea… I was scared for her to get pregnant. To the point that even my Alpha biology didn't want to. I really didn't plan to have any children, or be an Alpha. As for on my childhood days, I have always thought that I'm gonna be an omega and Althea will be the Alpha. Back then I didn't mind if we grew up and I ended up carrying our child. But now, seeing this fragile woman that had memory gaps… I just can't.
I didn't realize I had fallen silent, lost in the vortex of my own fears. I was just staring at her, seeing not just the beautiful woman before me, but a phantom of a future filled with hospital beds and potential loss.
She looked at me, her happy expression melting into one of deep concern. She cupped my face. "Haven? Are you okay?" she asked, her thumbs stroking my cheeks.
The tenderness broke the dam. I couldn't speak. Instead, I buried my face in the soft warmth of her chest, wrapping my arms tightly around her waist, holding on as if she were the only solid thing in a dissolving world. She made a soft sound of surprise but immediately hugged me back, her arms strong and sure around my shoulders, her chin resting on the top of my head.
"I'm so sorry," she whispered into my hair, misunderstanding. "Am I being too fast, Haven?"
The worry in her voice, the immediate assumption that she had done wrong, galvanized me. I pulled back, looking up at her. "No," I said, my voice raw but firm. "No, my love. It's not that. It's just… I'm getting overwhelmed. In a good way. I never thought we would be able to talk about this. I mean, I know we talked about it before, but that time… I was just agreeing because I loved you and I would do anything you wanted. I didn't care about my opinions. My opinions wouldn't have mattered to you then."
I took a shaky breath, the admission feeling like pulling a thorn from an old wound. "But right now, you asking me about my opinions… it's just that I'm not used to it. Especially in an intimate setting like this. You see, I'm so used to being asked for my opinion in business-related stuff. Cold, logical things. But nothing personal. Nothing that matters to my heart. Thank you. Thank you for considering me, Althea."
Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears. She framed my face again. "Of course your thoughts and ideas matter to me. We are building a family, after all. And I want to get my views and beliefs challenged by your thoughts. I want to learn you more, as I relearn myself."
The simplicity, the profound wisdom of it, left me breathless. "You know," I said, a wet laugh escaping me, "the way you say your words… I can't believe you have amnesia. You're very insightful, Althea."
She grinned, that familiar, goofy light returning to her eyes. "Well, it's because of the environment you provided. And I have to thank you for that. I get to learn freely. I get to go to the library. I get to read books. I get to know plants. You gave me freedom to learn in your so-called cage." She punctuated this by gently pinching both my cheeks. "I mean, I get to learn some stuff. Not just myself, you know?"
The irony was exquisite. In my obsessive need to control her environment, I had filled it with tools for her own liberation. I had built the cage, but left the door unlocked and the key in her hand, and she had chosen to stay, and to grow.
We moved to the bed, the soft sheets cool against our skin. We talked for what felt like hours, nestled together under the covers. The conversation meandered—from silly things like whether Bexley needed a tiny scarf (she was adamant), to her plans for a new song about "overprotective Alphas with soft hair," to my own, halting confessions about my Parents. She listened, she held me, she asked gentle questions. She didn't try to fix it; she just let it be, and in doing so, the weight of it lessened.
We bantered and teased, the shadows of the evening receding in the face of our easy intimacy. She poked fun at my "CEO voice," and I retaliated by tickling her until she shrieked with laughter, promising to write a song called "The Ticklish Tyrant."
Finally, as the deep night settled around the house, her words began to slow, her eyelids growing heavy. She nestled her head in the crook of my neck, her breathing deepening. Just before sleep claimed her, she tilted her head up and pressed a soft, sleepy kiss to my lips.
"Thank you," she whispered, her voice a drowsy sigh of pure contentment, "for opening up to me, Haven. Goodnight. I love you."
"I love you," I whispered back, holding her as she drifted off.
I lay awake for a long time, listening to her steady breathing, feeling the weight of her trust—a weight that no longer felt like a chain, but like an anchor. The fortress walls felt stronger than ever. Not because they were made of thicker stone, but because now, we were both standing guard.