Vengeance in His Bed novel Chapter 32

Chapter 32: The Taste of the Enemy’s Cream

The double doors of the master suite locked behind him with a heavy, pressurized thud, sealing Dorrent inside the silent fortress of his own room. The grand expanse was drowning in shadows, illuminated only by the faint, silver luminescence of the midnight sky bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling glass.

Dorrent didn’t turn on the lights. He moved like a ghost across the plush rug, his chest heaving under his midnight-blue suit jacket as his S-tier aura vibrated with a chaotic, toxic static. He approached the bed and dropped heavily onto the edge of the mattress, the dark silk sheets rustling beneath his weight.

He sat there in the dark, his breath coming in ragged, shallow hitches, his mind a burning wasteland of rage and self-hatred. Slowly, deliberately, as if drawn by an invisible, malicious force, he raised his right hand.

He looked at his fingers. In the dim silver light, his skin still glistened with a faint, slick sheen. It was Jannah’s cream. The clear, natural lubrication of her untouched omega core, gathered from the hyper-sensitive boundary of her thighs just minutes ago on the deserted highway.

Dorrent brought his hand closer to his face. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, drawing the air over his skin.

The scent hit his olfactory system like a physical blow. It was an intoxicating, suffocatingly sweet explosion of wild frost-lilies, damp earth, and raw, highly concentrated omega musk. It didn’t just fill his nostrils; it seemed to bypass his logical mind entirely, sinking straight into his nervous system, setting off a chain reaction of primitive, predatory instincts that had been dormant for five long years. His S-tier biology screamed at him to claim it, to hunt the source, to consume every single trace of the woman who had produced it.

Lick it, a dark, feral whisper roared from the depths of his subconscious. Taste her.

"No," Dorrent rasped out loud, his voice a broken, hollow friction in the quiet room.

He fought against it. He clamped his jaw shut, his entire body locking into a rigid, trembling stance as his pride battled against his biology. He loathed her. He found her to be a manipulative, sharp-tongued gutter-rat who had entered his palace to tear his masculine ego to shreds. He had just thrown her back into her room, calling her filth, yet here he was, sitting in the dark like a starved animal, captivated by the fluid she had left on his skin.

But the temptation was a gravity well, and his defenses were already fractured from the nightmare, the runway, and the suffocating environment of Shadron’s penthouse.

With a low, defeated groan that sounded like a dying animal, Dorrent succumbs to the madness.

Slowly, his fingers parted his lips. He guided his hand into his mouth.

He closed his eyes, squeezing his lids shut until his vision spotted with red, his hand working against his own flesh, searching for any sign of life. Rise, he begged internally, his teeth grinding together until his jaw line ached. Give me something. A twitch. A pulse. A single surge of blood to prove I am still a functioning man.

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