Page 3 of North’s Claim

Not one fucking bit.

I recognize her. The girl from Coldsmash, the Wolves’ charter. Quiet. Sharp-eyed. The one who watched me like she was trying to figure out if I was real.

Her face tilts, our eyes lock, and something ugly and ancient twists inside me. That flutter again. The one I don’t admit to. The one I kill the moment it moved the first time, the second and even now. I walk to the bar, slow, and grab another beer. Pretend nothing’s wrong. Pretend I’m not picturing what I’d do if it were one of mine degrading a woman like that.

“Prez,” Myka calls out, his grin widening. “You made it just in time. Want a turn?”

I don’t respond.

She doesn’t move. Just waits, rigid, like prey. Her shoulders are tight. Her soul’s hanging by a thread.

Myka chuckles. “I’m keeping her warm for you.”

I walk up to them without rushing, without warning, even as a storm gathers inside me. The fury is cold and surgical, the kind of rage that doesn’t explode but tightens, growing quieter the stronger it becomes.

Her knees are bruised, her lips swollen, her eyes empty.

I reach out and touch her leg and she flinches like I struck her.

Myka laughs. “Told you. Nyxa loves the attention.”

My hand moves slowly, sliding up her thigh. She’s soft and shaking. Her breath catches in her throat, held tight behind bitten lips. Still, she doesn’t stop me. She wants to speak but she doesn’t.

I press my palm flat against her inner thigh, warm skin, tensed muscle, and ease it higher. She parts for me without a word, shame staining her cheeks as her eyes flicker back to mine.

I see that crack in her armor before shutting her eyes closed.

The war behind her silence.

She’s not asking for pleasure. She’s asking to feel something other than pain.

My fingers brush her clit through the slick, soaked mess Myka left behind and her body jerks. Not from surprise, but from the betrayal of it. Even now, after what he did, she can still feel this. Want this. Need this.

My fingertips move in tight, slow circles. Nothing rushed or rough. She gasps quietly as her thighs tense and tremble.

Torment’s watching us from across the room. I can feel his grin like a punch between the ribs but he won’t say shit.

This isn’t about sex. Not for me or for her.

This is a reclamation of her body.

Of control and dignity buried in blood and bruises.

She parts her lips in a whisper I won’t let her say. I curl two fingers against her to ground her.

To remind her she’s still here. Still alive. Still hers.

She comes in silence. Quiet. Barely a gasp. Like she wasn’t sure she was allowed while a tear slips from the corner of her eye.

I wipe it with my thumb.

Then I pull my hand away and exhale through my nose, slow. Deliberate.

I’m hard.

“You’re still a kid.” I chuckle, voice low but cutting. “Too focused on your own finish to notice she ain’t got there first.”

The laughter hits like gunfire, sharp, brutal, and true.