Dawn bled through the curtains in long gold fingers, painting her bare skin in shades of honey. She was still straddling his hips, still full of him, but the air had cooled between their bodies—his hands roamed her back, reverent and restless, tracing the curve of her spine like he was memorizing a map he expected to lose.
He was waiting. She could feel it in the tension of his jaw, the way his golden eyes searched her face for something—fear, regret, the moment she'd see only a prince in the morning light and pull away.
She leaned down instead. Her teeth found his lower lip, and she bit until copper bloomed against her tongue.
His breath caught, sharp and animal.
"I want to watch you fuck me in the mirror," she whispered against the blood, her voice low and certain. "I want to see the beast watching me through your eyes."
His pupils blew wide. Something dark and feral curled in his chest—a thing he'd been trying to cage since the curse broke, since he'd woken with smooth skin and soft hands. She wasn't afraid of the dark. She was starving for it.
He moved without words. His hands found her hips and lifted her off him, the slide of his cock leaving her empty and aching. He turned her, guided her across the room, his palm flat against the small of her back until she stood before the tall mirror framed in gilded wood—the one that had hung in his mother's chambers, that had watched him pace as a beast, that now watched her chest rise and fall in the morning light.
"See?" she said, her reflection meeting his. Her hand reached back, fingers tangling in his hair. "Still there. Still gold."
He pressed against her from behind, his cock sliding between her thighs, not inside—not yet. His mouth found her shoulder, teeth grazing the mark he'd left the night before. "You don't flinch."
"I never did."
His hand came up, fingers spreading across her throat—not squeezing, just holding. Possessing. His reflection stared back at her, and she watched the beast surface in his eyes, in the way his jaw tightened, in the growl that rumbled through his chest into her spine.
His other hand slid down her stomach, fingers finding her wet and swollen. He circled her clit once, twice, collecting the slick and spreading it along his cock. "You want to watch?"
"Yes."
He pushed inside her in one slow, deliberate thrust. Her palms flattened against the mirror, breath fogging the glass as he filled her, deeper than she'd expected, the angle different like this—standing, bent forward, watching his face shift in the glass from prince to something older.
His hand tightened on her throat as he withdrew and thrust again, harder, the slap of skin loud in the quiet room. "Look," he growled, his voice scraping against her ear. "Look at what you do to me."
She watched. His eyes were locked on hers in the mirror, dark and golden and burning—the beast wearing a prince's face, watching her through the glass with raw hunger that hadn't softened or faded.
"I see him," she breathed.
His rhythm stuttered. His grip on her hip turned bruising as he drove into her, faster, deeper, the mirror fogging with every gasp she pressed against it. Her fingers curled against the glass, and she didn't close her eyes—she watched him, watched the beast in his gaze, watched the possession and the terror and the desperate need to stay.
His mouth found her ear, teeth grazing her lobe before he bit down, hard enough to make her gasp. "Who fucks you?"
"The beast."
"Who makes you come?"
Tongue tracing the sting of his bite. "Only him."
His hand slid from her throat to her jaw, tilting her face toward the mirror. "Watch yourself take me."
She watched. Her own reflection—flushed, lips parted, chest heaving—staring back at her as he filled her again and again. The woman in the glass wasn't afraid. She was radiant, undone, a creature of hunger and heat.
His thumb found her clit, pressing hard circles in rhythm with his thrusts, and she felt herself climbing, the pressure building in her belly, her thighs trembling against the mirror's frame.
"Come for him," he said, and the word *him* catching in his throat like he didn't know if he meant the prince or the monster. "Come for me."
She shattered with her eyes open, watching herself break in the glass, his name—both of them, all of him—falling from her lips as her body clenched around his cock. He followed a heartbeat later, thrusting deep and holding, his groan low and raw against her neck, his reflection flickering with something like relief.
They stayed like that, her palms against the mirror, his chest heaving against her back, both of them watching the two people in the glass—beast and woman, prince and witch, something new and nameless between them.
His hand came up to cover hers on the mirror, fingers lacing through her own. "You see him." Not a question.
Her thumb traced his knuckle in the reflection. "I've always seen him."
His hand stayed on hers against the mirror, warm and steady, their reflections breathing together in the gold light. She felt him soften inside her, felt the slow pulse of his release still settling, and then he shifted—withdrawing with a slowness that made her clench around the emptiness he left behind.
The air hit her skin where his body had been pressed, cool and sudden. She turned from the mirror, and he caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting her face toward his.
"Don't move."
His voice was sand and gravel, dark and low. He released her chin and stepped back, his eyes dropping from her face to where his seed was already sliding down the inside of her thigh—a thin, white trail catching the morning light.
Her breath caught. Not from shame. From the way he was looking at her—like she was something sacred and profane all at once, like the evidence of his claim painted across her skin was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
His hand came up, fingers brushing the trail just above her knee, following it upward with a touch so light it raised goosebumps along her legs. He spread what had escaped, his thumb smearing it against her skin, and the sound he made was barely human—a low, possessive rumble that vibrated through the quiet room.
"You're full of me." Not a question. A revelation.
Her thighs trembled under his touch, and she didn't look away. "Yes."
He lowered himself, slow, his knees finding the floor in front of her. His hand stayed on her thigh, thumb tracing the path of his release, his gaze fixed on where it still crept down her skin. He looked like a man at an altar, like he was memorizing a scripture written in his own seed.
"I want to watch it drip from you all day." His thumb pressed a little deeper, spreading the slick against her inner thigh. "I want every servant who sees you to know you were mine this morning."
She swallowed. Her hand found his hair, fingers threading through the dark, tangled strands. "They'd know without seeing."
His eyes flicked up to hers—gold and burning, the beast wide awake behind them. "Good."
He leaned in, his mouth finding the inside of her thigh just above where his seed marked her. His lips pressed there, open and warm, his tongue tasting the salt of her skin and the musk of both of them together. She felt his breath against the damp trail, felt the shudder that ran through his shoulders as he breathed her in.
"You still smell like the beast." His voice was thick, almost broken. "Even now. Even like this."
She tugged his hair, pulling his face up until his eyes met hers. "Because he's still here."
His jaw tightened. Her thumb traced the scar there, the one the curse had left even as it took everything else. He turned his face into her palm and kissed it—soft, reverent, a prince's gesture that still carried the weight of an animal's devotion.
"Then he stays," he said against her skin.
He grabbed her wrist. Not rough—inevitable. The pull of gravity, of tide, of something that had been decided before she drew breath. She stumbled after him, knees catching the edge of the mattress, and then she was falling forward into the sheets—still warm from their bodies, still damp with the night's work.
His hand pressed between her shoulder blades. Flat. Firm. A command without words. Her face met the pillow, linen cool against her flushed cheeks, and she felt him settle behind her—the dip of the mattress, the heat of his thighs bracketing her hips, the weight of his gaze on the curve of her spine.
He didn't speak.
The silence was its own language, thick and dark and full of things that didn't need naming. She felt his hand leave her back, heard the soft rustle of him shifting, and then his palm came down on her ass—not hard, not punishment. A claim. A statement. The sound cracked through the quiet room, sharp and wet against her skin.
She gasped into the pillow, her fingers gripping the sheets.
His hand smoothed over the sting, warm and heavy, before his fingers curled into the flesh of her hip. He pulled her up, adjusted her—a silent repositioning that left her on her knees, face still pressed into the bed, her ass raised for him like an offering.
His thumb traced the seam of her, slow and deliberate, finding her slick and swollen and ready. He gathered her wetness, spread it over her, and then his thumb pressed—just inside, just enough to make her breath stutter—before withdrawing.
She heard him spit. Felt the warm moisture land on her, felt his hand spread it, felt the thick press of his cock against her entrance, not pushing, just resting there, a promise held in suspension.
"Tell me." His voice was gravel dragged over stone. Two words, and they cost him everything.
She pressed her forehead into the pillow. "Take me."
He pushed inside her in one slow, unbroken movement—not fast, not rough, but inevitable, the same gravity that had pulled her to the bed, the same tide that had been rising since she broke the curse. She felt every inch of him, felt herself stretched and filled and claimed, felt the way he fit against her like he'd been made for this shape.
He stopped when he was fully seated. His hips pressed against the curve of her ass, his thighs against hers, his chest against her back. She felt his breath on her shoulder, felt the fine tremor running through his arms as he held himself still.
His mouth found her ear. "Look at you." A whisper, almost reverent. "Full of me. Still."
She clenched around him, and his breath caught—a sharp, broken sound that he tried to swallow.
His hand slid up her spine, fingers spreading across the back of her neck, pressing her gently into the pillow. Not hard enough to trap her. Hard enough to remind her who was taking.
Then he moved.
Slow at first—deep, dragging thrusts that pulled almost all the way out before pushing back in, each one a deliberate act of possession. The bed creaked beneath them, the headboard knocking against the wall in a rhythm that matched her pulse. She buried her face in the pillow, muffling the sounds she couldn't stop—whimpers, gasps, his name breaking apart on her tongue.
"Don't hide." His hand tightened on her neck. "I want to hear you."
She turned her face, cheek against the damp linen, and let the noise come—the moans, the broken pleas, the way she said his name like a prayer and a confession all at once.
His rhythm shifted. Harder. Faster. The slap of skin against skin filling the room, wet and raw and honest. His hand left her neck, found her hip, pulled her back onto him with each thrust, using her body like she was made for this—for him, for the beast, for the thing that lived in his chest and roared when she took him.
"Whose are you?" The words punched out of him between breaths, rough and desperate.
"Yours."
"Say it."
"The beast's." She pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts, her voice breaking. "I'm the beast's."
His hand slid around her hip, fingers finding her clit, pressing hard circles that matched his pace. She felt herself climbing, felt the pressure building low and tight, felt the way her body was clenching around him, pulling him deeper.
"Come on me." His voice was wrecked, raw, barely human. "Let me feel you."
She shattered with her face in the pillow, her cry muffled by linen, her body convulsing around him as he drove into her through every wave. He followed a heartbeat later, his grip bruising on her hip, his groan low and animal, his release hot and deep and endless.
He stayed inside her, breathing hard, his forehead pressed between her shoulder blades. His weight settled over her, heavy and warm, and she felt his lips press against her spine—soft, reverent, a prince's kiss on the beast's work.
His hand found hers on the sheets, lacing their fingers together.
"Still here," he said, his voice cracked open. "I'm still here."
She turned in his arms, the motion slow and deliberate, a shift of weight that pulled him from her body with a wet, reluctant sound. The air hit where he'd been, cool and empty, and she felt the loss like a physical thing—a hollow that only he could fill.
Her hand found his chest, palm flat against the sweat-slick skin, and she traced the line of a scar she hadn't noticed before—a pale, jagged seam running from his collarbone to the center of his sternum, like something had tried to split him open and failed. Her fingers followed it, gentle, questioning.
His breath caught. His hand covered hers, pressing her palm harder against the mark, and his golden eyes darkened—not with fear, but with something older, something that had been sleeping in the wreckage of his curse and was stirring now.
She leaned in, her lips brushing the scar, her voice a whisper against his skin. "Show me the beast doesn't just fuck—he hunts."
The words hung between them, heavy and electric. He went still—completely, terrifyingly still—and she felt the tremor that ran through him, the fine vibration of a predator coiling before the strike.
His hand moved, slow and deliberate, cupping her jaw, tilting her face up to meet his gaze. His eyes were molten gold, the pupils blown wide, and when he spoke, his voice was gravel dragged over stone. "Run."
She didn't hesitate. She scrambled off the bed, bare feet hitting the floor, her legs unsteady from the night's work. She didn't know where she was running—the door, the window, the corner—only that the command had lit something primal in her chest, and she obeyed.
She made it three steps.
His arm caught her around the waist, lifting her off her feet, and she yelped—a sharp, surprised sound that turned into a gasp as her back hit the wall. The impact knocked the air from her lungs, and before she could draw another breath, his body was pressed against hers, hard and hot, his forearm braced beside her head, his hips pinning her in place.
His mouth found her ear, his breath ragged. "I caught you."
She was shaking—from fear, from want, from the raw, animal truth of being hunted and caught. Her hands found his shoulders, gripping the muscle there, and she felt the fine tremors running through him, the barely leashed violence he was holding back.
"Now what?" she whispered, her voice breaking.
His hand slid down her body, rough and possessive, palm flat against her stomach, then lower, fingers finding her slick and ready. He pushed two fingers inside her without warning, and she cried out, her head falling back against the wall, her hips grinding against his hand.
"Now I take what's mine." He pulled his fingers out, wet and glistening, and brought them to her mouth. "Open."
She obeyed, her lips parting, her tongue tasting herself on his skin. His eyes never left hers, dark and hungry, and she saw the beast looking at her through his gaze—not the prince, not the man, but the thing that had howled in the dark and claimed her in the library, in the garden, in every shadow of the castle.
He pulled his fingers from her mouth and gripped her hip, turning her, pressing her face-first into the wall. Her palms slapped against the cool plaster, her cheek flat against it, and she felt his cock against her, thick and hot, sliding through her folds, teasing her entrance.
"You wanted the hunt," he growled, his lips brushing her ear, his hand fisting in her hair, pulling her head back. "This is what you get."
He drove into her in one brutal thrust, and she screamed—a raw, broken sound that she couldn't control, her body arching, her fingers scrabbling against the wall. He didn't stop, didn't slow, fucking her against the wall with a rhythm that was all animal—deep, punishing, each thrust driving her harder into the plaster, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the room.
His hand left her hair, found her throat—not squeezing, just holding, a reminder of his grip, of who owned her. "Look at us," he rasped, and she forced her eyes open, saw their reflection in the dark window glass, the morning light casting them in pale gold. She saw his body behind hers, saw her own face flushed and wrecked, saw the way he took her like she was air and he was drowning.
She came with a sob, her body clenching around him, her knees buckling. He caught her, held her up, drove into her through the aftershocks, his own climax tearing through him a moment later—a growl that turned into her name, broken and desperate, as he emptied himself inside her.
He stayed pressed against her, breathing hard, his forehead resting between her shoulder blades. His hand left her throat, found hers on the wall, lacing their fingers together.
"I'll always catch you," he said, his voice wrecked, raw, absolutely certain. "You don't ever have to run far."
She turned in the circle of his arms, her back still against the wall, and found his hand where it lay laced with hers. Her fingers guided his palm up—slow, deliberate—until it rested against her throat. The weight of it was warm, heavy, possessive. She held it there, let him feel her pulse jumping beneath his fingers.
"Show me how the beast marks what's his."
His breath stopped. The air between them went still, charged, the morning light catching the gold of his eyes as they darkened. She watched the shift—the prince receding, something older and hungrier rising in his gaze. His fingers curled, not squeezing, just settling into the curve of her neck like he was memorizing the fit.
"You want a mark." It wasn't a question. His voice had dropped, scraped raw, the growl threading through every syllable.
"I want everyone to see it."
His jaw tightened. The muscle in his cheek jumped. And then he moved—not fast, but with the inevitability of a predator who had already decided. His hand stayed on her throat as he leaned in, his mouth finding the curve of her shoulder, the tender skin where her neck met her collarbone. She felt his breath, hot and uneven, and then his lips parted.
He bit her.
Not a nip, not a tease—a real bite, his teeth sinking deep enough to break skin, to taste the copper of her blood. She gasped, her body arching into him, her fingers digging into his wrist. The pain was sharp and electric, a line of fire that bloomed into heat, into something that made her cunt clench around nothing.
He held the bite, his jaw locked, his breath ragged against her skin. She could feel him trembling—the fine vibration of a man holding himself back, of a beast leashed by will alone. And then he pulled away, slow, his tongue dragging across the wound, lapping at the blood, his eyes never leaving hers.
The mark was vivid—a crescent of deep red against her pale skin, already darkening to purple. She touched it with her free hand, her fingers coming away wet.
"Now everyone knows." His voice was wrecked, almost reverent. He pressed his forehead to hers, his hips still pinning her to the wall, and she felt him hard against her thigh, the evidence of what the mark had done to him. "They'll see it and know you're mine."
She smiled, slow and sharp. "Good."
His hand left her throat, slid down her body, found her slick and ready. He didn't ask. He didn't need to. He guided himself back into her in one smooth thrust, filling her completely, and she gasped at the stretch—still sensitive, still open from everything they'd done. He didn't move. Just stayed there, buried deep, his forehead against hers, his breath mingling with hers, the mark on her shoulder burning like a brand.
"This is what you wanted?" His voice was barely a whisper.
"Yes."
He kissed her then, soft and devastatingly tender, his tongue tracing her lower lip before he pulled away. And then he began to move—slow, deep, each thrust a claiming, each stroke a promise. The sun climbed higher, painting their bodies in gold, and she let her head fall back against the wall, let herself feel every inch of him, let the mark on her shoulder speak for her.
She came with his name on her lips, a broken sound that echoed off the plaster. He followed a heartbeat later, his groan swallowed against her throat, his release hot and deep, marking her from the inside.
They stayed tangled against the wall, breathing together, his body still inside hers, the morning light falling across the fresh bruise on her skin. She lifted her hand, traced the edge of the bite mark with her fingertips, and smiled.
"Perfect," she whispered.
He kissed the mark, soft and reverent, and said nothing at all.
He lifted her from the wall, her legs still weak, his hands cupping her thighs as she wrapped them around his waist. He carried her to the bed, the sheets cool against her back as he laid her down, then flipped her onto her stomach with a single rough motion. Her cheek pressed into the pillow, the linen smelling of him—salt and skin and the faintest trace of something wild.
His hand landed on her ass, a sharp crack that made her gasp, her hips bucking into the mattress. "Beg," he said, his voice low, wrecked, the growl threading through every syllable. "Beg for my knot."
She turned her head, tried to look at him over her shoulder. "Your—"
His hand landed again, harder, and she cried out, her fingers curling into the sheets. "You heard me. You wanted the beast. The beast knots what he takes."
Her heart hammered, a wild rhythm she felt in her throat, between her thighs. "Please," she whispered, the word breaking as his hand rubbed the sting on her ass, soothing, then gripping.
"Louder."
"Please," she said, louder, her voice shaking. "Please give me your knot. I want it. I want all of you."
His hand left her, and she heard him spit, felt the wet warmth of his fingers between her thighs, spreading her, preparing her. Then the blunt pressure at her entrance—thicker than before, the base of his cock swollen, hot. He pushed, and she felt the stretch, a burn that made her whimper, her body clenching against the intrusion.
"That's it," he rasped, his hand gripping her hip, holding her still. "Take it. Take all of it."
She felt the knot catch at her entrance, a ring of pressure that demanded surrender. He pushed harder, and she gasped as it slid past the rim, the fullness overwhelming, her cunt clenching around the sudden thickness. He groaned, a sound torn from deep in his chest, and then he was buried inside her, the knot locked tight, holding them together.
He didn't move at first, just stayed there, his breath ragged, his hand stroking her hip. She felt the pulse of him inside her, the knot swelling, pressing against her walls, claiming her from the inside out.
"You're mine," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "The knot knows."
He began to move, slow and deep, the drag of his cock against her sensitive walls a sensory overload. Each thrust pulled the knot against her entrance, a pressure that made her gasp, her fingers scrabbling at the sheets. He leaned over her, his chest pressing against her back, his lips brushing her ear.
"Tell me you feel it. Tell me you feel how deep I am."
"I feel it," she sobbed, her voice breaking. "I feel you everywhere."
He bit her shoulder, just above the mark he'd already left, and she cried out, her climax building, coiling tight in her belly. He drove into her harder, the knot tugging at her entrance with each thrust, a maddening rhythm that had no escape.
She came with a scream, her body clenching around him, the knot locking tighter as she pulsed against it. He followed a moment later, his groan muffled against her shoulder, his release hot and deep, spilling inside her, filling her until she felt it dripping down her thighs. The knot kept them joined, pulsing, a living seal that held them together even as their breath slowed.
He stayed inside her, his weight a warm pressure, his hand finding hers on the sheets. He kissed the fresh bite mark, soft and reverent, and said nothing at all.
Through the window, the morning light fell across the bed, painting her bite-marked shoulder in pale gold. She turned her face into the pillow and smiled.