Chapter 259 - Preparing to Handle Situation

The bed.

He had moved her there at some point—a smooth, effortless shift from the hard tiles of the bathroom floor back to the rumpled hospital mattress that was supposed to be hers for the night. She was straddling his lap.

That was the arrangement.

Her bare back pressed flush against his broad chest, his arms banded securely around her. His large hands cupped the heavy, round swell of her pregnant belly from beneath. His cock wasn’t inside her anymore, resting thick and heavy against her cleft. It was completely sated after twelve hours of relentless use, yet still thick enough to make its presence undeniably known, nestled warmly between the plush cheeks of her ass, slick with her spent fluids. Not entering. Not moving. Just perfectly, intimately there.

A quiet claim of ownership.

She stared blankly at the other bed.

The one just feet away, where the nurses had moved Vikram while she was getting thoroughly undone in the bathroom. The efficient gears of the hospital had turned while she was distracted: someone had found the unconscious man on the floor, hoisted him onto the mattress, hooked up a fresh IV, and quietly slipped out.

He was out cold.

His features were slack, completely lost to the heavy pull of deep sedation. His chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm, completely oblivious to the sins committed mere feet away.

The milk staining his gown had started to dry.

The edges of the dark, damp patch over his chest had stiffened, crusting the thin blue cotton. The literal evidence of her body—her sweet breast milk—smeared across her husband’s chest, a haunting map of her infidelity.

Meera just stared.

She looked at the dried milk on her husband’s gown.

Her hands came up on instinct.

Both palms slapping softly against her flushed cheeks, her fingers dragging over her jaw to cover her eyes. She desperately needed to block out the world, just for a second.

"What have I done," she whispered.

It wasn’t a question anymore. The time for questions had passed; this was the brutal reality. Her voice sounded flat, entirely wrecked, dragging up the heavy guilt that had been quietly pooling in her gut all night.

"What have I done. What have I done. I— I—"

Her voice fractured, shattering against her own palms.

"I cheated on my husband," she breathed. The words tasted foul on her tongue. She spoke them with agonizing care, forcing the truth into the open because the silence in the room had become suffocating. "I cheated on my husband. I let another man ruin me while he was— while Vikram was—"

Her shoulders began to tremble.

Raven’s hands shifted against her naked skin.

His right palm flattened over the taut mound of her belly, tracing slow, soothing circles against the stretch of her skin. His left hand drifted up to cup her heavy breast. He didn’t squeeze with the bruising possession he’d used hours ago; the touch was softer now. He wasn’t trying to stop her tears, merely anchoring her through them. The heat of his palms radiated into her, offering a dark, silent kind of comfort.

She felt the rough pads of his thumbs moving in tandem.

A slow, hypnotic rhythm—one tracing the crest of her womb, the other flicking gently across the sensitive underside of her swollen breast. It was a calculated massage, administered by a man who knew exactly how easily her flushed, exhausted body would melt under his touch, no matter her mental distress.

Her breath hitched, her nipples peaking instantly.

"Stop—" she pleaded, her voice low. It lacked any real venom, carrying only the weary surrender of a woman who had fought this losing battle all night. "Raven. Stop it."

He didn’t stop.

The wicked, agonizingly slow kneading continued, pulling little sparks of heat from her core.

"It’s morning," she tried again, clinging to the word like a lifeline. "I told you. It was just... it was one night. You said— I said— we—"

"Mm," he hummed softly, his lips brushing the damp hair at the nape of her neck.

"I need to go home," she said, trying to force some spine into her posture. It was the only shred of dignity she had left. "I need to go home and I need to— I need to figure out— Vikram needs to know—"

Raven’s thumb suddenly dragged right across her leaking nipple.

She jolted, an involuntary, wet gasp slipping from her throat before she could bite it back.

She clenched her jaw tight, fighting the fresh wave of arousal pooling between her thighs.

"I need to go home," she repeated, louder this time, desperate to drown out the eager hum of her own traitorous nerves.

"Your body won’t allow another man inside it," he said softly.

It wasn’t a threat. It was a calm, absolute truth.

A shard of ice lodged in her chest.

"What—"

"Your husband," he murmured, his thumb continuing its hypnotic stroke over her womb, "will touch you. He’ll hold you. He’ll try to..." He paused, his tone almost mocking. "...be a husband to you."

He let the image sink into her mind.

"And your sweet, ruined little body," he purred, "will know the difference."

She opened her mouth.

Closed it.

She desperately wanted to spit out a denial, to tell him he was wrong, but the words withered on her tongue.

Deep in her core, beneath the shame and the panic, her newly sensitized flesh recognized the truth. She felt the lingering, throbbing heat deep in her womb, the permanent stamp of his possession burned into her very foundations.

She looked over at Vikram.

At his pale, familiar face.

She thought about his hands moving over her skin, the gentle, predictable routine of their marriage bed. The mundane strokes she had endured for six years—

And horrifyingly, her body instinctively rejected the memory. The very thought of her husband’s touch felt hollow, utterly incapable of sparking the raging fire Raven had ignited inside her.

’No,’ she thought frantically. ’No, that isn’t true. He’s just playing with my head. It’s just his demonic pheromones, some sick magic—’

His cock twitched against her.

It was still nestled between the plush cheeks of her ass, radiating a dense, magnetic heat.

Against her will, her hips shifted backwards.

It was barely a millimeter—a tiny, helpless grind of her swollen folds against his length, her body eagerly begging for a twelfth round.

She felt the humiliating slip of her own wetness betray her.

Clenching her eyes shut, she choked out, "Leave me."

He didn’t move away.

Instead, he leaned in and pressed an unhurried, open-mouthed kiss to the side of her neck. His lips dragged right over the bruised, mottled purple bite marks at the curve of her shoulder, scraping a soft moan from her chest.

"Fine," he murmured against her skin.

She blinked, startled.

"...Fine?"

"Fine," he repeated easily, his breath hot on her neck. "You can leave."

She froze, waiting for the catch.

The silence stretched, heavy with his unspoken amusement.

"After your husband forgives you, of course," he finally added.

She stiffened in his arms.

"He will," she said, a desperate, protective edge to her voice. "I’ll tell him... I’ll explain everything. I’ll tell him it was a mistake. I’ll tell him you—"