Ruin Me, Alpha-Chapter 21: Night-Night, Alpha

"Finally," Devon growled against my mouth, the word vibrating through my bones.

His tongue dragged slow and deliberate over the spilled blood on my cheek, licking every warm drip clean like it was the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted. I shuddered, hating the way my thighs clenched around his waist.

He didn’t ask permission. His hand shoved straight under my skirt, fingers hooking the edge of my panties and shifting them just enough. Two thick fingers pushed inside me without warning, slow, deliberate, curling like he already owned the spot that made my vision white-out.

I bit down hard on my lip, sweat sliding between my breasts, hair sticking to my forehead. My hands locked around his neck like if I let go I’d fall apart.

"Fuck, you’re soaked," he rasped, adding a third finger, then a fourth, stretching me until my lips parted in a silent scream. "All this for me, little wolf?"

I couldn’t answer. Couldn’t breathe. He pumped once, twice, then dragged his fingers out and brought them to his mouth, sucking them clean while his eyes stayed pinned on mine.

The zipper of his jeans rasped loud in the dungeon air. My ruined panties hit the floor in shreds. He lifted me higher against the wall, my head thunking back, eyes squeezing shut as the blunt head of him nudged my entrance.

"Look at me," he ordered, voice like gravel. When I didn’t obey fast enough he grabbed my jaw, forcing my face down. "Eye contact, baby. I want to watch you fall apart on my cock."

He pushed in slow—so fucking slow—inch by inch until I felt impossibly full. I sank my teeth into my lower lip to keep from screaming. He pulled almost all the way out and slammed back in, setting a punishing rhythm that punched the air from my lungs.

I leaned forward, moaning straight into his open mouth, tongue darting out to lick the blood and sweat dripping down the sharp line of his jaw. He tasted like copper and sin.

His teeth caught my lower lip, bit until I whimpered, then soothed the sting with his tongue. "Ride me, love," he breathed against my parted lips. "Show me how much you hate me."

He stopped moving.

I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction, but my body had other ideas. I rolled my hips, taking him deep, again and again, chasing the angle that made stars burst behind my eyelids. My hair bounced against my back, breasts bouncing with every thrust, moans climbing from whispered to loud enough that my father had to hear.

Devon’s hands gripped my ass hard enough to bruise, guiding me, growling filthy praise against my throat.

I slowed, grinding lazy circles, eyes flicking sideways. Dad was pressed into the far corner of the cell, hands clamped over his ears, eyes squeezed shut like that could block out the sound of his daughter getting fucked ten feet away.

Shame and triumph crashed together inside me. I slammed down one last time and came apart, walls clenching around Devon so hard he cursed, hips jerking as my orgasm dragged him over the edge with me.

He slid out and my feet hit the floor, legs shaking like a newborn foal. Before I could collapse he swept me up bridal-style, cradling me against his bloody chest.

"Put me down," I slurred, still dizzy.

"Not a chance." He strode out of the cell without a backward glance.

The last thing I saw was my father’s face—pale, horrified, broken—before the steel door clanged shut behind us.

The walk to his bedroom was a blur of corridors and elevators. By the time he shouldered open the double doors to that ridiculous cavern of a room, the sleeping toxin I’d injected into my own bloodstream hours ago was doing its job. They said if you injected it in your bloodstream, it’d be more effective towards whoever you share saliva with so, I did. His steps slowed. His arms loosened.

"Irene..." he mumbled, confusion flickering across his face.

I smiled sweetly up at him. "Night-night, Alpha."

His eyes rolled back and he crumpled. I twisted at the last second so he landed on the mattress instead of crushing me.

I rolled off the bed, thighs sticky with both of our releases, and didn’t bother cleaning up. There wasn’t time.

First drawer—nothing but cufflinks and a gun. Second drawer—paperwork, boring. Third—still nothing useful.

I moved to the walk-in closet that was bigger than my entire former bedroom. Rows of black shirts, suits, boots lined up like soldiers. I tore through shelves, pockets, shoeboxes. Nothing.

Then I saw it: a matte-black safe built into the back wall.

I knelt, punched in random codes. 0000. Failed. My birthday. Failed. His birthday. Failed. Pack founding date. Failed. Andrea’s birthday. Failed. One try left before lockdown.

I sat back on my heels, pulse racing. And then it hit me.

No. He wouldn’t.

I typed it anyway: 11451109.

The lock clicked open.

I laughed—sharp, bitter, a little insane. Of course the psychopath used the exact date and minute he first fucked me as his safe code. 11:45 p.m., Friday, November 9th. He’d bragged about it often enough.

Inside: two thick files and three USB drives.

I snatched the drives, sprinted back to the bedroom. Devon was sprawled across the bed, chest rising and falling in deep, even breaths. Beautiful and terrifying, even unconscious.

I grabbed his laptop from the nightstand, shoved in the first drive.

Password protected, of course. But I knew this one too—he’d typed it into his phone in front of me once when he thought I wasn’t looking. My own name, lowercase, no spaces: irene.

The drive opened. Battle plans, troop movements, weaknesses in every allied and enemy pack for the last eight years. Every victory. Every slaughter. Everything that could bring Silvercrest—Ironfang now—to its knees if it fell into the wrong hands.

Perfect.

I slid the micro memory card out from where I’d taped it inside my bra, right between my breasts, and jammed it into the port. Copy. Ten seconds. Twenty. I glanced at Devon every two seconds, half expecting those grey eyes to snap open.

Second drive—more of the same, plus financials, blackmail files, names of spies inside other packs. Copy.

Third drive—personal. Videos. Photos. Audio. A folder labeled simply "I." My stomach turned even as I clicked it.

Hundreds of pictures of me. Sleeping. Running. Laughing with Brielle. Kissing Simon goodbye outside my old apartment the week before the wedding. A grainy shot through my bedroom window—me in nothing but shorts, back to the camera, straddling Simon on my bed the night we first slept together. My first time.

He’d been watching me for years.

I swallowed bile, copied the drive anyway. Evidence was evidence.

When the last file finished transferring I wiped the recent-activity log, ejected the card, slid it back into my bra. The USBs went exactly where I found them. Safe clicked shut.

I was turning to leave when curiosity—stupid, reckless curiosity—made me open the first file.

My name across the top in bold letters. IRENE EVELYN HARVEY.

Every single thing about me. Schools, grades, favorite foods, phobias, the brand of tampon I used, the way I cried during sad movies, the exact pitch of my moan when someone hit the spot just right. Medical records. Psychological profile. Even a note in Devon’s handwriting: "Laughs in her sleep when truly happy—only seen it twice."

Second file was thicker. Surveillance logs dating back four years. Photos from when I was sixteen and didn’t even know his name.

I closed it, shaking.