Breed Me. Daddy Alpha novel Chapter 97

Don’t Talk To Me Kittel

Don’t Talk To Me Kitten

~Lyra~

Alright, let’s get something straight because I know some of y’all are out there absolutely foaming at the mouth, ready to drag me by my hair through the comments like, “Lyra, what the actual f**k is wrong with you?

And you know what? That’s fair.

Because yes. Yes, I did it.

I told Damon–while his c**k was still buried inside me, while my legs were trembling and my p***y was still spasming from the kind of orgasm that rewires your brainstem–I told that man, let’s go check on Camilla.

I know. I deserve jail. Maybe a slap. Maybe a whole trial by fire. But before you light your pitchforks and

scream betrayal, let me explain.

First of all, I hate Camilla. Not a little. Not in a “she’s annoying” kind of way. I hate her like my soul recognizes

her as its personal enemy.

She’s fake. She’s evil. She’s every terrible female villain trope combined and shoved into a painfully skinny body with a designer bag and zero morals.

So do I want her dead?

Yeno.

That’s my new word for the situation. A hybrid. Yes and no. Yeno. Because deep in the lowest, darkest, filthiest part of me? Yes. I want her to vanish. To crumble. To feel every ounce of humiliation she’s ever thrown at me. But another part of me–the smaller part, the human part, the annoyingly soft part–didn’t want

her to die. Not like that. Not yet.

And that’s why I said it.

That’s why I looked up at my mate, my Alpha, the man who had just filled me with enough c*m to breed an entire generation, and said, “Let’s go see if she’s okay.”

Now fast forward, we’re in the car. And Damon hasn’t spoken a single word.

Not one.

He’s not yelling. He’s not grunting. He’s not breathing loudly. He’s just driving–calmly, silently, with his jaw locked so tight it looks like it might snap.

His hands are gripping the steering wheel like it personally offended him. His knuckles are pale, his veins are raised, and there’s a line between his brows that could cut glass.

And me? I’m sitting there like a damn i***t with his c*m still dripping out of me, my thighs sticking together, and the echo of his last thrust still pulsing in my core.

The car still smells like s*x. The windows are fogged at the edges. I can feel the slick mess between my legs every time I shift. My body is sore in all the best ways. And the tension between us? It’s a live wire pressed against my throat.

Don’t Talk To Me Kitten

I glanced at him. I knew that look. That qület rage. That internal fury, it wasn’t about Camilla, it want

about the Interruption.

It was about me choosing that moment–the moment where he had been completely inside me, claiming me owning every inch of my body–and tearing it away.

I shifted again, pressing my thighs together and swallowing the whimper that threatened to slip out

His jaw flexed.

His hand twitched on the wheel.

“Damon,” I said softly, my voice low, careful, trying to reach him through the anger behind his eyes.

He didn’t look at me. Didn’t even flicker.

“Not now, kitten.”

His voice was sharp. Cold. The kind of cold that burns. It wasn’t raised, but it was heavy. It carried weight.

Authority. Punishment. And something in me tightened.

I nodded. Quietly. But I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. I never could. I was a mess. I spoke without thinking,

and I felt everything all at once.

“I didn’t mean to ruin it,” I whispered, my voice trembling slightly. “I just thought… what if she really do it?

You’ll hate yourself for life.

He didn’t respond.

“I know she’s manipulative. I know she’s cruel. I know she’d burn me alive if she could. But if she actually do it -if she kills herself–I don’t want you to blame yourself for not stopping it.”

Still nothing.

His eyes were locked on the road. His body unmoving. But I saw it. The way his throat moved when he swallowed. The way his grip on the steering wheel got even tighter.

“She’s not going to,” he said finally, his voice barely above a growl. “She’s a performer. She’s always been a performer.”

I bit my lip. I stared at my lap.

“You’re mad at me,” I said softly.

He didn’t say anything for a second. Then he slowly exhaled through his nose.

“I’m not mad,” he said. “I’m calculating what I’m going to do to you when we get home. I’m deciding whether

cock.” to f**k the apology out of you slowly… or tear it from your throat while you’re choking on my

My breath hitched. My legs squeezed shut so fast I could feel the mess between them spread further. It was like every nerve in my body stood at attention, panting, desperate, waiting for more. And of course, because I’m me–eighteen, stupidly brave, and recklessly in love with my possessive, vengeful, Daddy Alpha mate–l

smiled.

Not a soft smile.

A dirty one.

The kind that said you wouldn’t dare–but I f*****g want you to.

<Don’t Talk To Me Kitten

I turned to face him fully, legs crossed in my seat, and dragged my gaze over his profile like I was tracing each edge of his fury.

He looked like a man on the verge of destruction. Of someone else’s destruction. Or mine. Or both. His lashes cast shadows across his cheekbones, his lips were pressed into a sharp line, and his scent–gods, his scent -was thick and angry and aroused all at once.

My voice came out a little breathless, a little amused, and way too bold for someone who was still wearing his c*m like perfume.

“So… choking then?” I said, pretending to look thoughtful, but really watching the vein in his neck pulse.

His jaw flexed so hard I swore I heard his teeth grind.

“I can take it,” I added, voice lower now, more sinful. “You know I can.”

His knuckles whitened around the steering wheel.

“And maybe after you’re done punishing my throat,” I went on, pretending to be innocent as I traced a finger up my thigh, “you can bend me over that table again and remind me why you never like being interrupted.”

I saw it.

The flicker.

That wild, dangerous glint that lit up in his eyes like someone just poured gasoline on already–burning rage.

He didn’t speak.

But he did reach down, unbuckle his seatbelt with one sharp movement, then ran his tongue slowly across his teeth like he was picturing the things he’d do to me the second we got back.

“Keep talking, kitten,” he said, voice a growl now. “Say one more thing that makes my c**k hard in this car, and I’ll make you ride it all the way back with the windows down, dripping, crying, and gagging for mercy I

won’t give.”

I blinked. I swallowed. I clenched again.

But I wasn’t done. Not yet.

“Oh no, Daddy,” I said softly, licking my bottom lip on purpose, making sure he saw it in the corner of his vision. “You said I’d pay for making you stop. I’m just trying to help you figure out how you wanna collect the

debt.”

He finally looked at me.

Turned his head with that slow, calculated control that made my skin break into shivers. His gaze dropped to my thighs–still clenched together, still slick, still trembling–then lifted back up to my face.

“I’m going to ruin you,” he said, voice like smoke and thunder. “I’m going to drag you back home, strip you `naked, tie you to the damn war table, and f**k the word ‘sorry‘ out of your body until it’s engraved in your

bones.”

My mouth fell open just a little. I didn’t mean to. It just happened. That voice. That promise. That fury. It cracked something in me. Melted something else. I could feel my pulse between my legs, feel the heat soaking through my ruined underwear, feel every inch of his possession crawling over my skin like chains I never wanted to escape.

Don’t Talk To Me Kitten

He looked at me like he knew. Like he could smell it.

And of course he could.

He leaned closer, one hand still on the wheel, the other shifting to his thigh, his voice dipping even lower.

“And if you so much as pout when I make you beg,” he whispered, “I’ll flip you over, spread your legs wider, and f**k you until the apology becomes a scream.”

I whimpered.

Actually whimpered. In the car. With the windows fogged and the scent of s*x thick in the air and my entire body coiled tight like a string ready to snap.

“I’m still leaking,” I whispered back, my voice all breath and sin. “You never gave me a chance to clean it.”

He stared.

“I can feel it, Damon. Your c*m. It’s still dripping down my thighs. It’s sticky. It’s hot. It’s messy. And I’m still

sitting in it. For you.”

The growl that ripped from his chest didn’t sound human.

“Say that again,” he snapped, gripping the wheel tighter. “Say it again and I’ll pull this car over right f*****g

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