The cocoon wasn't just a prison anymore—it had become a bridal shroud.
The silk was alive, pulsing faintly with each of his ragged breaths, clinging tighter with every twitch of his muscles. Allen's body was stretched like a sacred offering, suspended in a web of throbbing threads that stuck to his skin like glue, locking him in a permanent arch. His cock jutted outward, swollen beyond reason, dark with blood and dripping strings of clear fluid that clung to the silk like pearls on a necklace. It had been hours—or maybe days—since he'd been able to think clearly. The venom coursing through him made time meaningless, stretching and contracting like the threads around his body. He wasn't Allen anymore. He was a pump, a fountain, a thing to be emptied.
A wet clicking sound broke the stagnant heat, followed by the heavy scrape of claws against stone. The brood was returning.
