Chapter 8 #2
“I know,” I whisper.
He grins, slow and wicked. “That’s right. And it’s mine.”
When his tongue hits me, soft and slick and unrelenting, I cry out, grabbing fistfuls of his hair as my back bows off the table. He groans into me, licking like he needs it, like I’m oxygen and he’s drowning.
There’s no teasing. No mercy. Just raw, consuming hunger.
His fingers dig into my hips, holding me in place as he devours me, his mouth filthy and focused. I squirm, thighs shaking, but he doesn’t stop. He won’t stop.
When I try to pull away, breath hitching, he growls - actually growls - and locks his arms tighter around my waist.
“You don’t run from me, Magnolia.”
Then two fingers thrust inside me, curling with ruthless precision.
His thumb rolls in circles, making my entire body jerk in his strong arms. The orgasm shoots through me like a bolt of lightning.
I scream his name, legs quaking, the room tilting, my world narrowed to the wicked things he’s doing to me.
But he still isn’t done.
He stands, towering over me, hands going to his belt. There’s a metallic click, a whisper of fabric, and then he’s free, thick and hard.
He strokes himself once, slow and deliberate, eyes never leaving mine.
“You think I dropped to my knees just to taste you?” he rasps. “No, baby. I did it to remind you who the fuck you belong to.”
He wraps his hand lightly around my throat, tilting my face up. My lips part.
“I don’t fuck you to feel good, Magnolia. I fuck you to mark you. To make sure every part of you remembers me when I’m not there. When you sleep. When you breathe.”
He thrusts inside of me in one brutal stroke, and I shatter all over again. I cry out, hands flying to his shoulders as he begins to move. Deep, rough, relentless. The table groans beneath us.
His grip on my hips is bruising, possessive.
“Who owns this pussy?” he snarls, driving into me harder, deeper, like he wants to live there.
“You do,” I gasp. “You do.”
He leans down, his forehead against mine, sweat-slick and raw.
“Say it again.”
“You own me.”
A groan tears from his throat, guttural and harsh, as he pounds into me with brutal precision. My name leaves his lips again and again like a curse. Like a prayer.
I cling to him as he sends me spiraling, over and over, until I’m crying and shaking and ruined in every possible way.
He grabs the back of my neck, tilts my head, and whispers, “I want you to still feel me. Even when you’re walking. Even when you hate me.”
I scream his name as I fall apart one final time, and then he follows, hips jerking, spilling into me with a broken sound like nothing else exists but us.
He stays there for a long time, chest heaving, forehead against mine.
Then his mouth brushes mine, tender now, slow. The kiss is different. Sweeter. But it’s still him. Sin in all his darkness and devotion.
“You’re not leaving me,” he whispers. “Not now. Not ever.”
And I don’t argue.
I can’t.
Because I’ve already given him everything.
When we break apart, both of us are breathless. The air between us is thick with something unspoken. I open my eyes to find him staring at me, his pupils dilated, chest rising and falling quickly.
“Stay,” he whispers, his voice low and rough.
“I want to,” I reply without thinking, my heart pounding in my chest. “I want to stay more than anything.”
I try to slip back into my dress, but its torn.
Sin brings me a robe and we move to the living room, the space softer now, the tension between us still there, but quieter.
The warmth of his hand on mine makes me feel safe, like I’m exactly where I need to be.
We sit together on the couch, our legs brushing, the closeness between us so palpable it feels like an electric current.
But soon, the conversation falls quiet, and I find myself staring at him, tracing the harsh lines of his jaw, the way his lips curl when he smiles.
Sin leans back, his head resting against the arm of the couch, his eyes never leaving mine.
“You look beautiful tonight,” he says softly, and the words hit me like a wave.
It’s not the first time he’s said it, but it feels like it is.
Each time he speaks, it feels new. And each time, it makes me want him even more.
“I’m sorry about your dress. You can grab whatever from our room. ”
“Thank you,” I whisper back, my fingers brushing over his hand. I feel like we’re dancing around something too big to name, and yet neither of us wants to stop.
I see past his careful facade, the way the whites of his eyes are red.
“You haven’t been sleeping,” I say softly, searching his face. “Have you?”
He doesn’t answer right away. His gaze flicks away like he doesn’t want me to see the truth in it.
“I’m fine,” he mutters, but it’s a poor attempt at deflection.
“You’re not.” I brush my thumb gently over the hollow beneath his eye. “You look… tired. Like bone-deep tired.”
He exhales through his nose, the faintest ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “What gave it away?”
“Everything,” I say. “All of you.”
Without a word, he shifts closer and lowers his head into my lap like he’s done it a hundred times. My fingers move to his hair, brushing through it in slow, rhythmic strokes.
“I hate that they have you,” he says after a beat, voice muffled against my leg. “But I’m glad you have family. You deserve that.” I pause, surprised by the honesty in his voice.
“I didn’t think I would,” I admit quietly. “Feel like I belonged. But… it’s starting to happen. There’s a lot of them, cousins and aunts, uncles.”
His eyes stay shut, but his brows twitch like he's processing it.
“I’m happy for you,” he says eventually. “I mean that. Even if I want to tear their world apart.”
I laugh softly under my breath. “You already did.”
“That was the watered-down version,” he murmurs, almost asleep. “You’re the only thing that kept me from burning the whole city.”
His words land heavy in the quiet. I don’t know how to respond, so I just keep running my fingers through his hair, letting silence speak where words can’t.
“Are you safe?” he asks, a trace of worry still laced through his fading voice.
“With them?” I nod, a small grin tracing my lips. “I am.”
His breath evens out, warm against my thigh. Eventually, he falls asleep, the soft rhythm of his chest rising and falling a lullaby that calms my racing thoughts.
Sin is still asleep in my lap, his head angled toward my stomach, one arm draped across the cushion like he’s subconsciously reaching for me even in sleep.
I admire him, one hand combing gently through his hair, the other resting on his back.
For once, his face is unguarded. None of the tension he wears like armor. Just him.
Vulnerable. Quiet. Safe.
And tired.
God, he’s tired.
Even now, I can see it, the faint shadows beneath his eyes, the dullness at the corners of his mouth. Like the fire that keeps him running is finally starting to eat away at the edges.
He’s only at peace when he’s here. With me.
The weight of that thought settles like a stone in my chest.
Carefully, I shift my legs, sliding out from beneath him. He stirs but doesn’t wake. I reach for the throw blanket draped over the back of the couch and tuck it around his shoulders. He exhales softly, curling into it.
I hover for a second, watching him. The man everyone fears. The one who never bends.
Fast asleep in the living room like he doesn’t know how to carry it all anymore.
I press a kiss to his hair before tiptoeing down the hallway.
The bathroom is cool and quiet. I splash water on my face, the chill biting against the heat that’s been building in my chest since I got here. Every time I think I’m out of this war, the love I have for him drags me back in, through him. Through the history I never asked to inherit.
I dry my hands and make my way through the darkened hall, memories brushing past me like ghosts, nights here with Sin and Bria, evenings curled in the office that’s more library than workspace.
My fingers graze the edge of the arched doorway as I admire the room at night, golden wall sconces casting soft light.
I drift toward my favorite spot, the chaise lounge Sin placed beside the bookshelf he filled just for me, copies of every edition I found at Alice in Brewland.
One space is empty.
I already know what’s missing.
I turn toward his desk and smile when I see it: the worn copy of Romeo and Juliet.
It’s open.
A quote is highlighted in yellow:
“I defy you, stars.”
My throat tightens. It’s for me. For us. A quiet promise that no matter how fate tries to separate us, we’ll always find our way back.
My gaze moves away from the book to something else.
A single blueprint, unrolled halfway across his desk, like someone had been studying it.
The paper is thick, construction-grade, architectural.
And the structure… my breath stutters.
It’s the Rusco estate.
My family’s home.
Every hallway, every room, every emergency exit, mapped in meticulous detail.
Red ink.
Handwritten notations slanted and familiar.
Sin’s handwriting.
He’s marked certain doors. Arrows snake through the west wing.
Paths. Weak points.
All laid bare.
But no context. No title. No heading. No explanation.
Just the blueprint.
Just his handwriting.
A cold ripple moves down my spine.
Why would he have this?
I don’t touch it. I can’t.
But I take a picture.
Then I step back slowly, the sound of my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.
In the living room, Sin is still asleep. Blanket drawn up to his shoulders, face soft with peace.
Like he hasn’t done a single thing wrong.
But that blueprint is seared into my mind.
And I can’t unsee it.
I don’t know what it means.
But it can’t be good.
I exchange the robe for my coat.
I hover at the edge of the couch, torn in two.
I want to wake him. Demand answers.
But if this is what it looks like...
I can’t afford to let him know I know.
I have to protect my family, even from him.
Silent knowledge is better than loud demands.