17. Gorran
GORRAN
H olding back was harder than any battle I’d ever fought.
I’d lived my life taking what I wanted. My strength had always been enough to claim anything—food, coin, blood, freedom.
But Mira? She was different. She wasn’t something to be claimed in a moment of impulse.
She was a fire I wanted to burn slow and deep, until there was nothing left of her fear but ash.
Every time she laughed under her breath, every time her sharp tongue cut me, I wanted her more. And when she softened, even just for a heartbeat—when her hands brushed mine, or when her lips parted like they might invite me closer—it almost undid me.
She was beautiful. Hers wasn’t the delicate, fragile beauty of painted human girls, but something raw, alive.
The way her brown hair tumbled in messy waves, the stubborn tilt of her chin, the defiance in her eyes.
She looked at me like I was danger—and gods, I was—but she hadn’t yet realized how much I wanted to be her shelter, too.
She was mine. Not by her choice, not yet. But she would be.
There was something sublime in this restraint. The waiting. The knowing. I could almost taste the moment when she would give in—not because I demanded it, but because she wanted it, because she would understand what it meant to be with me.
I could be fearsome, yes. That was why it was important to me that she not fear me.
I had done terrible things. Things that would make her flee in an instant if she learned of them.
I’d lived these last few years in solitude, away, thinking, contemplating, repenting.
Now, for the first time in my life, I had a chance to not be the monster.
To not be feared.
I wanted her happy. Content. Willing.
Because I didn’t want her for a night or a season. I wanted her forever.
That’s why I had to do this right. I couldn’t make the first move.
She was my captive. My prize.
My human.
My mate.
I would wait for her, and she would want me without reservation or hesitation.