Chapter 10 #2
"Much." I tangle my fingers in his hair and wrench his head back, exposing the long line of his neck where shadows bite into flesh. The sight is intoxicating—this powerful, ancient creature, bound by his own darkness at my command.
My body responds with a rush of heat that has nothing to do with magic and everything to do with the raw, primal satisfaction of control reclaimed.
"What else do you want?" he rasps, and even with shadows choking him, his voice drips with dark promise.
"Open your mouth."
He bares his teeth as he obeys, the expression feral. When I crash my mouth against his, it isn't a kiss—it's war. Teeth. Blood. Rage. I pour months of violation and helplessness into him, and he takes it all, giving back tenfold even as the shadows around his throat tighten with each movement.
I pull away, breathless. His lip bleeds where I bit too hard. He licks the blood like he enjoys the taste of his own pain, eyes glazed with hunger.
"More," he growls, the word strangled. "Take what you want."
The restraint in his body is visible, trembling. He's holding back a monster he's spent centuries perfecting. The shadows at his throat pulse with his barely leashed control—one command from him and they'd release, and whatever thin veneer of submission he's maintaining would shatter.
But he doesn't give that command.
He's choosing this. Choosing me. Choosing to let me feel powerful again.
"Strip," I order, my voice low and dark. "Everything. But the shadows stay exactly where they are."
This time, he doesn't obey immediately. He tilts his head—as much as the restraints allow—eyes narrowing as if deciding whether to indulge me or remind me just how quickly he could reverse our positions.
A long, tense beat.
Then—slowly, deliberately—he begins shedding clothing. Not the smooth obedience from before. This is ritualistic. Hunting. A dark king disarming not in surrender but in patience, while shadows continue to bind his throat in a chokehold of his own making.
By the time he stands bare before me, the air itself vibrates with violence barely contained.
"On the bed. On your back."
He goes. But the way he moves—iron sinew, coiled power, darkness bleeding at his throat—makes it clear: he is allowing this only because he wants to see how far I'll dare push him before he breaks.
I straddle him, my clothed body against his naked one, another reminder of the power imbalance I'm creating. My hands carve more red lines across his chest, and this time when his blood wells up, I feel something dark and satisfied uncoil in my chest.
This is mine. My choice. My violence. My reclamation.
"You let our baby die," I whisper, dragging my nails lower, past his ribs, watching his stomach muscles contract. The shadows at his throat pulse darker.
"Yes." No excuse. No armor. No cowardice. The word comes out choked, strained.
"You chose me over him."
"Yes," he says again, and this time there's a fracture in his voice that the shadows can't quite muffle.
"You trapped me here. You broke me."
Another "Yes," but this one is barely sound, more breath than word, strangled by shadow and truth.
He's unraveling under me—but not in submission. In hunger. In grief. In fury at himself.
I feel his control slipping like frayed rope. The shadows at his throat flicker, loosening slightly as his focus wavers.
"Keep them tight," I snap. "I didn't say you could breathe easier."
His eyes flash—surprise, arousal, something darker—and the shadows obey, constricting until I see genuine strain in his face. His hands grip my thighs with bruising force, the only outlet for the violence he's restraining.
"And you think letting me hurt you makes it better?" I press my palm against his chest, feeling his heart slam against his ribs.
"No." The word breaks. "But I will take every cut you carve into me until your hands stop shaking."
Something inside me cracks. Not forgiveness—never that. But something shifts, some recognition of what this costs him. To be the monster who destroyed me while simultaneously offering himself up for my vengeance.
I kiss him again—violent, bruising, tasting his blood and my rage. He answers with ferocity barely leashed, his hands trembling where they grip me, desperate to do more but forbidden.
When I pull back, he's panting—or trying to, with shadows wrapped around his windpipe. His composure is slipping further with every heartbeat.
"Touch me," I say at last.
He doesn't touch me gently. Even restrained, even with his own darkness choking him, his hands claim my waist with iron intensity. Heat radiates through my clothes. His breath is ragged, his composure splintering.
I can feel it—like standing beside a volcano moments before an eruption.
"I'm not doing this because anything is forgiven," I warn, even as my body responds to his touch with traitorous heat.
"I know," he growls, the sound guttural. "Say what you need. Do what you need. I won't break."
For the first time, I believe it.
I undress slowly, deliberately, watching his eyes track every inch of exposed skin. The hunger in his gaze sharpens into something dangerous, something that makes the shadows around his throat writhe with barely suppressed need.
When he sees the scar on my abdomen—the physical reminder of what we lost—something in him buckles. His shadows surge, reaching for me without permission.
"Don't," I snap, and they retreat immediately, but I see the cost. See how close he is to losing control entirely.
"You look at me like I'm something precious," I hiss, straddling him again, my bare skin finally against his. The contact sends electricity racing through my nerves. "Something you destroyed."
"You are," he says, voice stripped raw, barely escaping past the shadows. "Both."
And that's when I feel it—the exact moment his control begins to fracture. The shadows at his throat pulse erratically. His hands grip my hips harder. His entire body vibrates with need, grief, possessive fury.
"Nesilhan," he growls, voice deepening, roughening, barely human. "If you want control, take it now. Because I am losing mine."
The air crackles. Power shifts—wild, unstable. I feel his hunger rising like a tide, feel how close he is to dispelling the shadows and taking back everything I've claimed tonight.
I lean down, my breasts pressing against his chest, my mouth at his ear. "Make me feel something," I whisper. "Make me feel like my body is mine again."
His hands tremble violently on my hips. "Tell me to stop," he manages, though his voice fractures around the edges. "Tell me now, Nesilhan—because I won't be able to later."
I reach up and trace the shadows binding his throat, feel them pulse beneath my fingers. "I'm not stopping. And neither are you—not until I say."