Chapter 63 Every Part #2
“I didn’t vanish,” I say, pressing my palm flat to his chest, right over his heart. “I came back. To you.”
His breath catches. I feel it under my hand.
“And if you’re going to look at me like that,” I continue quietly, “like you’re deciding whether to cage me or kiss me—”
His hand slides to my waist, grip tightening. “You don’t get to provoke this and then pretend you don’t know what you’re doing.”
“I know exactly what I’m doing.”
I tilt my chin up deliberately, putting my mouth within a breath of his and stopping there. Letting him feel the choice.
“I need you,” I say. “Right now. Not because I’m afraid. Because I’m here, choosing you.”
That’s what breaks him.
His mouth crashes into mine, hard and unrestrained, the kiss rough with all the tension he’s been swallowing since he woke to an empty bed. His hand slides from my waist to the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair, holding me there like he’s afraid I might evaporate.
I kiss him back just as fiercely, opening for him, biting lightly at his lower lip, pulling a low sound from his chest that feels like victory.
He presses me back against the door, body close, solid, overwhelming, all heat and breath and barely controlled possession.
“Don’t ever do that again,” he murmurs against my mouth. “Don’t leave without telling me.”
“I didn’t leave you,” I whisper, dragging my mouth along his jaw, to the place beneath his ear that makes his breath hitch. “I chose you.”
That’s when I take control.
I pull back just enough to look at him – really look – eyes dark, pulse racing, restraint hanging by a thread.
“Bed,” I say. “Now.”
His eyes flicker.
Not an order. An invitation. Maybe a challenge.
He doesn’t hesitate. His grip tightens as he turns us, guiding us backward, not letting go for a second like he’s learned something important about distance and fear and the cost of waking up alone.
And this time, it’s my choice – to pull him down with me, to let the jealousy burn itself out in heat and touch and the undeniable certainty that I’m still here, still choosing, still his.
The bed catches the backs of my knees and I use the momentum to turn, pushing him down instead of letting myself fall.
Nightshade’s breath punches out of him as he lands, surprise flashing across his face for half a heartbeat before it turns into something darker. I don’t give him time to recover.
I climb onto him, straddling his hips, palms braced on his chest, feeling his heart hammering under my hands. The position puts me above him, in control, lets me look down at him while his gaze tracks me with naked hunger.
This is mine.
I lean down and kiss him again, slower this time, deliberate, drawing it out until I feel him tense beneath me.
My hips rock once, just enough to make the point, to feel the effect it has on him.
His breath breaks. His body answers immediately, hard and undeniable beneath me, jealousy burning down into heat I can touch, use, control.
“Careful,” he warns, voice rough, barely holding together. “You’re pushing.”
His hands grip my thighs, fingers digging into my bare skin where my shirt has ridden up, like restraint is already costing him something.
The thin stretch of material separating us feels like nothing at all.
His gaze never leaves mine, but his fingers trace the edge of the shirt, brushing against my skin like he’s memorising the shape of me.
I can feel the callouses on his hands, rough against smooth, a reminder of the world outside this room, the battles we’ve fought and the ones still to come.
“That’s the idea,” I murmur, kissing along his jaw, his throat, feeling the way his body responds to every inch of contact. I take my time, staying just out of reach, using distance like a weapon and teasing him. “You don’t get to decide everything.”
His jaw clenches. “Neither do you.”
I smile at that – sharp, satisfied – and sit up again, hands sliding over his inked shoulders, his colourful chest, revelling in the tension coiled beneath my touch. I can feel him fighting it now, the instinct to flip us, to reclaim control, to stop letting me dictate the pace.
I want to see how long he lasts.
Not long, it turns out.
The moment my hands slide higher, the moment I lean forward again, pressing close enough that he can feel my weight and my intent and the choice I’m making, something in him snaps.
He moves fast.
One second I’m above him, balanced and in control – the next I’m on my back, the mattress dipping under his weight as he cages me there, forearms braced on either side of my head, body pressed close and unyielding.
His eyes are wild now. Dark. Possessive. All restraint stripped away.
He tears my shirt off and throws it across the room, drinking me in as a man that’s been starved.
His gaze drops to my lips, my neck, my chest, tracing a path of heat as it moves.
His breath, ragged and warm, ghosts against my skin, sending a shiver through me, a thrill of anticipation and desire spiralling within.
He leans down, his mouth finding my collarbone, tracing a line of fire along my skin with teeth that are punishing and reverent.
I gasp, my back arching slightly, my body pressing against his.
His touch is electric, igniting every nerve ending, every inch of my skin crying out for more.
His heartbeat, steady and strong against my chest, is a rhythm that grounds me even as my world spins.
His mouth moves lower, his lips wrapping around the peak of my breast, a surge of pleasure coursing through my veins like wildfire.
My hands find his hair, fingers tangling in the dark strands, holding him close as his tongue flicks and teases.
“Mine,” he growls, not loudly, not for show – like a fact he’s done pretending isn’t true.
The word sends heat racing through me instead of fear. I’m not a commodity to be owned, but somehow, coming from him it feels right.
“Yours. Yes,” I agree.
“They can be yours too. The others,” he explains through his clenched jaw. “But you are mine. Remember that.”
I’m his. They are mine. I can live with that.
I nod and wrap my legs around him without thinking, pulling him closer, refusing to be passive even as he takes the advantage. His mouth crashes into mine again, rougher than before, claiming, demanding, pouring every ounce of jealousy and relief and hunger into the kiss.
He releases my hands to drag his own down the length of my body.
They’re everywhere, tracing lines of fire down my sides, gripping my hips, digging into my thighs.
Each touch is a brand, a claim, a reminder that I’m here, alive, and his.
I can feel the urgency in his movements, the desperation that mirrors my own.
His hand pins my wrist above my head, not hurting, just reminding me how easily he could hold me there if he chose to. His breath is hot against my ear when he speaks.
“You don’t disappear on me,” he says. “You don’t give anyone else the chance to think they can have you.”
“I’m still here,” I whisper back, breathless, unrepentant. “And I choose you.”
That’s all it takes.
He kisses me again, deeper, slower this time, like he’s made his decision and there’s no pulling back from it now. The world shrinks to heat and pressure and the solid weight of him anchoring me to the bed, to the room, to this moment.
His breath is uneven against my mouth, the restraint he prides himself on stripped down to something rawer and more dangerous.
Every movement is deliberate now – measured, claiming – like he’s staking ground rather than chasing sensation.
His hand slides from my wrist to my side, fingers splaying there, holding me steady as if he needs the reassurance of my body staying exactly where he left it.
I feel it everywhere: the tension in his shoulders, the way his weight settles, the quiet insistence of him pressing closer, closer, until there’s no space left to question where I am or who I’m with.
The jealousy hasn’t burned out – it’s sharpened, turned inward, fused with relief and want into something that hums under my skin.
I break away from his kiss, gasping for air, my heart pounding against my ribcage.
His mouth finds my neck again, teeth grazing my skin, sending shockwaves through me.
I can taste his hunger, his need, and it fuels my own.
My nails rake down his back, feeling the muscles shift and flex under my touch.
He growls against my skin, a low, feral sound that sends a thrill of primal satisfaction through me.
His hands find the waistband of my pants, fingers hooking into the fabric.
He pauses, just for a moment, his eyes meeting mine.
I nod, a silent permission, and he tugs them down, his knuckles brushing against my scorched skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.
He throws them aside, his eyes never leaving mine, and I’m stripped bare, vulnerable, but unafraid.
A beat passes, then I reach for him, pulling him back to me, craving the warmth of his body, the safety of his touch.
His mouth finds mine again, exploring every inch of me, memorising my taste. But this isn’t about gentleness anymore.
This is about certainty.
He fists his hand into my hair, pulling my head back and kissing me hard, swallowing every noise I make.
His other hand is relentless, fingers sliding between my legs with a precision that’s almost cruel, knowing exactly how to draw pleasure from me until every thought unspools in the heat of his mouth and the press of his body.
I arch up, helpless, every muscle taut, bracing against the onslaught of sensation as he works me apart with slow, sure circles against my clit.
He doesn’t ease up, not when I gasp, not when I break the kiss to bite his jaw, not when I come undone beneath him, shaking and crying and clinging and utterly wrecked.
He only growls his satisfaction, kissing me deeper, keeping me pinned and trembling while he shifts his weight, releasing his own boxers in a single practiced motion.
He presses the length of himself against my thigh, hot and hard and insistent, giving me just enough time to realise what’s coming before he guides himself to my entrance and pushes in, slow at first but inexorable, filling me in one unbroken thrust that sets every nerve in my body alight.
My hands return to his back, clutching, dragging nails down his spine while he buries his face in my neck and moves inside me, building a rhythm that wipes out everything but the way we fit together.
His energy is raw, wild rage of want that’s finally found its mark, and I answer it with everything I have left, meeting every thrust, every kiss, every demand with a desperate hunger of my own.
The door stays locked.
The room holds.
And when the monster finally slips its leash, it isn’t chaos – it’s certainty.