THIRTY-SEVEN
That kiss had stripped her bare. Angela’s lips were swollen, as the blood rushed beneath the surface where his mouth had claimed hers.
Even his taste lingered like rainy summer storms. And with it, every inner defense, every carefully built wall, and crafty lie she’d told herself about staying safe, staying single…
Gone.
She stared up at Zarek, lips parted, heart hammering.
He was waiting for consent. Or for her to say no.
“It’s okay.” And she meant that. “You don’t have to stop. You can kiss me again, if you like.”
Something broke in his eyes—relief, hunger, need—and that flicker of his lips that bloomed into that sweet-sweet secret smile. He flicked the air, and the doors at both ends of the library locked like magic, and then his mouth was on hers again.
But this time, it was different.
Slower. Deeper. He kissed her in a more intimate way that ignited a sea of arousal low in her belly.
His lips moved against hers in a way that stole her breath, as if learning the way her mouth moved with his. His tongue swept inside, and she opened for him, meeting him stroke for stroke, as if he had all the time in the world and intended to savor every millisecond.
But then it shifted, and suddenly it was all exploring hands, groans, and lips on lips.
She clutched at his shoulders, but her hands met the hard, battle-worn leather that was a barrier between them.
If this was to be her fantasy made real, she wanted it gone.
Now.
Zarek must have felt her frustration, because he pulled back just enough, and with his eyes never leaving hers, he reached for the buckles at his shoulders to unclip the armor. It fell away with a heavy thud that echoed through the small library.
Beneath it—
Oh mercy.
An undershirt, with silver threads on the cuffs, that sculpted every line of raw muscle. His chest heaved with each breath, highlighting the faint indentations left by years of wearing staves that contained his power.
A warrior.
A man.
And somehow, he’d ignited her soul.
With trembling fingertips, she traced the ridges and scars, as the heat radiated from him like a banked fire. He shuddered under her touch—actually shuddered—and she felt his shock, his relief, his wonder that she wasn’t afraid.
His mouth found hers again, hungrier now, as his hands slid down her sides, fisting the fabric of her gown.
She tugged at it, trying to pull it over her head, but the layered gown tangled, caught on her arms, her hair—
“Damn it,” she muttered against his mouth.
He gave a rough laugh, pulling back just enough to look at her, eyes blazing. “Let me.”
His hand flattened against her stomach, and she felt the slow heat bloom beneath his palm.
And then the gown ignited.
Silver threads glowed white-hot for a heartbeat before the fabric dissolved into ash, falling away from her skin like snow.
The delicate chain snapped from the heat, and her medallion fell. It hit the floor with a soft clink, rolling away into the shadows.
Angela barely noticed as she stood before him in nothing but her bra and panties, the air cool against her flushed skin.
“You’re…” His voice cracked. “You’re beautiful.”
Heat flooded her cheeks—not from his power, but from the raw honesty in his eyes and how he looked at her as if she were something precious he couldn’t believe he could finally touch.
“Your turn.” Her fingers curled into the hem of his undershirt.
He pulled it over his head in one swift motion, and—
Oh, she’d known he was strong. Having felt the muscle beneath the leather when he lay wounded and asleep. But seeing him like this, awake and bare-chested, with the stave indentations pressed into his skin, was something else entirely.
He was magnificent.
And he was looking at her as if she were the only thing in the world that mattered.
His hand cupped her breast through the thin fabric of her bra, and she gasped as her head fell back.
She’d been touched before. Kissed before.
But this—this—was different. A primal appreciation blazed to life low in her belly, warming her from the inside out.
She could feel him. Not just his hands, his mouth, and his body pressed against hers—but him.
His want filled with a desperate, aching need to be close to someone after centuries of isolation.
And between them something pulsed, amplifying every sensation, every emotion, until she couldn’t tell where she ended and he began.
The Claiming.
It wasn’t just magic. It was emotion, flooding them like raging storm of magick-meeting-magick in a way she didn’t comprehend but felt. And even though his touch was new, all of this felt familiar. It was also incredibly freeing.
“You feel this too,” he murmured against her neck as it arched back for him, his fingers tracing over her body, lower to her hips, where his grip was both hungry and worshipful across her skin. “The Claiming.”
“Yes… and no.” Because she also wanted him more.
“Tell me to stop.” His voice was ragged, barely controlled, as his mouth moved against her throat. “Because if you don’t, I won’t be able to.”
But even as he said it, his hands were sliding her bra straps down her shoulders, his mouth hot against her skin, trailing fire down her collarbone.
“Don’t you dare stop,” she breathed.
Zarek’s eyes flashed so bright and hungry at her, only for his mouth to curve before it converged onto her breast. His tongue circled her nipple, and she arched into him with a moan that echoed through the small library.
His palms slid over her waist and back, as if reading her like she was a language he’d never spoken but understood.
And maybe that was what the Claiming was all about. Knowing without understanding.
Only it made her more desperate for skin against skin. To feel his broad shoulders. Hard chest. And the scars that told stories she wanted to know.
But this was no time for stories, not when she was struggling for air, feeling the heat radiating from his body.
With hands around her waist, he walked her back to the couch, then gently pushed her down, leaving her to gaze up at this god of fire.
His eyes were so bright she almost felt their touch as they followed his large hands gliding up her thighs. His mouth was everywhere, devouring hers, and when he tore her panties—literally tore them and tossed them to the floor like rags—she should have been shocked.
But all she felt was heat flooding her core.
The tenderness with which he pushed her legs apart. The way his eyes lingered on her sex. “Hmm.” He let out an aroused rumble so deep it might have been a sigh, a prayer, or a moan.
His fingers started exploring, and she could hardly breathe, while her hungry hands traced his muscles, his broad back, and the glorious dominance of his battle-hardened body.
Those beautiful eyes lingered on her skin as he trailed a finger from her jaw, down between her breasts, and then lower, to where heaven had a heartbeat. Her back arched as he played music with his fingers, and her voice sang without a sound.
He came down on top of her, capturing her lips in another kiss so deep it left her whimpering, her pulse pounding in her veins as her limbs trembled from his fingers that dove inside her. She had no choice but to rock against them.
He circled the bundle of nerves with his oh so clever fingers—faster and faster. Until finally, her neck arched, and her back curved and lifted off the couch.
And she shattered. That, somehow, made his needy hunger expand, along with his joy at pleasing her.
It was the Claiming that pulled them together and amplified everything. Every touch, every sensation, and every emotion that she was drowning in ecstasy.
“Zarek—” Her voice broke.
He rose above her like a god of war, breathing hard, and she watched as he undid his trousers, releasing himself.
He was—
Big. Hard. Ready.
“I want to be inside you.” His voice was rough like gravel. His jaw clenched with the effort of holding back. “I want everything. But I don’t want to lose control.”
“It’ll be okay. Just trust it…” It? The Claiming? Or did she need him just as much?
Cupping her head, he kissed her gently this time, softly, as if trying to coax her back from a retreat.
It was as if he were trying to tell her things through his touch that he’d never say out loud.
The look on his face stole her breath, making her chest ache—all from the power of those intense eyes.
Her hands rested on his carved chest that rose and fell as he breathed without rhythm. Admiring his hard lines. Impossibly broad shoulders. And those biceps she’d love to sink her teeth into.
He wasn’t just masculine.
He was pure power.
She pulled him toward her, his hard length lining up exactly right.
But then the sensations collided to a point of overwhelm. His hands held her calves, then he grabbed her hips and pulled her down, eliciting a gasp as he pushed inside slowly, with his jaw clenched from the effort of holding back.
Oh, how he was thick. Hot. Filling her completely.
He groaned, his head falling to her shoulder, and she felt his emotions crash over her like a wave of relief and pleasure, but…
Of home.
Her hips bucked from the sensitive fullness, pulling him deeper, and he gasped.
“Angela—”
“Move.”
And he did.
Not how she’d expected either.
He tossed her leg over his shoulder and took control.
First, he was slow and deliciously deliberate, as if savoring every stroke between them. He gripped her hipbones, and they soon fell into a rhythm of strong, thick pumps where neither of them were able to speak, struggling to see anything else in the world but each other.
He moaned, a sound so mouthwateringly wicked it had her clawing his skin, desperate for him to go deeper.
His breathing became labored as perspiration beaded on his brow.
His eyes rolled back, and he let out a guttural moan so profound she felt it roll from his chest through to hers.
From there, every roll and flex of his hips was heavy with barely contained control.
The emptiness when he drew back.
The suffocating fullness when he entered her again.
The tip of him teasing her trigger from the inside, pressed so deep, it was cleverly undoing her every single time.
His lips crashed on hers, tongues tangled, and the groan poured through their mouths. Only stopping as he tucked her in closer, and again buried himself, diving deeper, harder, faster.
She could feel everything, his pleasure with hers, and the way his muscles rippled as he hovered above her. The fire building between them, the scorching heat that had nothing to do with his magick, or the Claiming, but everything to do with this.
Them.
She gasped, nails digging into his back as the vibrations wracked her body and everything clenched—her legs, her teeth, her hands in his hair, dragging him to meet her.
He growled.
And then—
The wave crested.
It roared through her, and she panted, trying to get precious air into her lungs from the unexpected flooding of pleasure. His chest rose and fell, his eyebrows shot up as if surprised, just as her body clenched around him.
Pulse after pulse, she quaked.
Every bone trembled as every nerve ending buzzed, leaving her clinging to him, her legs wrapped around his hips and her arms locked over his shoulders.
And Zarek followed.
He drove into her one last time. His release was raw as he growled with a primal satisfaction.
But it was so much more than that—
She felt the bond.
Not just the Claiming. Or the magick.
Them.
Soul to soul. Body to body. Two people who’d been alone their whole lives, had finally found someone who understood.
The surrounding air shimmered with heat that sparked and crackled, scorching the ceiling and the couch, even blackening some nearby library books on the shelves.
Zarek collapsed onto her, breathing hard, his weight pressing her into the couch. For a moment, neither of them moved to untangle limbs, not until their breathing returned to normal.
And then he lifted his head, brushed the hair from her face, and looked at her with something that might have been wonder.
“Are you okay?” he asked quietly.
She smiled, sated, and never more alive than in this moment. “Just perfect.”
He tenderly kissed her nose and grinned. “Good. Now, hold on to me.”
“Why?”
“I’m taking you to bed.” His teal eyes gleamed. “My room or yours?”
She grinned, mischievously. “We can always do both. But I like your bath.”
“We can share.” His laugh was low as he pulled her close, and the world shifted.
One moment they were in the library—tangled, breathless, surrounded by the scent of sex and scorched wood. The next, the library stood empty.
But the walls were witnesses to the Claiming’s consummation.
The Accords had been broken.
And nothing in Paradox would ever be the same.