35. Chapter 35
Wren
I wake with a start, my heart pounding against my ribs. The bedroom is bathed in darkness, shadows stretching across unfamiliar shapes until my eyes adjust and I recognize the dresser, the chair in the corner, the door slightly ajar. Home. I'm home, not in the hospital.
The space beside me is warm, and I turn to find Theo sprawled on his back, one arm flung above his head, his breathing deep and even. His face is softer in sleep, the worry lines smoothed away, making him look younger. Vulnerable.
I reach out, my fingers hovering just above his chest, feeling the heat radiating from his skin without actually touching him. The steady rise and fall of his breathing is hypnotic, grounding.
But something feels off.
I roll to my other side, expecting to find Jace's lean form curled toward me as usual, but the sheets are cold and empty. My stomach clenches, an instinctive flare of panic that I immediately recognize as irrational. Just a trauma echo, Dr. Levine would say. My brain interpreting absence as danger.
I take a deep breath, forcing the anxiety back. Jace is fine. He's here somewhere.
The apartment is unnervingly quiet after the constant bustle of the hospital—the beeping monitors, the squeaking shoes on linoleum, the murmured conversations of nurses changing shifts.
Here, the silence presses against my ears, broken only by Theo's soft breathing and the distant hum of the refrigerator.
Then I hear it—a faint sound from the living room. A murmur, too low to make out words.
I slip from the bed, careful not to disturb Theo. The floor is cool beneath my bare feet as I pad toward the door, guided by the thin strip of light visible beneath it. My head still aches dully, a persistent reminder of my fall, but the pain has subsided to a manageable throb.
The living room is dimly lit by a single lamp, casting long shadows across the furniture.
Jace sits on the couch, his back to me, shoulders hunched forward in concentration.
The VR headset covers the upper half of his face, the small indicator light glowing blue in the semi-darkness.
His fingers move through the air, manipulating unseen elements in whatever virtual world he's exploring.
"Rendering is still lagging on the water effects," he mutters to himself, unaware of my presence. "Need to optimize the particle system. Maybe reduce the poly count on the background elements..."
I lean against the doorframe, watching him work. Even with half his face obscured, I can read the intensity in his posture, the total absorption in his task. This is Jace in his element—problem-solving, creating, lost in the world of numbers and code that makes perfect sense to him.
Something twists in my chest, a complicated tangle of emotions I can't quite name.
There's affection, certainly, for this brilliant, focused man who can lose himself so completely in creation.
But there's anger too, simmering beneath the surface.
He can dive this deeply into code, can dedicate this level of concentration to his work, but he couldn't be honest with me about the stalker. Couldn't trust me with the truth.
And yet, watching him like this—completely unguarded, muttering to himself, fingers tapping that familiar rhythm against his thigh when he pauses to think—I feel a different kind of heat building.
There's something undeniably attractive about seeing the normally controlled Jace so completely absorbed, so vulnerable in his focus.
I move silently across the room, my decision made before I'm fully conscious of it. Standing before him, I watch as he continues to work, oblivious to my presence. The headset covers his eyes completely, leaving him blind to the real world.
"Increase atmospheric density by point-three," he murmurs, hands moving through the air. "Add volumetric fog to the lower valley..."
Without hesitation, I pull my sleep shorts down my legs and step out of them, leaving me in just my oversized t-shirt. The air is cool against my bare skin as I move forward, placing one knee on either side of his thighs.
Jace stiffens immediately, his hands freezing mid-gesture. "Wren?" His voice is uncertain, slightly disoriented from being pulled so abruptly from his virtual world.
His hand rises to remove the headset, but I catch his wrist before he can complete the motion. I press a finger against his lips.
"No," I whisper, pushing the word out close enough to the headset that I know he can hear me through it.
I feel him shudder beneath me, his body responding to my voice even with the confusion. His hands lower slowly, uncertain but yielding to my command.
I shift my weight, settling more firmly onto his lap. Through the thin fabric of his sweatpants, I can feel him hardening against me. I rock my hips deliberately, creating friction that draws a sharp intake of breath from him.
"Wren," he says again, his voice strained. "What are you—"
I press my finger more firmly against his lips, silencing him. "Shhh."
My free hand slides down his chest, over the flat plane of his stomach, to the waistband of his sweatpants. I tug them down just enough to free his cock, already half-hard and thickening rapidly in my hand.
I continue to grind against him, feeling the slick heat building between my thighs as I slide my wet pussy along his length. His hands come to rest on my hips, fingers digging into my skin as he tries to guide my movements.
"Please," he breathes, the word ragged with want. "Let me see you."
His hand moves toward the headset again, and I grab his wrist, pinning it to the couch beside him. "No," I whisper again, the word barely audible but firm.
I position myself over him, the blunt head of his cock pressing against my entrance. Then, with excruciating slowness, I sink down onto him, taking him inch by inch until he's fully seated inside me.
The stretch is exquisite, a burning fullness that makes my breath catch. Beneath me, Jace groans, his head falling back against the couch, exposing the vulnerable line of his throat. His fingers flex against my hip, his other hand still pinned by my grip.
I begin to move, setting a maddeningly slow pace. Each rise and fall is measured, deliberate, forcing him to feel every drag of my body against his. I watch his face—what I can see of it below the headset—cataloging every flicker of pleasure, every twitch of restraint.
"Wren," he gasps, his voice breaking on my name. "Please, I need to—"
I cut him off by rising almost completely off him before sinking back down in one fluid motion. His words dissolve into a groan, his back arching beneath me.
Again, his free hand moves toward the headset, seeking connection, seeking control. Again, I catch it, pinning both his wrists now to the couch on either side of him.
"No," I say for the third time, the word stronger now, more confident in my throat.
I can feel the frustration building in him—not just sexual frustration, though that's certainly part of it, but a deeper need to connect, to see me, to participate fully in what's happening. The headset makes him blind, dependent entirely on my control, unable to anticipate or direct our pleasure.
Good. Let him feel what it's like to be kept in the dark. To want something he's denied.
I continue my torturous pace, alternating between slow, grinding circles of my hips and deep, deliberate strokes that take him to the hilt. His breathing grows ragged, his muscles tensing beneath me as he approaches the edge.
I can feel my own release building, a tight coil of heat low in my belly. But this isn't about my pleasure—not entirely. This is about power. About control. About making him understand what it felt like to be kept in ignorance, to have choices taken away.
When I feel him getting close—his breath shortening, his hips jerking upward to meet mine—I slow even further, tightening around him but barely moving. He makes a sound of pure frustration, somewhere between a groan and a whimper.
"Please," he begs, the word raw and broken in a way I've never heard from him before. "Wren, please."
I lean forward, my lips brushing the shell of his ear, and whisper a single word:
"Mine."
I feel him shudder at the sound of my voice, a full-body tremor that tells me how close he is to breaking. His control—that carefully maintained facade of calm he presents to the world—is fracturing beneath me.
"Yes," he gasps, "yours. Always yours. Please, just let me—"
I silence him with a kiss, swallowing his pleas as I begin to move again, faster now, chasing my own release. The angle is perfect, his cock hitting that spot inside me that makes stars burst behind my eyelids.
"Please," he begs when I break the kiss, his voice wrecked. "Please let me come. I need to—I can't—"
My fingers flex on his wrists, feeling the desperate tension in his muscles. Leaning close, I breathe against his ear: "You don't get to come until I say."
He makes a sound that's almost a sob. I continue riding him, my pace quickening as my own climax approaches.
When it hits, it's like a tidal wave—powerful, overwhelming, washing over me in pulses that make me cry out. My inner walls clench around him rhythmically, drawing another desperate sound from his throat.
"Wren," he pleads, his voice cracking. "Please. I need—"
But I don't give him what he needs. Instead, I lift myself off him entirely, leaving him hard and aching, his cock slick with my arousal. He reaches for me blindly, a sound of disbelief escaping him.
"Wren? What are you—"
I step back, watching him. His chest heaves with labored breaths, his hands grasping at empty air. The headset still covers his eyes, leaving him disoriented and desperate. His cock stands rigid against his stomach, flushed and glistening in the dim light.
I retrieve my sleep shorts from the floor and pull them on, my legs still trembling slightly from the force of my orgasm. Jace remains on the couch, utterly wrecked, his composure shattered completely.
They think they're the ones protecting me. But they're the ones at my mercy now. They don't dictate anything anymore. And they need to earn my forgiveness.
Without a word, I turn and pad back to the bedroom, leaving him gasping and desperate on the couch. Theo hasn't moved, still lost in peaceful sleep, unaware of what's transpired just a room away.
I slide beneath the covers, a strange sense of satisfaction settling in my chest. For the first time since waking in the hospital—maybe for the first time in years—I feel powerful. In control. The author of my own story.
Let Jace puzzle over what just happened. Let him wonder where he stands, what I'm thinking, and what comes next.