Chapter 13
Kane
She hasn’t eaten.
Now it’s late afternoon, and the cabin has gone quiet in that heavy way it does when everyone is trying not to think too loudly.
Rook and Kylie are downstairs in their room.
Cal is in the small garage that’s connected to the cabin.
And I’m busy trying to find a way to get Blair to not starve out of spite.
I’m no chef—I don’t need to fucking eat, so I don’t need to fucking cook—but I make something simple with painstaking effort and care.
I go with grilled cheese and tomato soup, hoping it’s something light and doesn’t ask too much of her stomach, as well as figuring it’s hard to mess up bread and cheese and something out of a can.
It’s highly likely it’s not up to par with the luxury meals Blair Windsor is used to her family’s live-in chef making, but I’ll have to save the duck confit for later in my food preparation timeline.
Rich-girl problems, you know?
Having grown up in foster care, I wouldn’t know shit about being rich, but I’m not going to judge her for not understanding what it’s like to grow up blue-collar.
She’s been sheltered her whole fucking life.
Fed with a golden spoon. Taught to view the world through a skewed lens of privilege and wealth.
I already overheard her quietly bitching to herself about my lack of skin products and choice in body wash while she was taking a shower, which was amusing, to say the least. If she weren’t trying to hate me so much, I’d be tempted to offer to eat her pussy to make up for the soap travesty—a skill at which I’m already an expert.
But I’m resigning myself to keeping things simple and not fantasizing about all the things I want to do to Blair Windsor’s body—taste, lick, suck, fuck, worship—before I’ve even been checked into the game.
I’m a benchwarmer for now, plain and simple.
I carry the plate of food upstairs and head to my bedroom. The last thing I want to do is startle her, so when I unlock the door, I don’t rush in. I step inside slowly, like the air itself might fracture if I move too fast.
She’s fast asleep and curled on her side in bed, and she’s dressed in nothing but my T-shirt.
The shirt hangs loose on her small frame—one shoulder slipping slightly out of the neckline and the hem brushing the middle of her thighs.
And her hair is still faintly damp from the shower I heard her take earlier, the ends curling lightly against my pillow.
Fuck me. Her in my bed. My shirt on her body. It’s a gorgeous sight, and I have to make a conscious effort not to fixate on it too much.
I close the door quietly behind me and set the tray down on the nightstand without taking my eyes off her. She looks smaller asleep. Less sharp. Less furious. There’s no outrage in her face now, just softness and beauty and relaxed breaths.
The mattress dips slightly under my weight as I sit on the edge of the bed.
Her brows twitch. Then—without waking—she shifts toward me.
Her knee brushes my hip. Her hand drifts across the mattress until her fingers graze my thigh. Her body follows the contact instinctively, curling closer as if she’s been searching for heat.
The bond pulls tight in my chest.
I should move. I should stand back up. I should leave the bedroom.
Instead, I slowly lie down beside her.
The second I settle into the mattress, she presses into me fully. Her forehead tucks beneath my chin. Her fingers curl into the fabric at my waist. Her leg slides between mine like it belongs there.
It’s unconscious and just as necessary for her as it is for me. That’s what undoes me.
She hates me when she’s awake. But in sleep, when she’s completely relaxed and not overthinking every fucking thing she’s ever been told, she’s drawn to me like a magnet.
It’s the confirmation I need to know that, despite the rocky path ahead, I’ve made the right choice. Our bond is important to me, but it’s important to her too—it’s our destined future.
My arm slides around her before I can stop it. My palm settles at the curve of her back, feeling the steady rhythm of her breathing beneath the thin cotton.
She almost went to New York. Almost walked straight into Damien Snow’s evil hands. Straight into a cage dressed up as luxury.
The thoughts cut through me sharply.
The things he would’ve done to her. The cruel intentions that lay beneath the surface of his plans.
Fuck. I have to close my eyes to keep my rage and anger under control.
I know with certainty I would burn that whole fucking city to the ground before I let him touch her. She is my fated mate. I know I’m hers and she is mine, but I’ll never force her to choose me.
Never. The mere thought is abhorrent to me. I love her too much. When Blair gives in to our bond, it’ll be because she chooses it.
She stirs and her breathing changes, and between one heartbeat and the next, her lashes flutter open.
I brace for impact. For the shove. The slap. The fury.
But she doesn’t recoil. Her eyes are open, but they’re unfocused and soft around the edges. She’s here, but she also isn’t fully awake. This is a layer just below consciousness where the secrets live.
“I hate that I want to kiss you again,” she whispers, her voice still drowsy with sleep.
Her words hit me low and hard and threaten to awaken my primal need for her.
“Blair,” I murmur quietly.
But she’s already moving. She slides her hand up my chest, fingers tracing muscle like she’s confirming I’m real.
Then her mouth is on mine. Her lips are soft and searching, and for a second, I don’t respond. I let her decide.
She makes a frustrated sound against my lips when I hesitate, and then she shifts her weight, climbing over me in one fluid motion until she’s straddling me.
Her hair falls forward, brushing my face. The warmth of her body over mine sends a violent surge of heat through me. My hands come up instinctively to steady her at her waist.
She kisses me harder. Her body coming at mine with a hungry, desperate edge that takes every ounce of willpower I have to keep myself in check. To stay restrained. To not give in to how badly I fucking need her.
My cock is hard beneath the zipper of my jeans, and she grinds herself against me.
“Blair,” I say softly, warning threaded through her name.
She doesn’t slow. She just keeps kissing me and grinding against me, and her fingers tangle in my hair. She tastes like fucking heaven, and she feels soft beneath my hands. I want her. I need her. I love her.
She kisses me deeper, harder, and the invisible string connecting us tugs so hard I feel the pull in my spine. My body demands I take her, claim her, anchor her to me permanently.
I won’t. I can’t. Not before she lets go of the need to hate me.
She moves her hands to the hem of the shirt she’s wearing—my shirt—and she starts to lift it.
Fuck. I have to stop this.
That’s when I move. I roll us carefully, flipping her onto her back in one smooth motion. Not rough or dominant but controlled.
Her hair fans across the pillow, her lips part, and her eyes are still that distant, dream-hazed blue.
I lower my mouth to hers again, but slower now. I kiss her like something fragile, taking the tension from hunger and desperation to soft and gentle.
I slide my hand into her hair, smoothing it back from her face. I trail my fingers down her arm, over her wrist, and back up again. I move slow and steady and in a rhythm that relaxes her.
Her breathing shifts, and she sighs softly against my mouth.
I kiss her cheek. Her jaw. The corner of her lips. And with each soft press of my mouth, the tight grip her hands have on my shirt begins to loosen.
Her body melts into the mattress beneath me. The tension drains from her limbs. A few more kisses and her lashes lower until her eyes are closed.
And a few more kisses after that and her body fully relaxes until she’s asleep again.
I stay there a moment longer, hovering over her, until I roll onto my back beside her.
The ceiling beams blur slightly as I stare up at them. My cock is still hard, and every inch of my body aches with want.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath.
She trusts me in her sleep. She reaches for me when she isn’t thinking. But when she wakes, she’ll remember who she thinks she’s supposed to be.
I turn my head and look at her again, studying every facet of her being. Her dark hair, her long lashes, and the curve of her soft jaw. Her body is still curled toward mine, and she looks so beautifully peaceful.
I want to be the man who gets to make her look like that forever—and I will, eventually. She’s mine. I know that with every ounce of my body.
But war is also coming. The elites are undoubtedly working to track us down, and happily ever after may have a time limit.
I need to make her mine on a cellular level that no one could ever refute, give us a slight advantage, but I can’t rush just to beat the clock.
I can’t force the bond to make myself stronger, and I can’t force Blair to trust me.
I’ll have to take this war as it comes. Even if it kills me.