Chapter 29
There is no question in his touch this time.
He pulls me in and slides his hand into my wet hair.
Our lips meet in a soul-crushing kiss, as if we have been starving.
My hands wrap around his neck, trying to pull him closer to me still.
He obliges without a thought, sighing deeply, guiding me into his arms. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, and I moan.
His touch makes my pussy start to throb.
For the first time, I allow myself to let my hands wander over his magnificent body, moving from his neck over his wide shoulders to his chest and lower still.
My fingers slip to the hem of his shirt, pulling it free from the trousers, grazing his heated skin.
He groans with pleasure, twitching slightly as I stroke my nails over his abs.
His big hands find my ass, and he pulls me harder still against his erection.
I nearly cry out, the friction torturing me in the sweetest way.
“We cannot stay here,” he half-says, half-moans into my mouth.
I pull back to look at him, out of breath and delirious with lust.
“Where should we go?” I have to raise my voice now so he can hear me through the rain and thunder around us.
He briefly looks over to the house, but dismisses the thought immediately. He kisses me quickly and guides me back toward the stable. Once inside, he lifts me effortlessly onto the horse. Climbing up behind me, he wraps his coat around us.
“Hold on tight,” he murmurs into my ear and the horse starts sprinting out of the barn at an alarming speed.
The rain is slashing down hard around us.
I bury myself inside of Ashford’s embrace, but not because I fear the downpour.
It’s like I can’t stand to be apart from him, now that I have tasted him.
My skin is burning, wanting to be pressed against his.
My body is attuned to his in a way I have never felt before, as if we are made from one and the same skin.
He lifts his hand from the reins briefly, brushing his dark hair away from his forehead, the water running down his features in rivulets.
He looks handsome and dangerous, a man on a mission, determined, and yet, there is a hesitation to him that makes me wonder what internal struggle he is fighting.
A church comes into view in the distance, solitary placed alongside the small river which gives in to the lake at my estate and flows further south after.
At first, I think it is abandoned. So still it stands beneath the dark sky.
Then I see the roof, whole, steeply pitched, its wooden beams dark with age, and the narrow tower anchored at one corner.
The stone is pale and weather worn, each block uneven, softened by wind and years of rain.
Moss creeps along the lower walls, and thin vines cling to the mortar as though trying to claim it back for the forest. The doorway is framed by a pointed arch. The heavy wooden doors are closed.
But it is the window that steals my breath.
Above the entrance, set high into the front wall, a single vast pane of stained-glass catches what little light the storm allows. The image within it is difficult to make out from this distance, but it seems to blaze from within.
Ashford rides sure, his grip on the reins is steady.
The road is turning into mud, and it is becoming increasingly difficult for the horse to find its footing.
When we reach the church, Ashford drops to the ground and pulls me down to him, straight into his open arms. I smile, rain dripping down my face as I look up at him, but I do not mind.
The look on his face is almost reverent, like someone seeing sunlight for the first time in their life.
The moment only lasts a second, because we start running toward the church doors, Ashford pushing them open with a single shove. Inside, the air is still warm, stuffy, but welcoming. We walk further into the church, and I marvel at the patterns the stained-glass window leaves on the floor.
Ashford stops abruptly in front of me, and for a moment, I can’t breathe. The rain clings to my skin, my hair plastered to my face, but I hardly notice. All I see is him—every dark line, every shadow in his eyes.
His chest is rising and falling quickly, the storm outside echoing the turmoil in his eyes. He hesitates, then speaks, voice low and rough:
“You don’t understand…how much this scares me.”
I step closer, wanting to reach for him, wanting to close the space between us—but he doesn’t move forward. He’s a storm held in check, and I can feel it thrumming through him.
“Not what I feel for you,” he adds quickly, almost defensively. “But…the world we are stepping into. There are things you cannot yet see. Things I cannot…reveal.”
I tilt my head, searching his face, trying to understand, but it only makes my heart pound faster. He swallows hard, fingers flexing at his sides, and I see the restraint in him—the kind that makes him dangerous and irresistible all at once.
“And yet…I cannot stay away from you. I can barely keep myself from claiming you right here, right now.”
The words make heat curl in my stomach, and my hands itch to reach for him. I know I shouldn’t—but I want him. Devil’s mercy, I want him.
A shadow crosses his face, fleeting, haunted, and I feel the pull of it, the weight of the secrets he won’t share. “If I tell you everything…if I let you see the truth…you might never forgive me.”
My pulse spikes, and I can’t stop staring at him. Every inch of him makes me ache, makes me want to throw caution to the wind. I can almost taste the danger in his words, and it excites me, terrifies me, and draws me in all at once.
“So I…I need you to trust me. Just…trust me. That is all I can ask.”
I swallow, heart hammering, and I nod, though I feel the fear twist in my stomach. Trust him. I don’t even know him—and yet, every part of me wants to. I want him.
“I…I’m done,” I say, my voice carrying across the empty church. “Done letting things happen to me. Done letting life be chosen for me. I’ve tolerated enough, and I never fought, I never tried to change anything. I allowed it all. But I…I don’t want to anymore.”
His eyes flicker, jaw tight, and I see it—something raw behind the calm, something almost painful. He swallows hard.
“I want to choose,” I continue, stepping closer, daring to look him in the eyes. “I want…my life to be mine. And I want…to choose you.”
The words hang between us. He blinks, startled, and I can feel the weight of the truth in them, the unfamiliarity of my own power in speaking them aloud.
“I—I want to make a deal with you,” I say, and the thunder outside cracks so sharply it makes the floor tremble.
“No,” he whispers, voice tight, almost afraid. “There will be no bargain.”
“Listen to me—I give you my trust,” I continue, daring to look him in the eyes, daring to let him see everything I’ve held inside.
“All of it. I’ve never given anyone that before, and I choose to give it to you.
My loyalty, my…my willingness to follow you, to be with you—not because anyone has told me to, not because I have to, but because I want to. ”
He blinks, caught off guard, and I feel the weight of his surprise.
“In return,” I press on, voice firmer, “I want a promise. A promise that you will be honest with me. That you will not lead me on. That, when you are ready to share your truths, you will. And until then…you will not let me be lost in your world without me knowing where you stand.”
He swallows again, and I can see the conflict flicker across his face. His jaw tightens, his hands clench at his sides, but he doesn’t speak.
I don’t falter. “This is my bargain,” I whisper. “I give you my trust. You give me the promise to be truthful with me. That is all I ask. That is all I want.”
The church falls still, except for the rain hammering against the roof and the storm’s threatening roar. I watch him, my pulse pounding, waiting, and finally—he nods, slowly.
“I will agree to this,” he says, in a whisper that trembles just slightly. “But know…you are giving me far more than you realize.”
I cross the distance between us and rise to the tips of my feet, crashing my mouth into his.
He bends over and hooks his arms under my ass, lifting me up and carrying me toward the end of the church.
Our kisses are frenzied, full of desire and a quiet understanding that what has transpired between us, is more than what we both bargained for.
He sits me down on a table and lets his mouth trail down my throat, biting and sucking in an agonizing rhythm.
His breathing is uneven, his hands splayed across my back, holding me up.
I reach for his shirt, and move to pull it over his head.
The wet garment falls to the floor with a squelching sound, and I can’t help but stare.
His chest is covered in dark hair, scars running along his skin in several places.
His sculpted chest and abdomen are heaving, wet from the rain.
His lips find mine again as his hands make fast work on the binding on my back.
Ever so slowly, he lowers my dress over my breasts.
They are large and heavy after giving birth twice; gone are the perky mounds that I was once so proud of.
He does not seem to mind. His huge hands cover them both, rolling my nipples between his fingers and trailing kisses down my chest.
When his tongue finds my nipple, he groans, a sound so deep it rumbles through me, the vibration shooting straight down between my legs.
“Malric, I—” I breathe when his head shoots up.
“Say that again,” he whispers, his eyes pleading.
I huff out a laugh. “What?”
He growls. “Say my name, again, please.”
That last word undoes me, a plea so solemn and from somewhere deep inside of him.
“Malric,” I whisper and he shudders, eyes closed, like listening to a prayer.
When he opens them again, a smile tugs at his lips.
I slowly lower myself back down, heart hammering, and look up at the vaulted ceiling.
The stained-glass light flickers across the walls, splintering into colors that dance on the stone floor.
And then it hits me—Malric has not placed me on a table or in some secluded corner.
He has laid me on the altar at the front of the church.
“This…this is the altar, Malric. We can’t…”
He pauses, fingers brushing my skirts for a heartbeat, giving me just enough time to notice how close he is. His eyes lock on mine, dark and stormy, unflinching.
“We can, and we will,” he says, controlled, yet charged. He leans closer.
“This is your altar, Ayna’vael…and I have come to worship.”
His words strike me like lightning. My chest tightens, my pulse races. It feels…holy, and utterly intimate. A claim, but not one that binds me—it honors me.
I swallow hard, words caught somewhere between fear and desire. My fingers press into the stone beneath me, grounding myself, as I realize just how utterly he has made me the center of this storm.
His gaze does not waver. The thunder outside seems to echo the quickening of my pulse. “Do you want me to stop?” he whispers.
I shake my head slowly, even as a shiver runs through me. “No. Don’t stop.”
A small, taut smile curves his lips. There is devotion there, and something feral beneath it. He leans closer, and the world narrows to him, to the altar, to the storm raging outside—and to the secret, undeniable bond that has drawn us to this moment.
He lets his hand travel from my cheek, over my breasts and lower still.
I cover my face with my hands. “You don’t think God would mind?” I laugh.
He exhales a soft, amused breath. “Look at me, Ada. God and Devil, are names people gave to the same fear. Two faces stamped on a single coin, so they could tell themselves the world is simple.”
His gaze lifts briefly, taking in the stone, the altar, the glass.
“This place wasn’t built by God,” he continues. “It was built by men. By hands and belief and the need to feel watched over.”
His eyes return to mine, dark, and with intent. “If God minds,” he adds earnestly, “then He minds because men decided He should.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“You’re remarkably philosophical for a man conducting heresy at the altar.”
He stills for half a heartbeat, as if weighing the word.
Then he laughs—heartily, the sound deep and warm, spilling through the church like a hymn. It rises into the rafters and rolls back down around us, rich and dangerously alive.
When it fades, he shakes his head once, dark hair falling briefly into his eyes.
“Heresy?” he echoes, amusement lingering in his voice.
“Is that what this is?” He straightens again and I already miss his weight on me.
The stained-glass light shines behind him like a halo.
His gaze drops to my mouth, then lower, and when it returns to my eyes, the philosophy is gone—replaced by heat.
His hands start moving along my thighs again, drawing lazy circles, closer to where I need to be touched most.
“If this is heresy…” A faint, wicked curve touches his lips. “Then I suspect the altar has endured worse sins than ours.”