Silas
“I can lip read,”
I whisper to Luna like it’s a confession and a superpower all wrapped in glitter paper.
She gives me a look.
One brow lifted, lips twitching like she’s deciding whether to indulge me or kick me off the balcony. Honestly, I’ll take either. The dress she’s in is making it very hard to focus on anything else—especially when she’s this close, the scent of her skin this sharp in my lungs. She smells like dark things I’d gladly fall into. Like her.
“You cannot lip read,”
Elias cuts in from behind us, but of course he doesn’t stay there. His head appears between us like a ghostly snack trying to wedge itself into the conversation. He’s too close. His breath hits my cheek.
“You said a guy was proposing when he was clearly ordering a scone.”
“I stand by that,”
I shoot back.
“His mouth said ‘blueberry,’ but his eyes said forever.”
Luna snorts, and it’s soft but deadly, like she’s trying not to laugh, which only makes me want to double down.
“I spent centuries perfecting the art,”
I say, straightening in my seat like this is a TED Talk for the unworthy.
“While you were doing—what? Brooding and stabbing things? I was reading lips. It’s the ultimate eavesdropping technique. And sexy. I read that in a book.”
Elias turns to Luna.
“The only thing he’s qualified to read is the back of a cereal box. And even then, he adds dramatic monologue.”
“With flair,”
I point out.
“Don’t act like you weren’t riveted when I turned the Cheerios box into a Shakespearean tragedy.”
Luna tries to cover her smile with her hand. Fails. Her eyes slide to me, and gods help me, I feel it—how much she loves me. It’s there. Right there in the curve of her mouth, in the way she leans toward me, in the way her hand drifts like she’s not sure whether she wants to touch me or smack me.
So I do what I do best.
Lean in, barely a breath away, and whisper.
“I read your lips every night in my dreams.”
Elias groans so loud the couple in the next box looks over.
Luna chokes on her laugh, covering her face with both hands now, and it’s the best sound I’ve heard in weeks.
Mission: Chaos with Bonus Cringe — accomplished.
But underneath it, there’s this quiet ache I’m learning how to live with. Because I know what she’s facing. I know this play isn’t just theater. It’s a stage for them to measure us, weigh us, decide if she’s something to fear or something to leash.
And gods, if they try to do either, I’ll burn the whole performance down before the second act.
But for now—just for now—I sit beside the girl I love, crack the worst jokes imaginable, and make her laugh in a world that wants her silent.
Let them watch. I’m her chaos. And I’ll always make her smile first.
I lift my chin and narrow my eyes at the stage like I’m studying ancient scripture. One hand pressed to my temple, the other dramatically raised, fingers steepled. I am concentration incarnate. Poised. Purposeful. Possibly full of shit.
“The man in the third row just mouthed something scandalous,”
I whisper to Luna, who’s already halfway through a sip of her drink.
She doesn’t look at me. Not yet. She’s smart like that.
I wait three seconds. Let the suspense linger.
“‘Her hair smells like fallen stars and ruined men.’”
I pause for effect.
“Clearly about you.”
Luna chokes.
Not dainty. Not elegant.
A full snort-laugh-cough hybrid that she tries to bury in the back of her hand. I beam like I’ve just solved world peace.
“You’re not even looking at him,”
she hisses, swatting me lightly with her fan.
“You’re looking at the wrong section—”
“Ah, but see,”
I say, shifting into her space like I’m about to unveil some cosmic truth.
“true lip reading doesn’t come from the eyes. It comes from the soul.”
Elias mutters something unintelligible behind us that sounds like 'soul rot.'
I ignore him.
“Besides,”
I say, straightening.
“the lighting is garbage. Absolute crime scene lighting. My art cannot be appreciated in these conditions.”
“You’re not an artist, you’re a disaster,”
Elias says, leaning forward between us again like some inconvenient shadow puppet.
“The last time you lip-read, you claimed the Council was conspiring to replace all chairs with flamingos.”
“Still a better idea than these theater seats,”
I shoot back, wiggling dramatically in mine.
“My thighs haven’t been this offended since Keira wore that shade of envy-green.”
That gets a bark of laughter from Elias.
But it’s Luna I watch—her hand resting near her thigh, her gaze darting down to the audience, trying not to smile again. She’s glowing tonight, even in this cursed lighting. The kind of glow that makes even the shadows pause to stare.
And maybe I’m a joke most of the time.
Maybe I play the fool on purpose.
But when she looks at me—really looks—I feel like I’ve won.
She leans in, lips barely parting.
“What’s the cloaked woman near the stage saying then, master lip-reader?”
I squint, squint harder. Then whisper, grave and serious.
“She’s saying… 'That Veyd is unreasonably handsome and probably very good with his tongue.'”
Luna gives me the look. The one that says she’s this close to stabbing me with her fan and this close to kissing me afterward.
Gods, I love her.
I lean closer, whisper just for her.
“I love you, you know.”
And when she glances at me, the smallest, softest curve of her lips is all the proof I need.
She loves me back.
Even if my powers of lip reading are a complete fabrication.
But hey—every artist takes liberties with their craft.
And then I see him. Gods above and chaos below, I see him. Down in the third row, center-left. Front and bold as sin.
This man—this monument—moves like a tidal wave wrapped in velvet. His robe swallows three seats just by existing, and his belly—gods, his belly—it’s a kingdom of its own. Round, glistening like it’s been oiled to perfection, glinting beneath candlelight like a polished weapon of mass destruction.
I lurch forward, elbows on the velvet rail of the box, eyes wide.
“Luna,”
I whisper, stabbing my finger downward like I’ve spotted a cryptid.
“Luna, look. Look at that stomach. That stomach demands reverence.”
She doesn't look at first. Which is cruel. Cold. Wounding.
“Luna,”
I hiss again, more desperate.
“His belly is battling that seat. It’s a war. I am witnessing the siege of theater furniture in real time.”
Finally—finally—she peeks.
And her face—
Priceless.
She slaps a hand over her mouth, but I hear it. The snort. The muffled laugh. And I swear my soul ascends just a little.
Elias leans forward on my other side, squinting.
“Holy hell. That man is defying physics.”
I nod solemnly.
“It’s not a belly. It’s a living entity. I think it blinked at me.”
“Do you think it has a name?”
Elias asks.
I tap my chin, then gasp.
“Sir Bouncesworth the Third. Of the Royal Order of Crushed Upholstery.”
Luna wheezes beside me now, shoulders shaking. She tries to hide it, but she can’t. She’s laughing so hard her eyes are starting to water.
Mission: Bring Light to the Binder—complete.
But I’m not done.
I shift slightly, conjuring a flicker of shadow beneath the box rail, a mimicry illusion just for her—a tiny version of me, dramatically reenacting the belly’s slow, triumphant descent into the seat. Complete with exaggerated flails and heroic music humming low under my breath.
Luna leans into my shoulder, head tilted just enough to rest there, her laughter finally quieting into that warm little hum I crave more than power. Her fingers graze mine.
Elias grabs my face. Both hands. Full grip. Fingers in my hair, palms cradling my cheeks like I’m a damned sacred artifact, and suddenly I’m staring down at the single most heinous sight this theater has ever birthed.
Cowboy boots.
Not just any cowboy boots—white, rhinestoned abominations. And the man wearing them? The Belly King himself. The one who conquered that seat like it was a mountain and he’d brought snacks for the climb.
“Look at it,”
Elias whispers, reverent.
“Look at what he’s done.”
I whimper.
Not a cute one either. This is a full-bodied, wounded keening sound. Because those boots—those boots are a declaration of war. Against art. Against fashion. Against me.
“I could’ve worn mine,”
I whisper back, eyes wide with betrayal.
“I almost did.”
“But Luna said no,”
Elias says, solemn.
“She saved me.”
“She did.”
We both look at her.
Luna’s sipping her drink like she’s above this, but I see it. The twitch at the corner of her mouth. The silent I told you so echoing louder than any spell.
She knew.
“Those boots,”
I say, still in Elias’s clutches.
“those boots are mocking me. I could’ve strutted in here. I could’ve made rhinestones weep. But now?”
“You would’ve been twins,”
Elias says gravely.
“Bonded by bad choices. Indistinguishable in the chaos.”
“And not the good kind of chaos,”
I add.
“The tragic, Vegas-eloped-with-no-memory kind.”
Elias releases my face with the reverence of someone letting go of a cursed relic.
“We’ll get through this,”
he tells me.
“But you need to remember this moment. Let it haunt you. Let it shape the man you become.”
“I hate him,” I mutter.
“You don’t even know his name.”
“I don’t need to. I know his boots.”
She’s pretending not to enjoy this, which is adorable. I lean toward her, stage lights catching the glint of vengeance in my eyes.
“You saved me, you know,”
I say, voice low and dramatic, hand on my heart.
“From fashion damnation. From becoming that.”
She side-eyes me.
“I saved you from a public stoning.”
“Same thing.”
I lean in closer, conspiratorial.
“Marry me,”
I whisper.
“No,”
she says instantly.
I grin, undeterred.
“One day, you’re gonna say yes. And I’ll be wearing boots so beautiful the stars’ll ask where I got them.”
“If you wear cowboy boots to our wedding, I’m going with Ambrose.”
“That’s fair,”
Elias says.
“Ambrose would never wear rhinestones.”
I gasp.
“How dare you both insult my future footwear fantasies.”
And just when I think the night can’t get any more cursed—
She arrives.
A woman. No—a force of nature. Feathers. Lace. A bosom that defies gravity, reason, and physics. The kind of décolletage that requires its own postal code. She floats—no, she heaves—into view beside Sir Bouncesworth the Third like a goddess of gaudy spectacle, and every jaw in a fifty-foot radius forgets its job.
Even the seat beneath her flinches. I stare. I have to stare. It’s like a train crash made of glitter and regrets.
“Oh,”
I whisper, reverent.
“She’s here to steal the scene. And my will to live.”
Elias leans forward so fast he nearly knees Luna in the back.
“. . Her tits. They have feathers.”
“Shhh,”
I whisper.
“Don’t look directly at them. They’re like suns. You’ll go blind.”
Luna is frozen beside me, one hand halfway to her drink, the other gripping the armrest like she’s bracing for impact. Which is fair. The feathered bosom goddess has entered the ring. The balance of power has shifted.
Her corset is less fashion and more divine punishment. Her dress is the color of spilled wine and questionable decisions. And I swear to every god above, she just adjusted her… assets with both hands and a little hop.
Elias makes a noise like a dying bird.
“,”
he says.
“, I need you to hold me.”
“Not now, darling. I’m too emotionally compromised.”
“I think I saw one wink at me,”
he whispers.
“I think it winked twice.”
That image is permanent.
“Why is this theater cursed?”
she murmurs.
“Because the gods love drama,”
I breathe.
“And we are the sacrifice.”
“I want to leave.”
“You don’t, though,”
I say, nudging her playfully.
“You live for this chaos. Admit it. You love watching me spiral.”
“You make yourself spiral.”
“For your amusement. For your pleasure, Luna.”
Elias chokes beside us.
I lean closer, dropping my voice to something just barely a whisper.
“You’re already bonded to me. Now you just have to marry me so I can legally shield you from further feather-related trauma.”
“No,”
she says again, a little too fast, which means maybe.
But she’s laughing. And gods, that makes it all worth it.
Even if her laughter is echoing in the same cursed airspace as that bosom’s latest gravity-defying bounce.
The curtain starts to rise.
And I swear the feathers shimmer with menace.
Let the show begin.
The lights dim again, and the feathered horror below us settles into her seat with a sound like a deflating accordion. The scent of whatever perfume she’s weaponized wafts up even from this height—roses, rot, and the souls of men who’ve made very poor choices.
Elias makes a gagging sound beside me.
Luna leans forward slightly, eyes darting toward the stage like she’s trying to pretend she hasn’t witnessed everything.
But I? I thrive in this chaos. And as I lean into her, closer than a whisper, I let my words curl in that soft, ridiculous tone she always pretends to hate.
“I love your bosom the mostest,” I murmur.
There’s a beat of stunned silence.
Then—“What did you just say to me?”
“I said your bosom is my favorite bosom in the known universe. Possibly the multiverse. Definitely superior to Featherzilla down there.”
“—”
“It’s science, Luna. Physics. Poetry. Your cleavage could write sonnets. Hers could crush small villages. We are not the same.”
She covers her face with her hand, shoulders shaking, and I see the exact second she loses it—her laugh bursts out, sharp and helpless, and she swats at me like I’m a fly buzzing around her halo.
Elias groans like he’s physically in pain.
“Why do you say things like that? Why are you like this?”
“Because I’m a romantic, Elias.”
“You’re an embarrassment,”
Luna says, but she’s still laughing, and her hand finds mine in the dark, fingers twining like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
I glance down at our joined hands. Then up at her.
“Admit it,”
I say.
“You love me.”
“I do,”
she mutters through a smile.
“Gods help me.”
“Boom,”
I whisper, smug.
“Confirmed. The bosom of my dreams loves me back.”
And in the flickering candlelight, as the stage below us floods with false moonlight and the actors start their performance, I know something truer than anything that script will ever say:
This—this laugh, this touch, this impossible girl—I’d burn the world for her. And I’d do it in rhinestone boots if she asked me to.
Ambrose
I’ve never been a man who values sleep.
Rest is a negotiation, a courtesy I allow myself when the world doesn’t require me to be sharper than the blade pressed against its throat.
But sleep—the real kind, the kind that steals you whole and returns you softer—I discarded that centuries ago.
Still, there’s a difference between choosing not to sleep and being kept from it.
And tonight, it’s not Keira’s ghost in my bed or Branwen’s claws at the base of my skull. It’s something far more disruptive.
It’s Luna’s voice.
I can still hear it. The words low and offered like a secret passed between shadows.
“The bargain still stands.”
Not flirtation. Not seduction. She said it with a clarity that stripped it of pretense—like an equation that only ever solves one way. No tricks. No smile. Just her eyes, and the weight behind them that said: I know you. I know what you need. And I’m still offering it.
And that is what won’t let me rest.
Because she meant it. Which means I have to ask myself why.
I rise, push the sheet off my lap like it’s tangled with thought. The room is still, untouched by time. My boots sit at the end of the bed, polished by habit, not necessity. The hearth remains unlit; I don’t like fire when it isn’t serving a purpose. The walls feel closer tonight, or maybe I’m just too aware of what I walked away from earlier.
She didn’t ask for anything. Not a promise. Not a vow. Not even pleasure in return. Just... herself. Her body, her presence, her stillness—offered like she was something I could use until I’d hollowed her out and still not owe her anything.
Except I would. I already do.
And that’s the real problem. Because Luna doesn’t need me to fuck her. That’s not what this is. That’s not what it’s ever been. She could have any of them—she does have them—and yet she came to me. Again. After the last time. After the shower and the tears and the silence that stretched like a noose between us.
She looked at me and saw someone worth offering herself to.
And I don’t know how to carry that.
I pace, slow, measured. The floor is cool against my bare feet, the magic running beneath Daemon House humming faintly, responding to movement like it remembers who we were before we became prisoners of this place. I don’t need to ask what she wants—because she didn’t offer the bargain to get something from me.
She offered it so I’d stop tearing myself apart trying to pretend I’m not broken.
She offered it to give. Without condition. Without boundaries.
And I don’t know how to take without calculating what it costs.
That’s what terrifies me most.
Because when I’m with her, I forget Keira. I forget the betrayal, the fault lines, the rot beneath the memories I once thought golden. Luna replaces them. Quietly. Steadily. She doesn't demand attention—she pulls it. Like a tide. Like a gravity I didn't account for. And when I touch her, it's not lust that pulses through me. It’s relief.
And that’s dangerous.
Because I don’t want to make her cry again.
I don’t want to be the reason she curls in on herself in the shower, trembling like she’s unraveling.
But I also don’t know if I can be the man who touches her without using her as a way to forget.
She said the bargain stood for as long as I needed it to. She said it like she knew I’d come back. Like she was offering me the one thing I’ve never been given—time.
And now I’m standing in this room, sleepless and hollowed, wondering if I’ll take it.
Wondering if I should go to her door, demand clarification, draw new terms like that will make this feel less intimate. Less like a line I can’t uncross.
Because I’m not sure what scares me more.
That I’ll use her.
Or that I’ll start needing her too much to stop.
I scrub a hand through my hair, slower this time, fingers dragging against my scalp like friction might force the clarity I haven’t been able to summon since she said those damn words. The bargain still stands. It shouldn’t have mattered. Shouldn’t have followed me into the silence of my own room and taken up residence in the space behind my eyes like it owns the lease.
But it has.
And now I’m standing here, staring at my own door like it’s some barrier between logic and impulse. Logic says stay put. She offered, yes, but she’s not waiting. She’s probably asleep. Probably wrapped up in sheets I shouldn’t be imagining. Probably not still thinking about what she said—what she meant—like I am.
But logic doesn’t always win.
Especially when I can feel the pulse of her power in the bones of the house. Especially when I remember the way her voice dipped when she said it, low and calm and dangerous, like she meant every syllable. Not a trap. Not bait. A gift. One I don’t understand.
And gods—I hate not understanding.
What if she is awake?
What if she’s lying in her bed, eyes open in the dark, waiting for me to come ask the question we both know I’m not brave enough to say out loud?
Why me?
Not Elias, with his chaos and charm. Not , who makes her laugh like it breaks things inside her. Not even Riven, who would destroy the world before he let it touch her. But me. The one who walked away. The one who treated her like a commodity—offered her a contract of pleasure and pain and then left her bleeding in the aftermath.
And she still gave me another chance.
I press my palm to the wood of my door, cool and solid beneath my touch. I could stay here. Pretend this night is like every other. Let her bargain hang between us like something hypothetical, theoretical—an offer never accepted, a price never paid.
But I won’t sleep.
Because I need to know.
Need to see her. Need to confirm with my own eyes that she meant it. That there’s still something inside her that sees me as more than what I’ve already shown her. Or maybe less. Maybe she doesn’t believe in me, and that’s why she offered it. Because she knows I won’t take advantage. Because she thinks I’m safe.
That thought turns my stomach.
I’m not safe.
Not for her. Not for anyone.
But I’m still opening the door. Still stepping into the hallway, quiet as breath, shadows long and familiar. The hour is late enough that no one’s wandering. Even the house feels subdued, like it knows something’s about to shift.
Her door is only a few steps away, and every one feels like a mistake I want to make.
I’m not going to touch her. I’m just going to ask. Just going to clarify. That’s all. Set the terms. Understand the rules of the deal. That’s what I need—structure. Boundaries. Something to hold onto so I don’t fall into her the way the others already have.
Because if I fall, I won’t get back up.
And I think—gods help me—I want to fall.
I stop in front of her door, heart a steady drum in my chest, loud enough I’m certain she’ll hear it through the wood. I don’t knock.
Not yet.
I just stand there.
Wondering if she’s awake.
Wondering if she wants me to be the one standing here.
Wondering if I’ll be able to walk away if she says yes.
Does this make me a total bastard?
The thought drips down the back of my mind like molasses, slow and sticky, clinging to every rationalization I’ve spun to get myself this far. My knuckles hover above the grain of her door, the wood aged and familiar, warped slightly from a house that bends under the weight of everything we’ve ever done inside it. If I knock, I’m not just disturbing her sleep—I’m acknowledging that I came here for something I can’t admit I want.
Sex.
Not love. Not comfort. Not softness.
Just release. Just the feel of her against me. Her silence. Her eyes. Her skin, lit like an oath in the dark.
I could pretend it’s about clarification. Could dress it up in words I wield like weapons, twist the conversation into something philosophical and detached. But that would be a lie. The truth is far more simple—and far more damning.
I want her.
I want her like I’ve never wanted anything I haven’t already taken.
But I don’t want anything else from her. That’s the difference. That’s the rot in the center of this. I want the part she offered, not all the things she didn’t. Not the parts the others already have. Not the bond. Not the affection. Not the unraveling that comes after. Just this. Just now.
And gods, if Riven knew I was here…
He’d rip me apart.
Not with words. With hands. With intent. Because he knows her. Knows what softness costs her. Knows that every offer she makes is a thread of trust, not a trap—and I’m standing here like I’m ready to burn the whole spool down to the knot. I should walk away. I should.
But I don’t.
Instead, I knock.
Three quiet taps.
Nothing dramatic. Nothing demanding.
But it echoes like a gunshot in my skull.
The moment it’s done, I regret it. Not because I don’t want to be here, but because the sound makes this real. It makes me real. And I don’t know what I’m going to say when she opens that door.
If she opens it.
Because what if she doesn’t? What if this wasn’t an open invitation? What if it was her way of giving me a kind exit—one I didn’t take?
But the damage is done. My hand falls back to my side, clenched now. My shoulders roll back instinctively, spine straightening as if preparing for battle. Not against her. Never her. Against myself.
If she says yes, I’ll go in.
If she says no—
I’ll lie.
And pretend I never stood here like a starving man at the edge of her world, hoping she'd open the door.
Her door creaks open slow—no hesitation, just quiet certainty—and there she is.
Not a temptress bathed in moonlight.
Not the Sin Binder draped in power and prophecy.
Just a girl.
Barefoot.
Swallowed in one of Elias’ hoodies that’s too big for her, sleeves falling past her wrists, the scent of him still clinging faintly to the fabric like static.
Her hair is messy, twisted on top of her head in a way that looks accidental, but I know her well enough to recognize the intention behind it.
She doesn’t look tired—her bed’s still made, a book open and spine-cracked like it’s been read and reread, set aside only because her mind can’t rest long enough to focus.
Like she’s been waiting.
Or like she knew I’d come.
I clear my throat, and it sounds too loud in the quiet.
“I need to know what the rules are.”
She leans against the frame, one hand tucked into the front pocket of the hoodie, the other lifting to push a strand of hair behind her ear. Her eyes don’t flinch.
“There aren’t any,”
she says simply.
“Take what you want. Leave when you need. Stay if you want to. I don’t expect anything.”
I stare at her. Really stare. Trying to find the strings. The trap. The endgame she’s angling for. But her voice is steady. Unbothered. And that’s what makes it dangerous.
“That doesn’t make any sense,”
I say, more to myself than her.
“You’d give yourself to me for nothing? No cost, no expectations? That’s not how things work.”
“I’m not asking for anything,”
she says, and it’s not defensive. It’s worse—it’s honest.
“Not your love. Not your loyalty. Not your attention the next morning. I offered, Ambrose. Because I wanted to. Not because I thought you’d give me something back.”
My hand twitches at my side, like it wants to touch her just to see if she’s real. Just to prove this isn’t some elaborate hallucination conjured by guilt and sleeplessness.
“But why?”
I ask her. Not because I need it clarified. Because I don’t understand. Because nothing comes without cost in my world. Nothing is ever truly free.
“What do you get out of it?”
She shrugs, the movement subtle beneath Elias’ hoodie.
“You. For a night. Maybe a few. Maybe more. Maybe just this one. You get your distraction. I get mine.”
It sounds too clean. Too tidy.
Too easy.
And I don’t trust easy. Easy is a prelude to regret.
But she’s looking at me like she’s already factored that in. Like she’s built her expectations low to spare herself the fall. And that shouldn’t bother me.
But it does.
Because I’ve made women cry before. I’ve walked away from ruin like it didn’t touch me. But the memory of her in the shower, water tracing her tears like they belonged there, won’t fucking leave.
And she’s standing here now, offering herself again. Letting me choose.
Like it won’t cost her anything.
Like I’m not the exact kind of man she should never trust in the dark.
But I trust her.
And maybe that’s the problem.
I step over the threshold. And she doesn’t move.
She just watches me like I’m the one who needs saving.
And maybe I do.
Her breath hitches as my fingers slide beneath the hem of the hoodie—Elias’ hoodie—tugging it up over her head in one smooth motion. I hate that it smells like him. I hate more that she chose to wear it. But I hate it most because I know I would’ve left her alone if she’d looked fragile. If she’d looked broken. Instead, she looks calm. Composed. Like she meant what she said. Like she’s not expecting me to fix her, or fall for her, or be anything other than what I am—a monster with too many sharp edges and not nearly enough restraint.
So I give in.
I crush my mouth to hers—not gentle, not sweet. Desperate. Unapologetic. I don’t kiss like someone falling in love. I kiss like someone who’s starving, who never learned the difference between wanting and taking. And she gives it to me, soft lips parting, her fingers curling into the front of my shirt like she needs something to anchor her. Like she wants this too.
The hoodie lands on the floor in a soft heap. She’s naked underneath. Of course she is.
The fire flares hotter in my veins.
She tilts her head to the side and makes a sound—a quiet, breathy exhale that’s not quite a moan—and it hits me low, punches the breath from my lungs. My hands find her waist, skim up her sides, and she shivers like I’ve whispered something filthy against her skin.
She pulls back slightly, lips swollen, eyes heavy, voice low.
“Still want clarification?”
And fuck me, I do.
But not right now.
Not when her skin is warm under my palms. Not when she’s looking at me like I’m allowed to lose myself for a night. Like I can give in without unraveling completely.
So I shake my head once. “Later.”
I press her back, guiding her until the backs of her knees hit the mattress. She goes easily, no resistance in her limbs, no hesitation in her eyes. And gods, that’s worse. She trusts me. She shouldn’t.
“You can stop this at any time,”
I tell her, voice like gravel and heat, cracking on the edges of restraint I barely have.
“I won’t,” she says.
I’m not gentle. I don’t know how to be. But I want her like she’s the first clean breath after centuries underground. Like if I don’t have her now, I’ll unravel. So I take. I touch. I taste. And I tell myself I’ll figure the rest out later.
Tomorrow, I’ll sort through what this means. Tomorrow, I’ll find the flaw in her logic. I’ll figure out her endgame.
But tonight?
Tonight, I forget about Keira. About control. About how easily this could destroy me.
Tonight, I let her be mine. Even if only for a moment.
I crawl over her, dragging my shirt over my head with one hand, the other braced beside her hip. Her skin’s warm beneath my palm, soft where my fingers skim the exposed edge of her waist. She arches slightly—invitation or instinct, I don’t care. I take it the same way I take everything else I want.
My mouth finds the curve of her breast, the dip of her ribs, the space just beneath her collarbone that makes her pulse race when I drag my teeth across it. Her hands are in my hair now—tugging, not guiding. There’s no sweetness in the way she pulls me closer. No breathless moans for affection. Just need. Raw and ugly.
There’s no room for softness. No tenderness. This isn’t about affection. This is about release. Mine.
Her thighs part beneath me like she knows it too, like she expected this the moment she opened the door and didn’t flinch. I trace the line of her jaw with my mouth, my teeth grazing her throat. She lets me. She doesn’t beg, doesn’t gasp, doesn’t whisper my name like it means something. She just gives. And that’s what unravels me—how easy it is to lose myself in a body that offers no resistance.
I want her beneath me. I want her quiet. And I want her loud.
But I don’t want her heart.
I roll my hips against hers, slow and deliberate. Her breath stutters, legs wrapping around me like a vise. I grab her wrists, pin them above her head—not because she’s fighting, but because I can. Because I want to feel her pulse under my grip, want to feel the edge of power tingling at my fingertips and know I’m still the one in control. This is mine. This moment. This bargain.
She shifts beneath me, restless, needing more friction, more weight. I give it to her in increments, savoring the way she strains against the hold she agreed to. Her eyes meet mine—dark, unblinking. No softness there. No stars. Just something sharp and waiting.
“You’re sure?”
I murmur, voice roughened by need, by restraint. By the effort it takes not to sink into her too fast, too hard.
She nods.
“Don’t make me beg.”
I won’t. I’ll make her cry out. I’ll make her writhe. But I won’t pretend this is anything it’s not.
Because this is not love.
This is not healing.
This is war. Quiet and close and breathless. A battlefield with no victor, only aftermath.
And gods help us both—I'm not leaving until I’ve won.
I don’t kiss her again. Kissing implies something tender, and nothing about me is soft right now. I trail my hand down her side, fingers splaying over her hip, and I drag her beneath me like it’s owed. Like I’ve earned it. Her breath catches, and I watch her eyes—wide, dilated, hungry—but not asking for more. Not begging.
She meant it. No rules. No expectations. Just this.
I don’t thank her. I don’t say anything else. I just move, sinking into her heat, her softness, her strength—and I lose myself in it. In her. In the raw, maddening simplicity of bodies and sweat and surrender.
My fingers drag down her thigh, grip, spread, anchor. Her gasp is sharp, throat-bare, and my teeth find her shoulder—just enough to mark, not enough to mean anything. I leave impressions, not promises. I leave bruises, not bindings.
The movement is mechanical at first—power and rhythm, exertion without affection—but her hand slides into my hair, fisting it, tugging me closer like she needs to make sure I stay. Like she wants to feel the weight of it. And I let her. I let her use me the same way I’m using her. Because it’s fair. Because it’s simple.
Because it’s the one place I don’t have to lie.
Later, when her limbs are tangled in the sheets and I’m staring at the ceiling like the cracked plaster has answers, I’ll try to tell myself it was just sex.
Because I don’t have more to give. I only have this.