Chapter Thirty Kade
Twenty minutes pass. Maybe thirty. The pain settles. Becomes background noise. Manageable.
I sit up. Slow. Testing. The stitches hold. Tight. Secure. Different from The Raven’s first attempt. These won’t tear. Not easily.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed. Stand. The monitors protest. Beeping. Warning. I ignore them and take off all the wires keeping me hooked up to them. I walk to the door. My hand on the handle.
I pause.
Think.
The Raven said find a different way. No stop. Not never again. Just be smarter. Heal first. Keep Amethyst. Do both.
I open the door. The hallway is empty. Quiet. Her room is next door, I walk. Barefoot. Silent. The floor is cold. Each step deliberate. Careful.
I reach her door. Don’t knock. Just open it. She’s sitting on the edge of her bed. Not lying down. Not resting. Waiting. She looks up when I enter. Her eyes meet mine. No surprise. She expected this.
“We need to talk," I say.
She nods. Stands. Walks to me. Stops a foot away. Close but not touching.
“About what just happened," she says.
“Yes."
“Raven was right."
“I know."
The silence that follows is brief and heavy with understanding.
“I can’t stop needing you," I say.
“I know."
“But I can’t keep tearing the stitches."
“No."
She steps closer. Her hand reaches out. Touches my chest. Light. Careful. Avoiding the bandages.
“We need to figure this out," she says.
“Yes."
Her fingers trace. Gentle. Mapping.
“The wound is here."
She touches just left of center.
“Stitches run vertical. About four inches."
I watch her.
“Pressure on your chest will pull them."
“Yes."
“Lying on your stomach."
“Will tear them."
“Anything that stretches the skin."
“Yes."
She’s thinking. Processing. Problem-solving.
“What about—"
She pauses.
“What if you’re not on top?"
I consider.
“Less pressure on the wound."
“Yes."
“But I need—"
“Control," she finishes.
Yes.
Not sex. Not even release.
Control. Confirmation. Knowing she’s here. Knowing she’s mine.
“Yes."
She looks at me. Really looks.
“You can have control without being on top."
The words settle. Make sense.
“Show me."
She takes my hand. Leads me to the bed. Sits on the edge.
“Lie down," she says. “On your back."
I do. Slow. Careful. The stitches pull slightly. But hold. She watches. Assessing.
“How does that feel?"
“Manageable."
“Good."
She stands. Moves to straddle me. Careful. Her knees on either side of my hips. Not sitting yet. Just positioned.
“This way," she says. “Your chest stays flat. No pressure on the wound."
I look up at her. My hands go to her thighs. Grip.
“But I can still—"
“Yes." Her voice is steady. “You can still hold me. Guide me. Control the pace."
My fingers tighten.
“And you?"
“I can move. Take the physical work. Keep the pressure off your chest."
It makes sense. Tactical. Practical. Smart.
“What about my hands?" I ask.
She leans forward slightly. Careful not to put weight on my chest.
“Your hands can go anywhere," she says. “My hips. My thighs. My throat."
The last word makes something in me tighten.
“Throat?"
“Yes." Her eyes are dark. Knowing.
“You need the control. The confirmation. You can have it without destroying yourself."
I stare at her. Process. She’s right. This could work.
“What about when—"
I pause.
“What about when I need more?”
“More?"
“When touching you isn’t enough."
“When you need to claim me.” She says.
“Yes."
She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t hesitate. She never does.
“Then we adjust. You sit up. Back against the headboard. I’m still on top but you’re upright. Less strain on the stitches."
My hands slide up her thighs. Higher.
“And if I need you under me?"
“Then we wait. Until you’re healed enough."
“I don’t know if I can wait."
“You can." Her voice is firm. “Because the alternative is restraints. And neither of us wants that."
She’s right. I know she’s right. But the predator—
It wants what it wants.
“How long?" I ask.
“Until you’re healed enough?"
“Yes." She considers. “The Raven said two weeks minimum. Maybe three."
“That’s too long."
“It’s what we have."
I close my eyes. Breathe. Feel her weight. Light. Careful. Positioned but not pressing. “We can do this," she says.
I open my eyes. Look at her.
“You’re sure?"
“Yes."
“It won’t be enough."
“It will be."
Her hands touch my shoulders. Gentle.
“Because it has to be."
Silence. I think about it. Really think. The wound. The stitches. The need. The compromise.
“Okay," I finally say.
“Okay?"
“We try it your way."
Something in her expression softens. Relief.
“Good."
She starts to move off me. I stop her. Hands on her hips. Holding.
“Not yet."
She pauses. Looks at me.
“Kade—"
“I just need—"
I can’t finish. Don’t have the words.
But she understands. She always understands. She settles. Careful. Her weight distributed. Not on my chest. On my hips. My thighs. Safe. My hands stay on her hips. Holding. Grounding. She’s here. Alive. Real.
We stay like that. Minutes pass. Maybe five. Maybe ten. Just breathing. Just being. The wound throbs. Dull. Manageable. The stitches hold.
Finally, she speaks.
“We should test it."
I look at her.
“Now?"
“Not—" She pauses.
“Not everything. Just the position. Make sure it works."
“We should wait til tomorrow.”
“Not tomorrow," she says.
I blink.
“What?"
“We should test it now. Not tomorrow."
Her hands move to my waistband. Fingers hook into the fabric.
“Amethyst—"
“You said it works. The position."
“Yes."
“Then we test it. Properly."
Her eyes meet mine. Dark. Certain.
“Now."
The predator surges. Immediate. Hungry. But controlled. Because she’s in charge. She’s deciding.
“Stand up," she says.
I do. Slow. Careful. The stitches pull slightly. Hold. She stands with me. Her hands go to the button of my pants. Undoes it. Slow. Deliberate. The zipper follows. She looks up at me.
“Tell me if anything hurts."
“I will."
She hooks her fingers into the waistband.
Both pants and boxers. Starts to slide them down.
Careful. Watching my face. My chest. Looking for signs of strain.
I lift one foot. Then the other. She pulls the fabric free.
Sets it aside. I’m naked now. Exposed. Vulnerable.
But not weak. Never weak with her. She steps back.
Looks at me. All of me. Her gaze travels.
From my face. To my chest. The bandages.
Lower. I’m already hard. Have been since she said “Now. "
Her eyes linger. Then return to mine.
“Lie down," she says.
I move to the bed. Sit on the edge. Swing my legs up.
Lie back. Slow. Controlled. The stitches pull.
But hold. She watches. Assessing. Making sure I’m okay.
I am. More than okay. She reaches for her own clothes.
Pulls her shirt over her head. Careful of her ribs.
The bruises are still there. Still dark.
She unhooks her bra. Lets it fall. Then her pants.
Underwear. Everything. Until she’s as bare as I am.
She walks to the bed. Climbs on. Careful.
Deliberate. Straddles my thighs. Not my hips yet.
Lower. Testing. Her hands rest on my legs. Light. Grounding.
“How does this feel?" she asks.
“Good."
“The wound?"
“Fine."
She shifts forward. Moves up. Her knees on either side of my hips now. Positioned. But not settled. Not yet. My hands go to her thighs. Grip. Feel the muscle. The warmth. The reality of her. She’s here. Alive. Mine. She lowers slightly. Her heat against me. Not inside yet.
Just—
Contact. Confirmation.
I groan. Can’t help it. The sensation is—
Everything.
“Kade."
My name. Soft. Grounding. I open my eyes. Didn’t realize I’d closed them. She’s watching me.
“Stay with me," she says.
“I’m here."
“Good."
She lifts. Positions herself. Her hand wraps around me.
Guides. Then— She sinks down. Slow. Controlled.
Taking me in. Inch by inch. The heat. The pressure.
The perfect fucking fit. My hands tighten on her hips.
Grip hard. She doesn’t stop. Doesn’t pause.
Just keeps moving. Down. Down. Until she’s fully seated.
Until I’m buried completely. We both freeze. Breathing. Adjusting. Feeling.
“Fuck," I breathe.
She smiles. Small. Knowing.
“How’s the wound?"
I check. Internal assessment. The stitches—
They’re there. Present. But not screaming. Not pulling. The pressure is on my hips. My thighs. Not my chest.
“Good," I say.
“No pain?"
“Just—"
I pause.
“Just you."
She nods. Satisfied. Then she moves. Lifts slightly. Sinks back down. Slow. Testing. My hands guide her. Control the pace. The depth. She lets me. Gives me that. The predator watches. Satisfied. Because this—
This works.
She’s in control of the movement. The physical work. But I’m controlling the rhythm. The intensity. My hands on her hips. Directing. Claiming. She lifts again. Higher this time. Then down. Harder. I groan. The sensation is—
Perfect.
Different from before. Different from being on top.
But just as good. Maybe better. Because I can see her.
All of her. Watch her face. Her body. The way she moves.
The way she takes me. She finds a rhythm.
Steady. Controlled. Rising and falling. Her hands on my shoulders.
Careful. Avoiding the bandages. Using me for leverage.
My hands grip tighter. Guide her faster.
She complies. Speeds up. The sound of skin on skin.
Her breathing. Mine. The bed creaking slightly. All of it—
Real. Present. Grounding.
I watch her. Can’t look away. The way her body moves. Fluid. Strong. The bruises on her ribs. Still healing. But not stopping her. Never stopping her. She’s—
Fuck. She’s everything.
“Kade."
My name again. Breathless now.
I look at her face. Her eyes are closed. Head tilted back slightly. Lost in the sensation. In us.
“Look at me," I say.
Command. Not request. Her eyes open. Meet mine. Dark. Dilated. Hungry.
“Don’t look away," I say.
She nods. Keeps moving. Faster now. Harder. My hands guide her. Control her. But she’s doing the work. Taking what she needs. Giving me what I need. The wound throbs. Dull. Background. But the stitches—
They hold. No tearing. No blood. Just—
This. Us.
Her rhythm changes. Becomes erratic. Desperate. She’s close. I can feel it. The way she tightens around me. The way her breathing hitches.
“That’s it," I say.
Low. Rough.
“Take it."
She does. Moves faster. Chasing it. My hands grip her hips.
Hard enough to bruise. Helping her. Driving her.
She breaks. Suddenly. Completely. Her body locks.
Tightens. Pulsing around me. She cries out.
My name. Raw. Unfiltered. The sound pushes me over.
I follow. Can’t stop it. Don’t want to. The release is—
Overwhelming. All-consuming.
My hands hold her down. Keep her seated. Keep her taking everything. She does. Rides it out. Both of us. Until we’re spent. Exhausted. Satisfied.
She collapses forward. Careful. Her hands on either side of my head. Not putting weight on my chest. Just—
Close. We breathe. Together. In sync. Her forehead rests against mine.
“The stitches?" she asks.
Breathless. I check. Internal assessment. The wound is there. Throbbing. But—
“They held."
Relief floods her expression.
“Good."
She stays there. Hovering over me. Still joined. Neither of us wanting to move. To break the connection. Finally, she shifts. Lifts off me. Slow. Careful. Lies down beside me. On her side. Facing me. Her hand touches my chest. Light. Avoiding the bandages.
“That worked," she says.
“Yes."
“We can do that again."
“Yes."
She smiles. Small. Satisfied. Exhausted. I turn my head. Look at her. Really look. She’s—
Perfect.
Bruised. Healing. Strong. Mine.
“Thank you," I say.
She raises an eyebrow.
“For what?"
“For this. For figuring it out."
“We figured it out," she corrects.
“Together."
“Yes."
Silence. Comfortable. Real. The wound throbs. Dull. Manageable. The stitches held. We found a way. A way to have this. Without destroying myself. Without choosing between healing and having her. She yawns. Tries to hide it. Fails.
“Sleep," I say.
“You too."
“I will."
But I don’t close my eyes yet. Just watch her.
The way her breathing slows. Deepens. The way her body relaxes.
Trusts. She falls asleep first. Always does.
I stay awake. Just a little longer. Making sure she’s okay.
Making sure the stitches really held. They did.
Everything held. Finally, I close my eyes and let exhaustion take me.