Chapter 21, Xan
I wake up with a heavy head, the kind of dull fog that clings to you after too much sleep—or maybe too much alcohol. The sunlight bleeding through the curtains tells me it is morning. Not just early morning. Late. I have slept straight through the night like a corpse, unmoving and unaware.
Yesterday.
Oh, God—yesterday.
The realization slams into my head, and I jolt upright so fast the room tilts. My heart is already racing as I stumble to my feet, legs shaky with panic and confusion.
I rush to my bedroom. It might still hold evidence of what I did—what I became. But the moment I burst through the door, my breath catches.
Everything is… spotless.
No blood. No broken glass. No ropes or knife. Not a single drop of Julian’s existence remains. The carpet is clean. The bed is made. The air smells faintly of citrus, not even a trace of Xan. No sign of the madness we unleashed. No sign of the first time I let him take me, mind and body.
It is like nothing ever happened.
I stand there in stunned silence, trying to process the disconnect. My mind races to fill in the blanks, to explain away the gaping hole between memory and reality. Maybe I drank too much. Maybe this was some twisted hallucination—some elaborate nightmare conjured by guilt, wine and trauma. The human brain is terrifying like that. It can make you believe anything. And part of me wants to buy it. Because the alternative?
That I killed Julian.
That I watched him bleed.
That I let Xan drag me to hell and liked the taste of the abyss?
That is harder to face.
My body is still humming from the aftershocks of it all, yet my mind is scrambling to tell me it was just a dream.
Awesome. I either invented the world’s most deranged wet dream… or I committed murder and got laid by my stalker on the same night.
So, why does my body ache like it happened? Why does my throat feel like I screamed? And why the hell do I still smell his cologne? The perfume of all sins dressed in silk with smoke, dark spices and leather.
I look at my reflection on the way out.
Hair: chaos. Skin: flushed. Eyes: haunted.
If this is my subconscious at work, she is a troubled bitch with a flair for cinematic detail. I should feel relief. I should laugh it off, call Zoey, book a spa day, do anything remotely normal. Instead, I find myself looking for something more. Anything. A clue. A wrinkle in the fabric of reality. Because what scares me most is not that it was real.
It’s that I want it to be.
I pull my hair into a messy knot, trying to shake off the weight in my skull. But when I catch my reflection in the mirror, I freeze.
There—just at the beginning of my neck. Faint. Faded. Yet unmistakable. A handprint. My fingers brush over it, and suddenly a flash hits me—hot breath against my skin. A grip tightening just as his mouth found mine. My legs wrapped around him, the sound of skin, of teeth, of his voice—low, praising, filthy.
I blink, and it is gone. It had to be a dream. Right?
Right?
I stare at myself again, unblinking this time. The handprint remains. Soft bruising, just enough to show fingertips splayed along my throat, curving beneath my jaw like a collar. Not accidental. Not imagined.
Intentional.
My pulse flutters beneath it like a trapped bird. I can almost feel his possessive hand again. I drag my fingers over the marks, and now I know for certain—this was not a dream. I did not imagine it. I did not imagine the way he looked at me, I the way he touched me. And I definitely did not imagine the way I wanted it.
Still want it.
Shame creeps in. I swallow it down. There is no blood. No Julian. No mess. The apartment is faultless. Sterile. Like nothing ever happened. Like someone came through and erased the anarchy with surgical precision.
Though they did not erase me. Not the bruises. Not the ache in my body. Nor the image of Xan, mouth against my throat, whispering things no one should want to hear—and yet I did.
Oh God, I did.
I am still standing there, half-dressed, fingers ghosting over my neck. When I hear the soft click of the door, I spin.
There he is. Leaning against the frame like he owns the air in the room. Black shirt. Dark eyes. That same maddening calm stretched over something entirely unhinged. His gaze drops to my throat—just for a second, he sees my neck. He knows. He smiles. I can tell by the look in his eyes. A knowing, dangerous smile that makes the mark on my skin burn hotter.
“Morning, little fox,” he says roughly from sleep or smoke or maybe both. He steps closer, slowly, as if I’ll bolt.
“What… what happened last night,” I breathe. “Was it real?”
He stops inches away, looking down at me.
“You tell me,” he murmurs, lifting a hand, just to hover right over the fading imprint he left behind.
“I did not dream that,” I whisper.
“No,” he says. “You did not.”
My knees almost buckle. “I—Julian—”
“Gone,” he cuts in, gently but firmly. “You don’t need to think about that coward hurting you anymore.”
Gone? How gone?
I stare at him. At the man who turned my world inside out and made me want it that way. Xan’s gaze switches heavier, an ominous shadow passing over his features as he locks eyes with me. His expression says it all—he knows exactly what lurks behind my silence. He knows what I’m feeling, even when I cannot bring myself to voice it. The anxiety. The doubt…
“You want to know what happened to your ex, huh?” he leans in slightly, as though waiting for permission to continue.
I clench my fists. It is hard to admit, but I need to know.
“Yes,” I whisper, my throat tight. “I really need to know.”
“The Order doesn’t do things delicately, Mira,” he says with a touch of sarcasm. “Especially when it comes to a scum like Beckett.”
His fingers briefly graze the mark on my neck as he leans back, his eyes dark with something unreadable as he studies me.
“Julian’s body… Let’s say it’s dealt with,” Xan continues in a low measured tone. “He won’t be found. The Order and I made sure of it.”
I am not certain whether I should feel relieved or horrified. The idea of his body disappearing, of everything vanishing without a trace, makes my stomach twist. It should be comforting—knowing that whatever happened, whatever he deserved, is gone. Still a part of me, the part I cannot quite silence, feels… wrong. There is no closure. No finality. Xan watches my reaction closely.
“You’re quiet,” he remarks. “Did you really think we would just leave the mess?”
I hesitate, my mind racing, trying to process everything. His words are like a cold splash of water, and yet… there is something strangely reassuring in the way he speaks about it. As though violence was just another part of their world, one I’d been unwilling to face until now.
“I didn’t expect… I… I don’t know what I expected actually,” I say, my voice cracking slightly. “I just… I thought it would be harder. I thought… there would be more to it. I don’t know.”
He steps closer, the heat of his body warming the space between us. Gently, his hand comes up to touch my face, his thumb brushing against my cheek tenderly.
“Well, if you need to know more, Mira, let me help you,” he retorts. “Are you aware of what hydrochloric acid does? Do you know it can make absolutely anything disappear? It doesn’t explode. It just—melts everything. Metal, wood, flesh—it doesn’t care. It seeps in, burns through, turning skin to pulp, bone to mush. One second, something’s whole, and the next, it’s reduced to nothing but a puddle, a mass of liquefied remains. No scream. No blood. Just the slow, agonizing disappearance into nothingness.”
My gut clenches with dread.
“I’m not saying that’s what happened. I’m just stating a fact. Purely educational, really.”
A ghost of a smirk tugs in his eyes. He knows how fucked up it sounds—and he is enjoying every second of my reaction.
“Listen, you have been in this world only for a short moment,” Xan murmurs gentle now, the sarcasm gone. “But enough for you to have seen things. Done things. This… this is just another part of it. Another step you have to take.”
No response comes to mind. Part of me wants to escape this new life, to flee the blood, the violence that is supposed to become so normal. However, another part—the part that is connected to him, the part that is terrified of facing the truth—knows that I can’t. Not anymore.
“I never wanted this,” I whisper, barely audible.
Xan does not respond at first. Instead, he takes a step back, running a hand through his hair in that familiar gesture of impatience. When his eyes find mine again, they carry something different. Something gentler—close to understanding.
“No one ever does,” he says quietly. “But you’re here. And this… it’s your reality from now on.”
I close my eyes, the weight of his words pressing down on me. What’s done is done. Julian will not come back, and neither will who I was before. I am still breathing, that is what matters.
I don’t know how long I stood there, feeling the gravity of everything we’ve made, everything I have become. When I open my eyes again, Xan is still watching me.
“You want to know what happens next?” he asks, cutting through the silence.
I nod slowly, not trusting myself to speak.
“Well now,” he says with a glint in his eye, “we continue your ascension, little fox.”
I was not sure what I was expecting—but it definitely was not this.
The building is nothing like I imagined. From the outside, it’s a fortress. Cold, imposing. The walls are not the familiar red brick I have seen in Brooklyn’s older buildings; they are charcoal-gray, almost black. The kind of color that swallows the light, leaving the whole place drenched in shadow. The windows, narrow and grimy, are covered in what looks like years of neglect. It is as if the building’s been standing here forever, untouched by time.
The street is quiet, too quiet. No hustle, no noise of life. Just the low hum of the city a few blocks away. Even that feels distant, muted. This place feels forgotten by the world. I guess that is the point.
Xan is walking beside me, his presence solid and unwavering, yet I can feel the tension in his step. His eyes are scanning the surroundings, alert, as if expecting anything or anyone to jump out of the dark. He leads me through an old iron door; the metal screeching slightly as it opens.
The moment we step inside, I feel the shift. Immediately, the room sucks the air out of my lungs. The space is cavernous, endless, yet suffocating, with its high dark ceilings and the shadowy corners that stretch on forever. The floor is cold beneath my feet, the wood worn and untouched by a mop in what looks like years. The lights flicker overhead, their dim glow casting everything in an eerie, almost haunting hue.
It is not the atmosphere that makes my heart pound the most—it’s the people. Every man who looks at me—because every single one of them does—is wearing the same mask.
Sleek. Black. Leather.
No mouth, no expression, just two dark eye slits and smooth, seamless lines stretched over bone and intent. A mask that does not hide identity—it erases humanity. They all wear it. Like a uniform. Like a warning. Identical and faceless, yet somehow each gaze feels more ravenous than the last.
Predators in tailored black.
And I? I am the only one unmasked. Exposed.
I hear the hushed murmurs the instant we enter. A wave of heat rises to my face as I feel dozens of pairs of eyes latch onto us, like creatures scenting blood. There is not even a pretense of hiding it. I can practically hear them salivating.
They’re circling.
The room is a sea of motionless bodies, yet every one of them is taut with tension, ready to strike. There is a hunger in their gaze, a kind of primitive thirst impossible to ignore.
I have just stepped into the wolf’s den.
I can feel their eyes on me, stripping me down, analyzing, dissecting. They are not just curious—they are calculating. They want to know why I am here. They want to see if I am worthy. And the sickest part? They’re not even hiding it.
They want to possess me.
I glance up at Xan. His body is like a wall next to mine, tense, vibrating with restraint. His hand slides down my back, not gently, but with a pressure that says I am his. A growl rumbles in his chest, barely audible. His head sweeps over the room, locking onto the closest group of watchers as I feel a tension thick enough to cut. His presence is magnetic, the type of force that commands space without a single word.
“They’re fucking starving,” he says, barely loud enough for me to hear. His grip tightens, a silent warning. “Like wolves on a fresh kill. And they will tear into you if you show any sign of weakness. Don’t give them the satisfaction.”
I swallow hard, my pulse quickening. I have stepped into a hive of predators, and they all want a piece of me, clearly not in a Britney Spears kind of way. This is not attraction—it is a power play, a test of dominance, and I have just stepped in as the next prey.
Xan pulls me closer, his body practically enveloping mine as he guides me forward, moving with purpose, not an ounce of hesitation in his stride. The crowd parts as we walk through, their gazes following us like a ripple through the water, unblinking, unyielding.
One man—tall, with icy eyes and a smirk in them that screams arrogance—takes a step forward. He wants to speak, but Xan is faster.
“Keep your fucking distance if you want to keep your head attached to your damn body.”
The room goes quiet. Every stare is on us now, but I refuse to look away. I cannot. Because if I do, if I show any crack in my armor, if I show the slightest sign of fear, I know exactly what will happen.
As we continue our path through the hall, I realize—he is not just protecting me. He is asserting domination, reminding them all who is in control here.
Earlier this morning, I finally gave in to Xan’s invitation to the Order. Part of me was deeply curious—curious to see the man who orchestrated everything from the shadows. The man behind the strings, the silence, the chaos. More than anything, I want to ask him why. Not that I expect a straight answer—men like him do not speak in truths. But maybe, just maybe, I could catch something in his words. A glimpse. A thread I could pull to make sense of it all.
According to Xan, I already have everything it takes to be accepted. He says it with such conviction as if it was already written in stone. He believes in me in a way that feels… foreign. Fierce. Loud. Much louder than the whispering doubts that have lived in me for years…
It is hard to explain what it does to a person—to be raised by a parent who clipped your wings before you even knew how to fly. To love a person who made you question every part of yourself. It carves wounds you forget are there, leaves you second-guessing even your own reflection. You call it survival. But in truth, it’s just slow erosion.
Yet—Xan sees past that, somehow. Bit by bit, he chips away at the rot they left behind and replaces it with something else. Strength. Unapologetic, sharpened strength. He is not just helping me stand. He is showing me how to rebuild. For that… I am endlessly, quietly grateful. Even if I do not know how to say it yet.
We walk past the now complete silence of the common hall, where masks follow me like shadows. Xan doesn’t say a word as he leads me down a narrow hallway, each step echoing over stone tiles. My pulse taps at my throat. It should not feel this ceremonial, and yet… it does. Like I am about to be judged, weighed, and possibly discarded.
We stop at a tall black door, aged but polished, its wood marked by time and secrets. Xan knocks once—not out of courtesy, but as a signal.
“Enter,” comes the unbothered calm voice from inside.
Xan pushes open the door and guides me in with a firm hand on my back. I barely cross the threshold before I find myself in front of him.
Lucian Voss.
He is standing by a floor-to-ceiling window, back turned, hands clasped behind him like he is orchestrating the entire goddamn world from that single spot. The room is lit only by the pale light of morning filtering through the window and the soft flicker of one antique lamp.
He turns slowly, his gaze landing on me. His mask is like the others, but silver, smooth and gleaming like a blade in the dark. It catches the light just enough to look alive. Behind it, his gaze burns with a steady, merciless fire. His hair is long blond silvered, slicked back, and his suit is perfectly tailored—a dark grey three-piece that fits him like skin. His presence is utterly magnetic.
“The infamous Mira Vale,” he says smoothly.
His face remains hidden, unreadable—but I swear I can feel the daring in his tone. I nod once, doing my best not to shrink under his scrutiny.
“I’ve heard quite a bit about you.”
I lift my chin with the last fragile scrap of courage I can muster.
“Then you must know I have questions.”
Lucian walks forward.
“Of course you do. Anyone worth recruiting usually does.”
Recruiting.
The word hits me in the gut. Xan shifts protectively beside me, but silent. Lucian stops a few feet in front of me.
“Before I answer anything… I want to see if you are brave enough to ask the right questions.”
Brave enough? The nerve, after all they had me endure.
“Alright then. Here’s one—how long have I been watched? Before Julian. Before Xan.”
Lucian’s eyes glint, like I have said something amusing. Or perhaps dangerous.
“A long time,” he says simply. “Longer than you’d like to believe.”
A chill snakes down my spine.
“And why me?” I ask, stepping forward before I lose my nerve. “Why keep tabs on a woman who’s never done anything extraordinary?”
Lucian’s smile sharpens, his intrigued eyes narrowing slightly.
“You still believe that?”, he says, almost to himself. “You think you are ordinary? That’s adorable.”
Xan tenses beside me. I can feel he is holding back. Letting me speak. Letting me stand for myself. Lucian continues.
“You were born into something bigger than yourself, Mira. You have spent your whole life running from shadows you didn’t even know had names. But we knew. I knew. And now, whether you like it or not, you’re standing at our mercy.”
He leans in. “The question isn’t why you. It’s… why not sooner?”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Because deep down, some part of me—some fractured, hidden part—already knew I did not walk into this by accident. I was brought here for a reason.
Lucian straightens, brushing invisible dust off his sleeve.
“Ask your next question carefully, Mira Vale. Each one peels back a layer. And not all truths are kind.”
I wet my lips, pulse still hammering behind my ribs.
“I don’t want riddles,” I say. “I want clarity. What exactly does the Order expect from me?”
Lucian delays his response. He studies me instead, like he is measuring something—my resolve, maybe. Or my ignorance.
“We expect loyalty,” he finally says, walking away. “Discipline. Obedience, in time.”
I hold back a scoff.
“Obedience? I’m not a fucking soldier.”
He turns his head slightly, just enough for me to catch the flicker of amusement on his face.
“No. You’re something far more dangerous.”
I freeze at that, a tight breath catching in my lungs.
Lucian gestures toward me, fingers like a puppeteer.
“You have the potential to be useful in ways most here never will. Not because of what you are now… but because of what you could become. We cultivate that.”
My skin crawls.
“Useful how?”
Xan shifts beside me. His arm brushes mine, just enough to ground me. He wants me to stand in this. To face it.
Lucian speaks again, softer this time.
“You came here asking for truth. But the truth has teeth, Mira. And it will not bite gently.”
That last sentence lands hard. I draw a slow breath.
“So, I’m a project. A tool to be molded.”
His smile returns, elegant and bloodless.
“No, Mira. You’re not a tool.” He leans forward. “You’re an investment.”
My heart is thudding, trying to beat the truth out of me, but I keep my face still. I have no idea what kind of game Lucian is playing—or how many pieces are already on the board, but I know this: I’m not the one holding the rules. I turn to Xan. He looks calm, but I know it is an act.
“I’m not afraid of purpose,” I finally say, carefully. “Doesn’t mean I enjoy walking blind.”
Lucian laughs just barely.
“You’ll have sight soon enough.”
Something about the way he says it makes my stomach knot. Still, I just nod, holding back the scream clawing its way up. If they are waiting for me to prove something, fine.
Let them wait.
Let them wonder.
I will find out what this is really about. And when I do, I won’t be the girl fumbling in the dark. I will be the one lighting the match.
Lucian turns away, his focus shifting to the window, as if I no longer matter.
“You’ll stay here. We have rooms. Someone will show you.”
Stay?
I blink.
“Just like that?”
He glances over his shoulder.
“What were you expecting. Chains? A blindfold? I am not like your boyfriend.”
“No,” I say, sharper than I intended. “But maybe a reason why.”
Lucian smiles without humor.
“You’ll get your reason soon enough. For now, consider this your… initiation period.”
Of course, that sounds totally reassuring. Before I can press further, he waves a hand toward the door. Xan’s already stepped forward, sensing the moment. His fingers brush the small of my back again, gentle but firm. I let him lead me out, while I keep my eyes on Lucian until the door shuts behind us.
Whatever game they are playing, I’m in it now.
And I have no intend to lose.
We don’t make it ten steps before a figure rounds the corner ahead. Tall. Light brown hair. Broad-shouldered. Clad in black from neck to boots and wearing the same mask as the others—just the aura of someone who definitely owns too many knives and not enough self-awareness.
He tilts his head at me. And I mean tilts—like head-turns-in-a-horror-movie tilts.
“Well, well,” he murmurs. “She’s prettier than I expected.”
In one swift, furious motion, Xan slams him against the stone wall with a forearm across his chest. The impact echoes down the corridor.
“Try that again, Kayde,” Xan growls, his face inches from the man in front of him. “Say one more word about her. Look at her like that again.”
Kayde.
Yeah, that is definitely a new name. And judging by the tension radiating off Xan, it is not on his Christmas card list.
Kayde lets out a breathless chuckle, as if this is foreplay.
“Easy, brother. I was just admiring the Order’s newest stray. No harm in noticing a beautiful thing.”
“You don’t get to notice her,” Xan snaps, his voice darker than I have ever heard it. “She’s not yours to notice.”
Kayde’s smile shifts under the mask by the look in his eyes.
“You sure about that? Thought we didn’t keep pets here.”
I look between them, heart thudding, trying to catch up.
“Okay. Someone want to tell me what brand of psychotic pissing contest this is?”
It is not until Xan blocks me with a swift motion that I realize I have moved.
“She’s under my protection,” he says, low and final.
Kayde lifts both palms like he’s surrendering, but his eyes stay on me.
“That won’t save her, Hayes. You know how this place works.”
Xan’s grip tightens—just for a second—before he shoves Kayde back against the wall and steps away.
Kayde adjusts his collar like nothing happened.
“I like her,” he adds, directing it to me this time. “Hope you won’t break too easily.”
Then he’s gone. Just like that. The silence he leaves behind buzzes. I look up at Xan, my heart hammering.
“Who was that?”
Xan exhales hard through his nose.
“Kayde Morrow. Don’t you dare talk to him or listen to him. If he ever touches you, I will put him alive in the fucking ground.”
I cannot help but let out a soft laugh—because his jealousy, as absurd as it is, borders on theatrical. But God, I wouldn’t trade it for anything. There is something deeply satisfying about watching a man like Xan Hayes—deadly, brooding, always in control—lose his cool over me.
Totally normal. Just a man who would burn the world down if someone else looked at me for too long.
His fingers lace through mine firmly. My hand looks so small in his, delicate and breakable. By all logic, I should be scared. Yet I feel nothing.
It feels like being swallowed whole in the best possible way. Safe. Held together by someone who sees every jagged edge and grips tighter anyway. With his hand in mine, the planet could fall to ruin, and I would still believe in something. I would still believe in us.
The hallway narrows before flaring open again, revealing a series of identical doors along one side—sleek, dark, and quietly foreboding. Xan stops in front of one of them and reaches into his pocket, retrieving a small key I saw him took from a board full of them on the wall in Lucian’s office. He hands it over without looking at me.
“This one’s yours,” he simply says.
I blink at the key in my palm.
“My room?” I ask, half-expecting him to say I misunderstood.
“It is the rule,” he mutters, already sounding irritated by it. “Everyone gets their own space.”
I study the door, then glance back at him.
“You don’t sound thrilled at all.”
He shrugs, but it is sharp, tense.
“I’m not in the habit of following rules I didn’t write.”
The key turns with a soft click as I push the door open. The room inside is surprisingly spacious, austere, but beautiful—stone walls softened by heavy black curtains, a tall bed with clean, dark linens, and a desk pushed beneath a slender window. A flickering wall sconce casts a warm golden hue over it all. It is nothing like home.
It is better. And worse. Which makes it perfect.
I step inside slowly, taking in the faint scent of sandalwood and cold air. Xan stands in the doorway like a shadow that refuses to leave.
“I thought you would want somewhere to rest,” he says quietly.
I turn to him. “I did. I do.” But when he still does not move, I arch a brow. “Are you going to stay there all night? Or are you planning to break the rules on day one?”
He does not smile. Not really. But his eyes gleam.
“I’ve already broken worse ones for you.”
He steps inside without waiting for an invitation, pushing the door shut behind. The room swells with his presence immediately—too large, too solid, too him.
I lean against the desk, watching him like he is some wild thing that wandered into my territory. Except we both know it is the other way around.
Xan walks closer.
“If the Order wanted me away from you, they’d have to try fucking harder than a locked door.”
“I thought you said everyone gets their own space,” I tease.
“I lied.” He stops in front of me, close enough that the heat of him makes my breath catch. “Or maybe I just decided you’d sleep better with someone watching you.”
I tilt my head, amused. “Watching me, or sleeping with me?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
I should tell him to leave. That I need time to process. To think. But my fingers are already curling into his shirt, pulling him forward. He meets me halfway, one hand bracing on the desk beside me, the other sliding around my waist. When he leans in, our foreheads touch—barely.
“I know this place looks like stone and shadows,” he says, his breath brushing my lips. “But you’re not alone in it. Not while I’m here.”
His breath lingers on my skin, teasing, testing—waiting for permission he does not really need. The world has narrowed to this one second, stretched taut between restraint and surrender.
“You’re trembling, little fox,” he whispers, brushing his thumb just beneath my ribs. “Is it fear… or envy?”
“Do you want a real answer?” I murmur.
He laughs—barely. “Only if it’s honest.”
I don’t look away. “Then it’s both.”
That’s all it takes.
Just like the night before, he lifts his mask—only enough to free his mouth. God, the way my heart stumbles—his move, his choice. He wants this. He could have held back, but he did not. His mouth crashes into mine as if he has been waiting since the moment I stepped through the Order’s doors to finally kiss me.
His hands are everywhere—my waist, my back, my throat. Xan lifts me onto the desk, scattering papers, knocking over a lamp I don’t care about. The wood is cold under my thighs contrasting to his body’s heat and fury. His coat falls to the floor, followed by mine, a trail of tension torn loose in fabric.
My fingers knot in his shirt. He growls when I tug, pulling away just long enough to rip it off. His tattoos catch the dim light—telling stories I do not know yet, but will. His mouth finds my neck, right where that phantom bruise still sings, and I gasp.
“I remember everything,” I whisper, dizzy. “Even if I wouldn’t want to.”
His grip tightens, his breath sharpens. I know he remembers too. His mouth drags down the line of my neck, slow and reverent, but it is the way his hands grip my thighs that undoes me—tight, grounding, trying to hold back a storm when the storm is already here.
I tilt my hips forward without thinking. A silent plea. His head lifts—eyes burning, jaw tight.
“You have no fucking idea,” he rasps, breaking against my mouth, “what you do to me, to my cock.”
His hands shove my skirt up, palms rough against my ass as he drags me to the border of the desk. I gasp, clutching at his shoulders while he watches every inch of my.
“You still think this was a dream, huh?” he asks darkly.
I can’t answer. Not when his fingers are already sliding beneath my shirt on my breast, pulling slightly my nipples.
“Because I did not dream it, Mira.” His mouth finds my ear. “I relived it a thousand times since yesterday. Every damn second until my dick ache so badly.”
A whimper catches my throat.
He lifts my chin, eyes locking with mine. “You think I can watch you walk into this place, into my world, and not lose my fucking mind?”
“Then lose it,” I whisper. “Please. Lose it, Xan.” I say while brushing his hair back and getting a hold of it.
He grabs me into his arms and crosses the room in seconds, laying me down on the bed with more care than I expect—the look in his eyes is anything but gentle.
His mouth crashes against mine. Every movement is frantic—needy—yet not careless. He knows my body already, somehow he memorized it the first time. I drag my nails down his back. He groans—a deep sound that makes my skin erupt in goosebumps. He bites down on my bottom lip enough to make it subtly bleed, then soothes it with his tongue as an apology.
“Xan—”
“I know.” He is breathless, cracking at the precipices. “I know, baby. Just—let me.”
My legs wrap around his waist, and I arch up into him, needing more—all of him inside me. The rhythm turns desperate. Beautifully unhinged. Our bodies collide over and over, until the only thing I can hear is skin, breath, the sharp drag of my name from his mouth—broken prayer.
“I waited so long for this,” he says, forehead pressed to mine, eyes locked on mine. “So fucking long.”
“You have me now,” I breathe, my fingers tracing with reverence the part of his face he revealed just moments before, worshipping the chance to touch what he so rarely offers. “So don’t you dare hold back.”
That’s when he loses it completely and finally pulls out his dick to trust it in one swift motion in my pussy. He growls something so guttural against my throat while penetrating me, his teeth biting deeply in my skin. My back arches off the mattress as he drives into me harder—every thrust a punishment I welcome.
“Say it,” he snarls against my ear. “Say you’re fucking mine.”
My breath catches, but I don’t hesitate. “I’m yours.”
“Again.”
“I’m yours, Xan. I’m—fuck—I’ve always been and always will.”
He pins my wrists above my head with one hand, his other dragging down my thigh, branding me with every touch. His lips crush against mine again in a kiss that tastes like victory and ruin all at once.
The headboard slams against the wall. Over and over. I don’t care. Let them hear. Let the whole damn Order know what he does to me—how I burn for him. How he is the only one who gets to break me.
He mutters filth between ragged breaths; words soaked in adoration. “Mine… all mine… never letting go…”
And when I shatter around him, when he follows, releasing his heat inside me with a sound I swear I never heard from anyone else—I know it.
This is not just sex. This is war.
And we have both surrendered.