Chapter 16 #2
“Yes, you are.” His voice softens, but there’s something almost cruel in it. “You break. You bleed. You die if you push too hard. You’re not immortal like me. You’re not invincible. You’re human, and humans have limits.”
“I know my limits.”
“Do you?” He leans closer, and I can smell the unexplainable smoke on him. “Because from where I’m standing, you just shattered past your limits and are now trying to convince me you’re whole.”
“I’m fine.”
“Stop lying.” His thumb brushes my cheekbone. “Stop pretending. Stop hiding behind walls and pride and the belief that needing help makes you weak.”
“It does make me weak.”
“No.” His forehead touches mine. “It makes you human. And right now, that’s exactly what you are—human and hurting and trying so hard to be strong that you’re forgetting how to survive.”
The tears come harder now. I can’t stop them. Can’t do anything except lie there in his arms while eighteen years of carrying other people’s sins and my own stubborn refusal to break finally catch up with me.
“I hate you,” I whisper.
“I know.” His hands slide into my hair, cradling my head. “But I’m not letting you go.”
“You have to. Eventually. One year. That’s the deal.”
“Fuck the deal.” The words are quiet, vicious. “You’re mine, Raven. Not for a year. Not temporarily. Mine.”
“That’s not—”
He kisses me.
Not gentle. Not asking. Just takes my mouth like he did the last time I said no, like he has every right to it, like the contract gives him ownership of more than just my time and service.
But this time is different.
This time, I’m just me, tired and hollow and so desperately lonely that his mouth on mine feels like the first real thing I’ve felt in years.
I should push him away. Should remember all the reasons this is wrong: he’s an angel, he owns me, this is possession not love, I can’t let myself want this. But I’m so tired of fighting, tired of being strong, tired of surviving alone.
So I kiss him back.
My hands find his shirt, fisting in the fabric, pulling him closer even though he’s already pressed against me. His mouth is hot and demanding, and he tastes like heaven.
He makes a sound, low and satisfied, and deepens the kiss. One hand stays in my hair while the other slides down my spine, pressing me against him like he’s trying to pull me inside his skin while he holds me.
It’s not romantic. It’s not tender. It’s claiming, raw and possessive and desperate in a way that should terrify me but doesn’t.
I kiss him harder, let him devour me, let him take everything I’m too exhausted to protect. Right now, being claimed feels better than being alone. Being wanted feels better than being strong. Being his feels better than being no one’s.
He pulls back just enough to breathe, and his voice is ragged. “Mine.”
“Yes.” The word slips out before I can stop it. “God help me, yes.”
“Say it again.” His teeth graze my jaw, my throat. “Say you’re mine.”
“I’m yours.” My voice breaks. “For now. For one year. I’m yours.”
“Not for one year.” He kisses me again, brutally and claiming. “Forever. You’re mine forever, and I’m never letting you go.”
“Croesus.”
“Say it.” His hands tighten in my hair. “Say you belong to me.”
I should refuse. Should remind him I’m human, that I have a life waiting outside this golden cage, that one year is all he gets.
But I’m so tired. And he’s so warm and gentle. And right now, belonging to someone feels like relief instead of imprisonment.
“I belong to you,” I whisper against his mouth.
The sound he makes is triumph and hunger and something that might be relief. He kisses me again, and again, and again, like he’s trying to consume me, to take me apart and remake me as something that’s his and only his.
When he finally pulls back, we’re both breathing hard. His gold eyes are blazing, and there’s something almost feral in his expression.
“You’re mine,” he says again. Like he’s trying to convince himself. “Not Seraph’s. Not Ash’s. Not anyone else’s. Mine.”
The mention of Ash hits hard enough to wake me from this fever dream and reality crashes back. What am I doing? I just purged seven years of pride and immediately let another angel claim me. Let him kiss me. Told him I belong to him.
What the hell is wrong with me?
“I need to sleep,” I say, pulling back. Or trying to. He doesn’t let me go far.
“Not yet.” His hand cups my face. “Not until you understand what just happened.”
“I know what happened. You kissed me. I was too tired to stop you.”
“You kissed me back.” His thumb traces my swollen lips. “You said you were mine. You meant it.”
“I was exhausted. I didn’t know what I was saying.”
“Liar.” The word is soft, but it cuts. “You knew exactly what you were saying. You just don’t want to admit it.”
He’s right. God help me, he’s right.
“This changes nothing,” I say weakly. “I’m still leaving in a year.”
“We’ll see.” He finally releases me, steps back. “Go. Sleep. Recover. We’ll discuss this when you’re thinking clearly.”
“There’s nothing to discuss.”
“There’s everything to discuss.” He moves to the door, pauses. “But not tonight. Tonight, you rest. Tomorrow…“ His smile is sharp. “Tomorrow, you start understanding what belonging to me actually means.”
He leaves. The door closes. Locks.
I stand there somehow in my room now, touching my lips, tasting gold and possession and my own surrender.
The forty-sixth tattoo burns on my arm. My body aches everywhere. And I can still feel his hands in my hair, his mouth on mine, his voice saying mine like it was the only truth that mattered.
I told him I belonged to him.
I meant it.
And I have no idea what that makes me—weak, desperate, or so tired of fighting alone that I’ll take comfort from the devil himself.
Maybe all three.
I stumble into bed, and sleep takes me immediately.
I dream of gold chains and silver wings and a voice saying mine over and over until I can’t remember if it’s a threat or a promise.