Chapter 5
GRAU
Restraint is a skill.
People think it’s something you’re born with or not, like patience or mercy. They’re wrong. Restraint is learned. Earned. Beaten into you by consequences and blood and the memory of what happens when you let instinct drive.
I’ve been restraining myself for days.
Days of seeing her across café tables and conference lounges. Days of walking her home without touching her. Days of sitting beside her while she pretends she isn’t leaning toward me by degrees so small she thinks I won’t notice.
I notice everything.
I learn her rhythms the way I learn a battlefield.
I learn that she taps her thumb against her glass when she’s overstimulated. That she exhales through her nose when she’s lying to herself. That her shoulders tighten when she’s tired but refuses to admit it. That she jokes when she wants reassurance but won’t ask for it.
I learn how her scent shifts when she’s stressed—sharp, electric—and how it softens when she laughs, like warm citrus and heat. I learn the cadence of her voice when she’s distracted, the way it dips when she’s trying not to want something.
Me.
She pretends she doesn’t crave me.
I pretend I don’t crave her harder.
Every encounter coils the tension tighter. Every almost-touch, every lingering look, every moment where her knee brushes mine and she freezes—then doesn’t move away.
She’s not unaware.
She’s choosing restraint too.
Which makes it worse.
When she finally invites me into her home, it’s said casually. Tossed over her shoulder as we stand in the quiet glow of her entryway.
“Do you want to come in?”
Simple words.
Nothing in them that suggests danger.
Everything in them that changes my universe.
I step inside.
The door slides shut behind me with a sound that feels final.
Her place smells like her—clean linen, faint florals, ozone from city air filtered through high-end vents. Soft lighting spills across polished surfaces. It’s elegant but lived in. A space made for thinking. For surviving.
For her.
She turns to face me.
And that’s it.
The restraint snaps.
I don’t plan it. Don’t think. Don’t give myself time to be civilized.
I seize her.
One hand in her hair, fingers threading tight at the base of her skull, the other braced against the wall beside her head. I pull her into me and kiss her hard—deep, consuming, my mouth claiming hers like it’s been starving.
She gasps into me.
Not in fear.
In relief.
Her hands come up instinctively, gripping my forearms, nails digging into the tough skin there like she needs proof I’m solid. I groan into her mouth, low and rough, the sound tearing out of me before I can stop it.
I taste her—wine and sweetness and something purely Yara—and the bond roars alive inside my chest, screaming yes.
I break the kiss only long enough to breathe against her lips.
“See what happens,” I murmur, voice wrecked, “when you invite a Reaper into your home?”
My claws catch the fabric of her dress as I pull it over her shoulders. Not delicate. Controlled, but forceful. The sound of tearing fabric fills the room, sharp and final.
Her breath stutters.
But she doesn’t pull away.
Her eyes meet mine—darkened, glazed with want, but still fierce.
“Nothing’s really happened yet,” she says.
There it is.
The challenge.
Delight floods me.
I smile—slow, dangerous, utterly pleased. “Oh,” I say softly. “Then let me show you.”
I lift her.
Not roughly. Not carelessly. I guide her back until her thighs hit the edge of the couch, then ease her down, never breaking eye contact. My hands move with certainty—every touch intentional, every motion telegraphed.
“You are mine,” I say, my thumb brushing under her chin, forcing her to look at me. “And I am yours. You don’t disappear on me. Ever.”
Her voice is breathless but steady. “I won’t.”
Good.
I strip her slowly now—not because I’m suddenly gentle, but because I want her to feel every second of it. Fabric slides from her skin. My claws trace but don’t scratch. My bone spurs skim past her without contact.
She shivers.
“Look at you,” I murmur, reverent despite myself. “So strong. So defiant. And you trusted me anyway.”
Her chest rises and falls fast. “You earned it.”
That does something dangerous to me.
I kneel before her.
The world narrows to the sound of her breathing, the heat radiating from her skin, the way her hands tremble when they reach for me and stop, uncertain.
I take her wrists gently, press them to the couch on either side of her hips.
“Stay,” I tell her.
She does.
I worship her.
There’s no other word for it. My mouth, my hands, my presence—all of it focused on her reactions. I guide her through every sensation, every breath. I watch her face the way a priest watches a miracle unfold—awed, devoted, unshakably certain.
She gasps again when my tongue finds the inside of her thigh. Not a cry. A plea. Her head tips back against the couch and her fingers twist into the cushions like she’s afraid she might fly apart.
“Grau…”
My name in her mouth is a broken prayer.
I growl, low and rough, letting the vibration run through her skin as I drag my mouth upward, tasting the heat of her—salty, electric, intoxicating.
Her pussy is already wet, glistening with anticipation, scenting the room in a way that tears at every last thread of control I had left.
My breath fans over her slick folds and she trembles like a live wire.
“You smell like fucking heaven,” I rasp, voice guttural. “You want my mouth here, baby?”
“Yes,” she whimpers.
“That’s not how we ask.”
“Please, Grau.”
That word. Please. The way she says it—soft and aching—makes my cock throb with the threat of release. I press my tongue to her, slow and deliberate, lapping from bottom to top with a reverence that borders on worship. Her thighs close around my shoulders instinctively and I chuckle against her.
She bucks when I suck her clit between my lips, her gasp turning into a moan that echoes off the walls. I tease her with my tongue, then press it deeper, exploring her wet, needy pussy like a man learning scripture by heart.
She writhes, panting, caught between pleasure and the need for more.
Her thighs tremble. Her hands fly to my hair, clawing for something to anchor her as I tongue-fuck her with slow, deliberate strokes.
“Grau—fuck, I can’t—I’m—”
“Come for me.”
She shatters.
It’s not delicate. It’s not polite. It’s raw and desperate, her body convulsing as her orgasm hits like a tidal wave. She cries out my name, her hips arching as I keep licking, riding her through every pulse, every quake, every shudder.
When she collapses against the cushions, boneless and dazed, I rise.
She blinks up at me, dazed, lips parted, skin flushed.
I unfasten my trousers and let my cock free.
She stares.
Her breath catches.
It’s bigger than she expected—long, thick, black like the rest of me, veined with faint silver ridges that pulse faintly with heat. The head glistens, already slick.
“You still want to know what happens,” I murmur, stroking it once, slow and deliberate, “when you invite a Reaper into your home?”
She nods. Swallows hard.
“I want to hear it.”
“I want your cock,” she whispers. “I want you inside me.”
I growl. Low. Savage.
I kneel between her thighs, guiding the head of my cock to her entrance. Her pussy is soaked—hot, swollen, slick with need.
“I’ll go slow.”
“No,” she whispers. “I want to feel all of it.”
Gods.
I push in.
Slow. Inch by inch. Her tight heat stretches around me, and I grit my teeth, muscles straining with the effort it takes not to lose control. She gasps, arching into me, clutching my shoulders.
“Fuck—Grau—you’re—”
“I know.”
I bottom out inside her, buried to the hilt.
She cries out, but not in pain. Her nails dig into my back. Her pussy clamps around me, fluttering, adjusting.
“Yours,” she gasps. “I’m yours.”
I hold still, panting against her throat, letting her feel me—letting her know exactly what she’s taken.
Then I move.
Slow at first. Deep, steady thrusts that make her moan into my neck. My cock drags against every nerve inside her, and she clenches harder each time, like she doesn’t want to let me go.
Her legs wrap around my waist.
I fuck her harder.
The couch shifts with every thrust. Our bodies move in tandem, breath and sweat and sound. Her moans are music, her gasps a chorus. She clings to me like I’m the last solid thing in a world spinning too fast.
And maybe I am.
“Yara,” I groan. “You feel like fire. You’re so fucking tight.”
“Don’t stop,” she pants. “Please, don’t stop.”
I won’t.
I grip her hips, angle deeper.
She screams.
That spot. I found it.
I hit it again.
And again.
She sobs my name, clawing at my back, her body shivering under me.
“I can’t—”
“You can,” I growl. “Come on my cock. Let me feel it.”
She does.
She explodes around me, soaking me in slick heat, her cry echoing off the walls as her orgasm takes her.
I snap.
My thrusts turn savage. Brutal. Her body takes every inch like it was made for me.
I roar as I come, spilling into her in hot pulses, grinding deep as her pussy milks me.
We collapse together—sweaty, panting, tangled.
My cock stays inside her as I cradle her against my chest.
“You’re mine,” I whisper.
She doesn’t argue.
She just holds me tighter.
She arches into me.
She gasps my name like it means something sacred.
And it does.
For me, the truth locks into place with bone-deep certainty.
This isn’t about money. Or comfort. Or escape.
This is my mate.
Not claimed yet. Not marked.
But known.
And I will never let anything take her from me.
Not ever.