Chapter 8
Delia
Ashfell, Nightfall
The silence stretches between us, heavy with everything we’re not saying.
Then he offers his hand.
Not as a command.
As an invitation.
And I take it.
I place mine in his.
And something shifts in him at that.
The fire seems to lean closer, listening.
The corridors leading to his chambers are quiet now, the castle settling into a watchful stillness.
Firelight follows us, blooming softly along the walls as we pass.
“Delia,” he says softly.
I look up at him.
His expression has changed.
Not the ceremonial mask.
Not the Demon Lord before his people.
This is something quieter.
“If you wish to stop,” he says, voice low, controlled with effort, “you will speak now.”
The corridor hums around us.
I search myself for hesitation.
Fear is there.
Of course it is.
But beneath it—steady, undeniable—is something else.
Curiosity. Want. Pure animal magnetism.
A strange sense of rightness I don’t have words for yet.
“I don’t want to stop,” I say.
The admission lands between us like a spark.
His jaw tightens.
“I will not rush you,” he murmurs. “But I will not pretend I am unaffected.”
My breath catches.
Good.
We reach a large, decorated door darker than the rest—obsidian veined with gold, warm to the touch when he presses his palm against it.
It opens slowly, reverently.
The bedchamber beyond is vast and dim, lit by low firelight and glowing stone.
Shadows pool like velvet. The air hums with restrained power.
Thorne steps inside first, then turns to face me.
The door closes behind us with a final, echoing hush.
For a long moment, we simply stand there.
Watching each other.
The distance between us feels deliberate. Measured.
Like the space before lightning strikes.
And when he finally reaches for me—slow, unmistakable—it feels less like a decision and more like destiny catching up.
I can see it.
The carefully tailored restraint he held through the ceremony is gone—burned clean away.
His hands find me, sure and unyielding, pulling me against him.
I gasp at the heat of his body as it presses into mine.
It’s sudden, fierce, lava hot—and it feels so damn good.
The kiss that follows is nothing like the first.
This one is hungry.
Ravenous.
It steals my breath and leaves my knees weak, my thoughts scattering like sparks in wind.
I clutch at him, fingers fisting in his clothes, knowing even as I do that I’m not strong enough to resist this.
Not him.
Not the pull between us that feels older than choice.
His mouth leaves mine only long enough to press his forehead to mine, heat radiating between us like a living thing.
His breath is uneven now, rough against my skin, as if he’s been holding himself back for far too long.
“Shula,” he says, and my name sounds different in his voice—ancient and intimate, like a promise he’s been afraid to make. “I need you.”
That’s it.
That’s all it takes.
Whatever careful walls I thought I still had crumble instantly. They simply melt away.
I don’t think—I feel.
I lean into him, my hands finding his chest, my heart pounding so hard it feels like it might shake loose from my ribs.
My body answers him before my mind can form a single sensible objection.
He groans softly, like the sound is pulled from somewhere deep, then releases me—slowly, deliberately—stepping back until the edge of the bed meets the backs of his legs.
A single flick of his fingers.
Firelight flares.
And his clothes simply… cease to exist.
They dissolve into a scatter of glowing sparks and fine ash, whisked away as if the air itself refuses to let them linger.
I stop breathing.
My mouth actually hangs open, and for once, I don’t even try to be embarrassed.
He is—there’s no other word for it—magnificent.
All rippling muscle and burnished skin, etched with dark, intricate tattoos that spiral across his shoulders and down his back like living flame.
Power clings to him, visible in the way the firelight bends toward his body, how the shadows seem reluctant to touch him.
He looks like something sculpted by desire and danger in equal measure.
A work of art.
A weapon.
A temptation I never stood a chance against.
And when my gaze dips further—oh my God—I’ve never seen anything like him. He is long and thick, and hard. So fucking hard. And he’s glistening just at the hooded tip.
My mouth waters.
Firelight spills across silk and stone and him, and suddenly the room feels too small for the way my pulse is racing.
He watches me—doesn’t rush, doesn’t reach—just lets me see him.
Lets me decide.
And I do.
Before he wraps his hand around his shaft, I start to move.
I take one step toward him.
Then another.
“I-I don’t know how to remove this dress,” I whisper because there is nothing like a zipper or a button anywhere on the whole beautiful, and suddenly very confining, confection.
“I can help with that,” he growls.
Then he nods, and the dress disappears like his clothes did.
It feels like a million little kisses dancing across my skin and I grin—I can’t not.
It feels good.
And the way he groans and starts to jerk himself faster when I’m finally nude?
It’s the sexiest damn thing I’ve ever experienced.
Every instinct screams that this is reckless, impossible, world-altering.
But I already know the truth.
I was lost the moment he stole me. The instant he looked at me with intent.
So yeah, I keep walking anyway.
And when I’m standing in front of him, stripped and bare?
I drop to my knees.