Chapter 18
Delia
Lord Thorne’s Pavilion, The Ember Vein Mining Camp
I love him.
I do.
I told him.
Which is terrifying.
And reckless.
And so unlike me, it makes my head spin.
But he didn’t pull away.
He didn’t laugh or look shocked or step back like so many before him.
I think—I think—he said it back.
But I can’t be sure.
Because right now?
Thorne is kissing me.
And God, no one has ever kissed me like this.
There’s no hesitation. No caution. No playacting.
It’s raw.
It’s claiming.
It’s sexy as hell.
The heat pouring off his skin is molten.
I feel it in every corner of my body, awakening nerves I didn’t even know I had.
It doesn’t scorch—it ignites.
And instead of shrinking from it, I crave more. I want to burn in him. With him.
The strange markings on his body—those molten, swirling patterns I thought were tattoos—shift under my gaze like living things.
Liquid ink edged in fire.
They dance beneath his skin, glowing with every heartbeat, reacting to every breath I take.
To me.
They’re reacting to me.
“Thorne,” I breathe, his name falling from my lips like a prayer.
He groans in answer, low and deep and dark, before his strong arms wrap around me, rolling me gently onto my belly.
A whimper escapes me—more anticipation than protest—as he straddles my thighs, his weight pressing me into the plush mattress.
His hands—those hands—sweep down the length of my spine.
From shoulder to hip. Over and over.
Reverent. Possessive. Worshipful.
He touches me like I’m something sacred.
Like I’m made of stardust and not skin.
Like my body is a language only he understands.
Like he’s reading every line.
His thumbs dig into my tense muscles, working the soreness from travel and battle and too many nights spent braced for heartbreak.
He kneads and strokes and soothes until I melt under him, sighing into the bed, boneless and buzzing with need.
“You don’t have to,” I whisper, eyes fluttering shut.
“I want to,” he says, voice rough. “I need to.”
My breath catches.
His lips brush the back of my neck.
My shoulder. My spine.
Then lower.
My hips.
My cheeks.
Then in between.
Every kiss brands me.
Not with pain—but with heat and meaning.
A declaration without words.
A vow.
He licks down my crevice, circling my hole with his tongue, and I whimper. Helpless. Shocked.
And really? It feels better than I imagined.
No one has ever done this to me, and I-I’m dripping with how much it turns me on.
He licks again, then replaces his mouth with a finger—a thumb maybe?
“Thorne?”
“Easy, Shula. I got you.”
He adjusts his position, nudging my legs apart with his knees, making room for his bulk—all the while that maddening finger keeps teasing my hole, pressing in a little then withdrawing until I am aching with a need I never explored.
The heat of his body pins me, and I feel his cock bumping against my thighs.
“Lift,” he instructs, pulling me up a fraction with one hand on my hip.
“There. That’s it,” he growls.
His voice is like warm silk against my sensitive skin.
My heart is thudding now, faster than it should, but I can’t slow it down.
I don’t want to.
Because this? This is the feeling I’ve been chasing my whole life without knowing it.
The delicious ache of anticipation.
The trembling edge of surrender.
The terrifying, exultant certainty that I am right where I belong.
Then I feel it—him.
His blunt, heated tip presses against me, demanding entrance.
My breath catches.
My body clenches.
And when he finally pushes in, slow but unyielding, the stretch steals the very air from my lungs.
God.
He’s bigger.
Hotter.
More.
My muscles tighten around him instinctively, trying to make space, to adjust, but in this position—on my belly, thighs spread, hips angled just so—I can only take what he gives.
And what he gives is more than I’ve ever known.
It burns.
Oh God, it burns so good.
A whimper breaks from my lips, helpless and wanton and loud enough for him to hear.
“Not a God, little Shula,” he growls beside my ear, voice thick with heat and pride. “A Demon. Your Demon.”
His breath singes the shell of my ear as his arms cage me in, massive and unrelenting, and then—he asks.
“Can I move now, Shula? Can I make you come?”
I gasp and nod.
Because yes, I want that. I want it so damn bad.
“Please,” I beg shamelessly.
Only then—after I give permission—does he start to move.
And when he does?
My body is no longer mine.
I pant, barely catching a breath before the rhythm steals it again.
Every thrust rocks me forward against the bed, deep and slow and devastating.
My nerves are lit like a storm of sparks beneath my skin.
My pulse is a drumbeat in every inch of me.
The feeling is unbearable and exquisite, all at once.
My fingers curl into the sheets.
My toes flex.
My body arches under his, desperate for more, greedy for every drag and glide and claiming press.
I try to speak, to say something—his name, a plea, a vow—but the words dissolve in my throat.
Because this isn’t just sex.
It isn’t even just passion.
It’s possession.
It’s devotion.
It’s love.
A love forged in fire and bound by flame.
His fire.
Mine now, too.
Because this is our zareth—our bond.
And he is mine.
My Demon.
My Thorne.
Mine.
This is so much more than anything I could ever have imagined my life would be.
This is me giving myself to a man who—God help me—might just be the other half of my soul.
“Mine. My viyella,” he murmurs, voice breaking.
“Yours,” I whisper.
And I mean it. So fucking much.
I’m his.
Not because I’ve been dragged here. Not because fate stamped a label on my forehead and called it destiny.
Because I choose this.
Back home, what did I really have?
A job that ate my nerves and my nights.
An empty apartment with a couch that sagged in the middle and a fridge full of takeout.
A couple coworkers, a handful of casual friends, and no one who’d notice if I disappeared for a weekend—let alone a lifetime.
That’s not a life.
That’s treading water.
That’s surviving, not living.
Here, the ground hums beneath my feet with the pulse of a world that needs me.
Here, healers smile when I ask questions, miners nod when I pass like I matter, and a Demon Lord with fire in his veins looks at me like I’m the first good thing that’s ever happened to him.
Here, I have the chance to belong.
So yeah. I’m his.
Utterly.
Willingly.
Let him worship.
Let him burn.
Let him love me—please, yes.
Because I’m going to do the same.
For him.
For the Broken Plains.
For Nightfall.
But mostly for me.
It’s too late for anything else.