Chapter 7
KELSEA
The firelight hasn't even faded from my skin when I slip offstage. Sweat slicks my spine, beading at the nape of my neck beneath the scarf. I should go left—back to the dressing room, to the safe ritual of toweling off and pretending none of it matters.
But I don’t.
He’s there.
In the corridor outside the side exit, leaning against the wall like he belongs to the shadows. He doesn’t move when he sees me. Doesn’t straighten or smirk or drop some lewd line like most men do. He just watches me with those eyes, steady as gravity.
I almost keep walking.
Almost.
But my feet stop anyway.
The air in the corridor feels heavier now. The thump of the music is muffled behind me, leaving only the pulse in my ears and the whisper of breath that slips between us.
“I didn’t think you’d stay the whole set,” I say, voice quieter than I mean it to be.
Roja tilts his head just a little. “You knew I would.”
I hate how right he is. Hate how easy it is for him to read me, like he’s been doing it for years, not days. Still, I don't back down. My gaze stays locked with his.
“The scarf,” I say. I tug at the edge of it without meaning to, the silk catching against my damp fingers. “It adds something.”
He doesn’t blink. “It brings out the color of your eyes.”
It shouldn’t hit like it does—just words. But something in the way he says it, quiet and unforced, like a truth that doesn't need dressing up, makes a tremor roll through me. Not fear.
Something else.
I shift my weight, suddenly aware of how close we are. How the corridor is too narrow, too private. The scent of ozone and steel on his skin stirs something low in my belly.
“You always leave presents for girls you watch from the dark?” I ask, tone sharp, trying to reclaim ground I’m not sure I’ve lost.
He shrugs. “Only when I mean it.”
I scoff, but it’s weak. My voice shakes, just a little. “What do you mean, then?”
His jaw flexes. His eyes don’t waver. “That you deserve something that fits. Not just what’s handed down.”
I stare at him.
The corridor hums between us.
My heart knocks once—hard.
I step closer. Not enough to touch. Just enough that I can feel the heat rolling off him. My pulse is a wild, fluttering thing.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I whisper.
“Neither should you.”
I should leave.
I should turn around and run, back to the safety of stage lights and curtains and pretending I’m no one.
But I don’t.
Because the truth is, I’m tired. Of hiding. Of flinching at every shadow. Of pretending I don’t see what’s right in front of me.
So I don’t run.
I stay.
Right there, in the corridor, with Roja watching me like he’s been waiting for this moment all his life.
The corridor feels narrow behind us, like the air itself is closing in, dense with heat and something unsaid. I don’t look back, but I hear him—Roja—his footsteps a quiet echo behind mine. A tether. A warning. A promise.
Up the stairs, the silence grows weightier.
The coil of tension pulls tighter with every step.
The second-floor light flickers as I punch in the code, my breath catching in my throat not from nerves, but anticipation.
The kind that builds low and slow, like a storm you let roll toward you instead of running from.
I don’t speak. I just open the door and step inside, the air in my room a few degrees cooler than the hallway but no less charged. Roja steps in behind me. The soft whir of the automatic lock is the only sound between us before I turn—press the manual latch with one sharp click.
The kind of click that says: we’re staying.
My place is small, stripped down. A cot against the wall, a low dresser, a flickering lamp casting long golden slants across the worn wood floor. I don’t light the main overheads. I want shadows.
I want honesty.
I want to see, not be seen.
I move slowly—aware of every breath, every beat of my pulse against my throat. I reach for the scarf first, fingers curling beneath the knot, sliding it loose. I let it fall, soft as a whisper, and then I lift my chin and meet his eyes.
He hasn’t moved.
But his gaze—gods, his gaze—trails over me like smoke, lingering on skin still damp with sweat, on the faint red marks where the fireline straps dug in too deep. He doesn’t devour. He studies.
Like I’m a secret unfolding just for him.
I tug my shirt over my head, the fabric catching slightly, static brushing across my ribs. I feel the cool air hit my skin and watch him watch me. Not once does he avert his gaze. And not once does it feel invasive.
Just… attentive.
Present.
I toe off my boots, one at a time, slow. Then the pants, unbuttoned with steady fingers. I step out of them like I’m shedding old armor. Every movement is a question.
Will you follow?
Roja does. The moment my foot touches the floor, he’s there, silent but steady.
His jacket falls behind him with a whisper of leather and dust, his breath quickening.
Under the low light of the single hanging bulb, his green-scaled skin gleams, the ridges of old scars casting shadows.
He’s massive—nearly double my size—but the way he moves is cautious, like he’s afraid of startling me. Of breaking the moment.
When he reaches for me, I don’t flinch. His hands land at my hips—not grabbing, not groping—just resting, like he’s listening to my skin. “Okay?” he asks, voice low and guttural.
“Yes,” I breathe.
He touches my face with one hand, fingers rough from years of wielding plasma torches and blades, and brushes a thumb along my cheekbone. “You’re shaking.”
“I want this.”
His mouth claims mine—not gently, but not harshly either.
His kiss is full of tension, heat, restraint ready to snap.
I grab the hem of his shirt, dragging it over the planes of his body—muscle over bone, scaled and hot like a living furnace.
There’s a scar across his left pectoral, pale and smooth against the dark green, and I kiss it without hesitation.
He growls low in his throat and lifts me like I weigh nothing. My back meets the wall—cold, sudden—but it disappears in the warmth of his body. His arms bracket me there, firm and wide, his claws scratching softly against the metal behind my shoulders.
I gasp as his mouth finds my neck, biting softly, soothing with his tongue. My legs wrap around his waist, instinctive, needy. He presses forward, hips grinding, and I feel the thick length of his cock press against my center, still trapped behind the loose fabric of his work pants.
“Do you know what you do to me?” he whispers.
“Show me.”
He carries me to the bed, lays me down like something sacred. Then he stands to strip. One button, then another. His pants fall, and he steps out of them without a word.
Gods.
His cock is enormous, ridged in ways that are utterly alien—thicker at the base, veined along the length, and flushed with a deep jade hue. My pussy clenches just looking at him. He watches me watch him, eyes glowing red with something primal.
I open my thighs in invitation, and he kneels between them. “Touch me first,” I say. “I want your hands on me.”
His claws trail up my calves, along my thighs, until he reaches the apex. Then he strokes his fingers through my folds, groaning at the wetness he finds.
“Fuck,” he hisses. “You’re so ready.”
“For you. Only you.”
He lowers his mouth, tongue thick and hot. It feels like nothing I’ve ever known—more muscle, more heat, more intent. He licks me slowly, carefully, learning my reactions. When he flicks over my clit, my back arches and a whimper escapes.
He grips my thighs, spreading me wider, devouring me like he’s starving.
“Roja—” I pant. “Please, please—”
He doesn’t stop until I shatter. My orgasm hits hard, a wash of light and heat that leaves me gasping, shaking. Only then does he rise, his cock glistening with precum, eyes locked on mine.
“Let me inside,” he murmurs.
“Yes,” I whisper. “Now.”
He lines himself up, pressing against my entrance. I brace, but he goes slow, so slow. Inch by inch, he fills me. The stretch burns, but it’s exquisite. I feel every ridge, every pulse of his cock.
“You’re so tight,” he groans.
“You’re... so fucking big,” I gasp.
He thrusts, shallow and slow, letting me adjust. My nails dig into his back as he rocks deeper.
“Tell me it’s good,” he growls.
“It’s more than good. It’s—fuck—Roja, don’t stop.”
He moves faster now, hips slamming into mine. The bed creaks beneath us, the scent of sweat and sex thick in the air. My pussy clenches with every thrust, milking him, driving him wild.
“Say my name,” he pants.
“Roja. Roja. Roja!”
We fall together, crashing over the edge. His roar echoes in the room as he comes inside me, body shaking. I cling to him, breathing hard, sweat slicking our skin.
He collapses beside me, pulling me close, wrapping me in his arms. I lie with my cheek against his chest, the steady beat of his heart anchoring me.
“I don’t want it to be once,” he says again.
“It won’t be,” I whisper.
And I mean it.
In this bed, in this moment, I’m not running. I’m not hiding. I’m his. And he’s mine.
His voice is low. Barely above a whisper. But it hits like a flare in the dark, sharp and blinding.
I don’t say anything at first.
I don’t know how to respond to that—not when it’s said so plainly, with no strings attached. No demands. Just truth.
And somehow that makes it worse.
Because truth like that? It asks things of you.
It expects you to feel it.
By the time I lift my head to look at him, he’s already pulling his arm back, untangling himself from me. Not rushing, just... moving. Like he knows he has to go but hasn’t decided how to.
His body leaves a Roja-shaped hollow in the bed, still warm. My skin protests the loss, but I don’t say it out loud. I just watch him get dressed in the dim light. The stretch of muscle across his back. The way his scars catch the golden glow and vanish again in shadow.
He doesn't speak again.
Doesn't glance back.
The door hisses open, soft and low. A sound that feels cruel in its finality. Then he steps through, vanishing into the corridor like a ghost that never meant to linger.
And I’m left alone.
The stillness returns like a tide, slow and creeping and inevitable.
I stare at the ceiling for a long time.
Then I pull the sheet around me, tighter than necessary. Not because I’m cold—but because it still smells like him. Feels like him. A poor substitute, but it’s all I have left.
I don’t cry.
But I wish I could.
Not because I’m broken.
But because something inside me isn’t numb anymore.
And that’s almost worse.