Chapter 10
The pillow barrier was a lie.
Ava had known it was a lie the moment Victor constructed it: his careful hands stacking cushions down the center of the California king like he was building a fortress.
Protecting her. Protecting himself. Pretending that goose down and Egyptian cotton could hold back what had been building between them for weeks.
Now she lay on her side of the lie, staring at shadows on the ceiling, listening to the ocean through the cracked balcony door.
The silk pajamas clung to her skin despite the breeze. Every rustle of fabric felt amplified. Every breath too loud in the quiet room.
Beside her, Victor’s breathing had settled into a suspiciously steady rhythm. Too steady. Too controlled. The kind of breathing someone did when they were trying very hard to appear asleep.
He wasn’t fooling anyone.
She’d been doing mental math for the past hour, cataloging every almost-touch, every near-miss. None of it helped.
Forty minutes ago, his hand had brushed hers over the pillow wall. Just fingertips grazing knuckles. Accidental, maybe, except he hadn’t pulled away for three full seconds. She’d counted. Three seconds of contact that burned through her nervous system like electricity.
Thirty minutes ago, she’d heard him whisper “Ava” so quietly she might have imagined it. Might have dreamed it. Except she wasn’t sleeping, and neither was he, and the way he’d said her name sounded like a prayer or a curse or both.
Twenty minutes ago, the mattress had dipped as he shifted. She’d felt the movement through every nerve in her body.
Ten minutes ago, the last pillow had slipped. Gravity or intention, she didn’t know. Didn’t care. Now she could feel the heat radiating from his body across the inches between them. Close enough to touch if she reached out. Close enough to feel his warmth on her bare arm.
“This is ridiculous,” she said to the ceiling.
“Utterly.”
The single word scraped out of him, low and wrecked, like he’d been holding it back for hours.
The mattress dipped as he turned toward her.
In the moonlight streaming through the gauze curtains, she could make out his profile: the sharp line of his jaw, the disheveled hair falling across his forehead.
Six thousand years old and he had bedhead like a college student.
That undid her more than all his polished perfection ever had.
“We’re adults,” she continued, still addressing the ceiling because looking at him felt dangerous.
“Technically, I’m several centuries older than you.”
“We’re lying here pretending to sleep when neither of us can because—”
“Because if I touch you right now, I won’t stop.”
The words landed like sparks on dry kindling.
She turned her head to look at him. His eyes caught the moonlight, dark pools with that inhuman shimmer in his irises. Fixed on her face with an intensity that made her pause.
“We said we’d wait,” she whispered. “Be sensible.”
“We did.”
“Not rush into anything.”
“Very sensible.” He shifted closer. Just an inch, but she felt it like a seismic event. One pillow tumbled to the floor with a soft thump. “But we both know we’re past that now.”
Another pillow fell as she turned toward him. Face-to-face. Close enough to feel his breath against her lips. Close enough to see the tension in his jaw, the careful control that was fraying at the edges.
“I’ve been sure for weeks,” he said. “Since before the arrangement, if I’m honest. Since the moment you walked into that interview and looked at me like I was just another obstacle to overcome.”
She reached across the remaining pillows, found his hand. Interlaced their fingers. His skin was warm, his grip immediate and fierce.
“So have I,” she admitted.
His free hand came up to cup her cheek. Gentle. Reverent. Like she was precious and breakable, even though they both knew she wasn’t.
“If we do this, everything changes.” His thumb traced her cheekbone. “The arrangement. The firm. Everything.”
She leaned into his touch, turning her face to press a kiss against his palm. “I know.”
“I haven’t felt this way in six thousand years.” His voice dropped, almost wondering. “Maybe never. I’ve had centuries to learn what I want, and I never—I didn’t know I was waiting until you arrived.”
“That’s very specific.”
“I’m a lawyer. Specificity is—”
She kissed him.
Not gentle. Not careful. Not the practiced kisses they’d exchanged for audiences or the controlled experiments they’d called “boundaries.” This was the kiss she’d been holding back since the first time his hand touched the small of her back.
Since the first time she’d caught him watching her with those ancient, hungry eyes.
He made a sound against her mouth: surprise, relief, surrender.
And then his hand tangled in her hair as he pulled her closer.
The remaining pillows scattered, tumbling off the bed in soft thuds.
She didn’t care. Couldn’t care. Not with his mouth on hers, his fingers threading through her hair, his other hand finding her waist and pulling her against him.
She gasped against his mouth. He deepened the kiss, tasting her like he’d been starving for exactly this.
“The wall,” she managed when they broke for air, both of them breathing hard. “Worst idea ever.”
“Terrible.” He pressed kisses along her jaw, each one sending sparks down her spine. “Whose idea was that?”
“Yours.”
“Clearly I’m an idiot.”
She laughed, the sound turning into a sigh as his mouth found the hollow of her throat. “We’re really doing this?”
He pulled back to look at her. The wanting was still there, burning in his eyes, but beneath it certainty.
“Only if you’re sure.” The words came out ragged. “Only if you want…”
“I want.” She traced the line of his jaw, feeling the tension there, the restraint coiled tight as a spring. “I’m sure. Completely. Entirely.”
He laughed, low and warm, some of the tension easing. “Entirely?”
“Every syllable, counselor.”
He kissed her again, and this time there was no stopping.
His mouth moved to her neck, and she arched into him with a sound that should have embarrassed her but didn’t. Not when his answering groan vibrated against her throat.
“The pajamas,” she gasped. “Too many clothes.”
“Agreed.” His hands found the hem of her silk top. “May I?”
“If you stop to ask permission for every piece of clothing, we’re going to be here all night.”
“Is that a complaint?” He pulled back to look at her, eyes dark with want and amusement.
“It’s a strategic observation.”
“God, I love your lawyer brain.” He kissed her again, deeper this time, as his fingers worked the buttons of her pajama top.
She tugged at his shirt in return, less graceful, catching the fabric on his shoulder. “How do demons— ugh —design clothing with so many—”
“It’s meant to build anticipation.”
“It’s meant to be annoying.” She finally got it over his head and tossed it somewhere in the direction of the pillow graveyard.
And froze.
There, on the left side of his chest, just over his heart—a sigil she’d never seen before. Intricate lines that seemed to shift in the moonlight, the same blue-black as his true eyes.
“Victor.” Her fingers traced the mark, and it glowed—brilliant azure light pulsing under her touch.
He inhaled sharply. “Ava—”
Her own mark flared in response, silver-bright and warm. She could feel them resonating, two tuning forks struck in harmony.
“What is this?” She looked up at him.
His expression was unreadable. “A binding mark. Every demon of rank has one. It shows… connections. Contracts of significance.”
“Have you always had it?”
“No.” His hand covered hers over his heart. “It appeared three weeks ago. The day we signed our contract.”
“And mine?”
“The same.” He traced the mark above her heart through the silk, making her shiver. “I thought it was just the contract at first. But this—” He pressed their joined hands against his chest, both marks pulsing in sync. “This isn’t standard contract magic.”
“What is it?”
“I don’t know.” He pulled her down to kiss her, urgent and a little desperate. “And I don’t care. Not right now.”
She kissed him back, her hands exploring the planes of his chest, the mark warm beneath her palm. When she scraped her nails lightly down his abs, he made a sound that vibrated in her teeth and settled low in her stomach.
“Ava.” Her name came out rough, almost pleading.
“Yes?” She hooked her fingers in his waistband.
“You’re going to be the death of me.”
“Pretty sure you’re already technically dead.”
“Demonically accurate.” He flipped them in one smooth motion, settling between her thighs. “But if this is my second death, I’ll take it.”
She laughed, but it turned into a gasp as he kissed down her throat, her collarbone, the valley between her breasts. His fingers finally—finally—pushed her pajama top open completely.
“Beautiful,” he murmured against her skin. “Pulchra. Yafah. Belle.”
“Are you—oh god—are you complimenting me in multiple languages?”
“Mmhmm.” His mouth closed over her nipple, and coherent thought became difficult.
“That’s—ah—very romantic but also slightly—oh fuck—pretentious.”
He lifted his head, grinning. “You’re critiquing my dirty talk?”
“Someone has to maintain standards.”
“I’ll show you standards.” He kissed down her stomach, fingers hooking in her pajama bottoms. “Though you should know—” He pulled them down slowly, torturously. “I’ve been imagining this for weeks.”
“Weeks?” She lifted her hips to help. “Try since the elevator.”
He groaned. “You’re not helping my composure.”
“Good.”
When his mouth found her—hot and sure and exactly where she needed—she stopped caring about composure entirely. Her hands tangled in his hair as he worked her with the same focused intensity he brought to contract negotiations.
“Victor—” His name came out wrecked. She didn’t recognize her own voice.