Chapter 16 - Dylan #2
"Was it?" She turns fully in my arms now, facing me, close enough that I can feel her breath against my skin. "Children caught in violence they didn't create—how is that different?"
"Because I should have protected him," I snap, the words escaping before I can contain them. "I should have seen the danger coming. Should have been faster, stronger, more vigilant."
"Like I should have fought back at Cheslem?" Her eyes hold mine, unflinching in the candlelight. "Like I should have found some way to stop what was happening, even as a child?"
The parallel strikes too close to truths I've buried beneath years of anger and purpose. I look away, unable to hold her gaze.
"It's not the same," I insist, though the conviction wavers. "The hunters who killed Ethan... they chose their violence. They knew exactly what they were doing. They deserve whatever comes to them."
"And what does that give you?" she asks softly. "If you kill every hunter involved, what does that restore?"
"Nothing." The admission burns my throat. "It restores nothing. But I'll never stop wanting them dead for what they took from me. Never."
Her hand rises to my face, fingertips ghosting along my jaw with unexpected tenderness.
"I know," she whispers. "That's what terrifies me about you."
"That I want justice?"
"That you mistake vengeance for justice." Her eyes reflect the candlelight, gold and shadow dancing in their depths. "That you think more death will somehow balance the scales."
"And you think forgiveness will?" I challenge, caught between anger and something dangerously close to need.
"I think survival is its own form of rebellion," she says. "I think living well despite what they tried to take from us—that's the only victory that matters."
Her face is too close, her scent too intoxicating, her words too dangerous in how they threaten the foundations of everything I've built my life around. I should pull away. Should reinstate the distance between us.
Instead, I kiss her.
The contact is sudden, almost violent in its intensity. Not gentle, not questioning—a collision rather than a meeting. Her surprise lasts only a heartbeat before she responds with equal force, her hands gripping my shoulders, nails digging through fabric to skin beneath.
This isn't surrender. It's challenge, opposition given physical form. Her mouth moves against mine with the same stubborn conviction that colors her every argument, refusing to yield even as she draws me closer.
I thread my fingers through her hair, angling her head to deepen the kiss. She makes a sound—frustration or pleasure, impossible to distinguish—and presses closer, eliminating what little space remained between us.
We clash like the storm outside, each touch both question and answer, neither willing to concede ground even in this most primal conversation.
When we finally break apart, breathing hard, the candlelight reveals her lips swollen, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with challenge and desire in equal measure. A strand of hair clings to her damp lower lip. I reach to brush it away, the simple gesture somehow more intimate than what preceded it.
"This changes nothing," she says, voice husky and uncertain despite the conviction of her words.
"You’re so naive," I counter, tracing the curve of her jaw with my thumb. "I can’t stand it.”
Her eyes hold mine, searching for something I'm not sure I can provide. Then she pulls me back to her, mouth finding mine with renewed purpose, her body arching against me in silent demand.
We roll until I’m on top of her, a tangle of limbs and half-shed clothing.
Her fingers work at the buttons of my shirt with frantic determination, pausing only when I capture her wrists, pinning them above her head against the pillows.
The moonlight paints her skin in silver, transforming her into something ethereal—something I fear might vanish if I loosen my grip.
"Is this how you win all your arguments?" I ask, voice rough as I lower my mouth to the hollow of her throat.
She arches beneath me, a soft gasp escaping her lips. "So you admit I’m winning.”
Her pulse hammers against my tongue, wild and insistent. I release her wrists to slide my hands beneath her shirt, tracing the contours of her ribs, the soft curve of her breast. She shudders, eyes fluttering closed as my thumb circles her nipple.
"You talk too much," I growl against her throat, tightening my grip on her hip hard enough to leave marks. Something primal takes over, driving away the last vestiges of restraint.
I tear at her remaining clothes, fabric giving way beneath desperate hands. She responds in kind, nails raking down my back, drawing blood that I barely feel through the haze of need. When she tries to gain leverage, I force her back down, pinning her with my weight, my strength.
"Is this what you want?" I demand, voice barely recognizable as my own. My hand finds her throat, applying just enough pressure to make her eyes widen, pupils blown with arousal rather than fear.
"Yes," she groans. “Fuck me already, Zaleska.”
It’s the angriest, the most fiery I’ve ever seen her. It’s also the hottest thing I’ve seen in my life.
I don't waste another second. Taking her words as permission, I grip her hips, pin her hard against the mattress, one hand pressing on her core to keep her down, fingers teasing the top of her sex. She gasps, not in protest but anticipation, as I tear away the last barrier of clothing between us.
"Is this what you imagined when you argued with me?" I growl into her ear, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. "That I'd fuck the defiance right out of you?"
She turns her head, eyes wild and challenging despite her vulnerable position. "You can try."
The invitation—the challenge—ignites something primal in me.
I lower myself down her body, pulling her thighs up so her feet are flat on the bedsheets.
She's already wet, her body betraying how much she wants this even as she refuses to surrender.
I spread her legs wider, gripping her thighs with possessive strength.
Her scent is intoxicating—earthy and sweet, a perfume no bottle could ever capture.
For a moment, I simply look at her, savoring the way she squirms under my gaze.
"Dylan," she breathes, impatience edging her voice.
"Patience," I growl, running my thumbs along the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. "I want to taste every inch of you."
When my mouth finally makes contact, her whole body jolts. I drag my tongue through her wetness, deliberate and slow, savoring the salt-sweet flavor of her arousal. Her hands fist in the sheets as I explore her with my tongue, learning what makes her gasp, what makes her moan.
I grip her hips harder, holding her in place as she tries to rock against me.
Her breath comes in short, desperate pants as I devour her, alternating between teasing her with gentle strokes and pressing my tongue flat against her most sensitive spot.
I lose myself in the task, in the power of reducing her to wordless pleasure.
"Please," she finally begs, voice breaking. "Dylan, please..."
I smile against her wet flesh, pleased at having broken through her defenses. "Please what, Sera?" I demand, pausing just long enough to speak. "Tell me exactly what you want."
"Don't stop," she gasps, trying to press herself back against my mouth. "I need—"
I tighten my grip, keeping her immobile. "Need what?"
"You," she admits, desperation winning over pride. "Your mouth. I need to come."
Satisfaction surges through me at her surrender. “Good girl. It didn’t take much to mellow you out, did it?”
I hear her draw breath to respond, but as I return to my task with renewed vigor, she screams with pleasure, writhing, wordless with pleasure.
I circle her entrance with my tongue, reveling in the way she trembles beneath me.
My hands slide under her thighs, lifting her hips higher, exposing her completely to my hungry mouth.
The taste of her arousal floods my senses, driving me to devour her with renewed intensity.
"Oh god," she whimpers, her voice breaking as I suck hard on her sensitive bud.
I press my tongue flat against her, establishing a rhythm that has her rocking back against my face. Her thighs quiver on either side of my head, her breathing becoming ragged, desperate. Power surges through me at reducing this fierce, argumentative woman to such raw, primal need.
When I slip two fingers inside her, curling them to find that spot that makes her back arch, she lets out a sound that's half sob, half moan. I work her relentlessly, my tongue never stopping. I could do this forever, for the rest of my life.
Her entire body suddenly tenses beneath me, thighs clamping around my head as she cries out.
I feel her pulsing against my tongue, her inner walls contracting around my fingers as she comes undone completely.
The sight of her—head thrown back, mouth open in a silent scream, body trembling uncontrollably—is the most beautiful thing I've ever witnessed.
I ease my assault slightly but don't stop, drawing out her pleasure until she's writhing, her usual sharp-tongued defiance reduced to incoherent whimpers. Her body jerks with aftershocks, vulnerable and open in a way I never thought I'd see.
When I finally begin to pull away, satisfied with having broken through her entirely, her hand shoots out to grab my wrist with surprising strength.
"No," she gasps, eyes glazed and unfocused. “Need… need you in me.”
I don't need to be told twice. I rise over her body, positioning myself at her entrance, my hardness pressed against her. For a heartbeat, I hover there, savoring the desperation in her eyes.
"Is this what you want?" I growl, voice barely recognizable.
"Yes," she wails, fingers digging into my shoulders. "Now!"