Chapter 22
Rowan
Violet was curled onto her side, back pressed against my chest, one hand tucked beneath her cheek.
Her breathing had finally evened out—deep, rhythmic, the kind of sleep that spoke of genuine rest rather than drug-induced unconsciousness.
The fever flush had faded from her cheeks, leaving her skin its natural warm caramel in the dim amber light I’d left on.
I needed to see her, needed to confirm she was truly safe, unable to tear my gaze away.
Her dark hair spread across the white pillow, the red streaks catching light in shades of burgundy and crimson.
The thin sheet covering her had slid down, exposing the curve of her hip and the lean muscle of her thigh.
She looked peaceful. Younger, somehow, without the sharp wariness she wore like armor when awake.
Exquisite
The word settled in my chest, undeniable.
I’d been watching her for the better part of an hour, telling myself it was necessary. That I needed to monitor her breathing, her temperature, any sign the drug was still wreaking havoc through her system. That I was being vigilant, protective, responsible.
But that was only half true.
I simply wanted to look at her: memorize the slope of her nose, the fullness of her delicate lips, the soft curve of her ear where I’d whispered filth that made her come undone in my arms.
What have I done?
The question circled through my mind like a wolf stalking prey, relentless and hungry.
I’d touched her. Held her while she brought herself to orgasm. Whispered obscene encouragement in her ear—things I’d never said to anyone, things I hadn’t known I was capable of saying—while she’d ground her ass against my aching cock and soaked my sheets with her release.
I’ve never been so ravenous for someone. Ever. Not in fifty years of my previous life, nor in the five years since my reincarnation.
In the Wastelands, I’d been scarred, my face carved up by violence and survival.
My body had been a roadmap of every mistake I’d made, every fight I’d barely survived, every desperate choice that had kept me breathing another day.
Women didn’t look at men like me with desire unless they were paid, a luxury I could barely afford the few times I partook.
Intimacy required vulnerability, and vulnerability meant death in a world where everyone was looking for a weakness to exploit.
And then there had been Faelin. I’d loved Faelin—loved her with a fierce, protective intensity that had driven me to make deals I couldn’t cover, to trade years of my freedom for medicine that came too late.
But that love had been pure in its simplicity.
She’d been like a little sister, precious and bright in a world of rot and ash.
I’d wanted to protect her, to give her a chance at something better than the brutality of the Wastelands.
This was different. Foreign. Terrifying in its intensity.
Looking at Violet made my chest tight and my cock hard. Forced me to clench my hands out of an urge to touch and claim and possess. A raging inferno burning that would consume me if I wasn’t careful.
And it had. . .
I’d held Violet’s trembling body while she’d used a toy to chase relief.
. I’d cupped her breasts and twisted her piercings and told her she was perfect while she’d fallen apart in my arms. And when she’d screamed my name, her body convulsing with the force of her orgasm, I’d felt something crack open in my chest—something I’d kept frozen and buried for decades.
Did I do the right thing?
The question gnawed at me, sharp teeth tearing at soft tissue.
Her body had turned into an endless pit of desire by succubus blood.
Yes, she’d said the words—I’m clearheaded enough to know what I’m asking—but had she been?
Truly? Could anyone give their honest consent while burning from the inside out, while pain and pleasure blurred into something indistinguishable?
I replayed the moment in my mind, picking apart every detail like I was on the hunt.
“I don’t want to be alone, but I don’t want to force you into anything you don’t want.”
Her words. Clear. Articulate. Concerned for my consent even while her body was on fire.
“Can you touch me? It doesn’t bother me. I feel safe with you. I want you to touch me.”
Her permission. Explicit. Repeated.
I’d watched her body’s responses—the way she’d arched into my touch without hesitation, the way she’d spread her legs wider when I’d commanded it, the way she’d ground herself against me with desperate hunger.
She hadn’t frozen. Hadn’t flinched. Hadn’t shown any of the signs I knew to watch for, the tells that indicated someone was enduring rather than enjoying.
She wanted it. She wanted me.
But had she wanted me, or had she just wanted relief from agony?
The distinction mattered. It really fucking mattered.
My gut twisted with guilt that felt like swallowing broken glass. I should have said no. Should have left the room entirely, let her handle it herself despite her pleas for me to stay. That would have been the honorable choice. The safe choice.
But she would have suffered alone. The drug would have tormented her for hours—Jules had said as much—and I would have abandoned her to that torment rather than risk crossing a line I couldn’t uncross.
Which is worse? Helping her while she is compromised, or leaving her to suffer?
I didn’t have an answer. I wasn’t even sure there was a right answer.
What did I know? I’d denied myself any personal, physical pleasure.
Kept my hands away from her cunt despite desperately wanting to feel her slick heat, to slide my fingers inside her and curve them exactly how I knew would make her scream.
Kept my cock trapped in my sweats even when every ravenous animalistic instinct had screamed to bury myself inside her and fuck her until neither of us could remember our own names.
I’d only touched where she’d explicitly given permission—her breasts, her waist, her shoulders. Nothing more. I’d helped her reach orgasm so she could rest. That was all. Nothing more.
Keep telling yourself that.
The thought came bitter and mocking, because I knew the truth buried beneath my rationalizations. Yes, I’d wanted to help her. But I’d also wanted to brand myself into her memory so thoroughly she’d never look at another man the same way.
Possessive. Protective. Both truths coexisting in the same breath.
So much for keeping boundaries. I’d told Levi nothing like this would happen. Promised him I’d keep her safe, keep my distance, treat her like a ward and nothing more.
Fuck Levi.
I hadn’t been lying when I’d made that promise. I’d genuinely believed I could watch over her without wanting her. At the time, I honestly didn’t think of Violet as anything other than a spoiled pain in the ass princess.
Which she is, I reminded myself.
But. . . she’d come to be so much more than that, and I wasn’t about to flog myself over circumstances I couldn’t have predicted. Besides, Levi was an asshole who’d spent years treating me like a villain. He could handle a little disappointment.
The guilt over consent, though? That lingered like smoke.
I needed to move. Needed to do something other than spiral through the same thoughts on an endless loop.
Violet’s breathing remained deep and even, her body relaxed in genuine sleep. She was safe. I could leave her for a few minutes.
I slipped out of bed with practiced silence, my feet finding the wood floor without a sound.
My body protested—muscles stiff from holding still for hours, my cock still painfully hard and straining against my sweats, the waistband digging into sensitive flesh.
The bathroom marble was cool against my bare feet as I started the shower, twisting the knob to its coldest setting.
I stripped off my sweats, still damp with her sweat and mine.
Cold water hit my back, and I gritted my teeth against the shock of it. Ice straight from some glacial stream, stealing my breath and prickling my skin with a thousand tiny needles.
My cock remained stubbornly hard, jutting forward despite the temperature that should have killed any arousal. I stared down at it, half-tempted to take myself in hand and find relief in a few quick strokes.
But the thought of Violet walking in to find me with my hand wrapped around my cock – stroking myself furiously while I was meant to be watching over her – stopped me. Heat rushed through me then. Despite the cold water, embarrassment and arousal twisted together in a way that tightened my balls.
No. I knew I should not leave her alone for longer than necessary. I couldn’t risk her waking to find me gone, potentially panicking, hurting, or needing help that I wasn’t there to provide.
And frankly, I’d survived unimaginably far worse pain than blue balls. The Wastelands had taught me to endure broken bones, infected wounds, and hunger that turned your stomach into a gnawing maw of agony. Aching balls were nothing. Barely registered on the scale of suffering I’d weathered.
I scrubbed quickly with pine-scented soap, the smell sharp and earthy. The water sluiced down my body, over muscles still tense with unresolved want, circling the drain in a miniature whirlpool.
I shut off the water, dried with efficiency rather than care, and pulled on fresh sweats and a clean white shirt. My cock protested being confined again, but I ignored it. Discipline. Control. I’d built a life on both.
When I slipped back into the bedroom, Violet hadn’t moved. Still curled on her side, still breathing deep and steady, still heartbreakingly beautiful in the dim light.
I eased back into bed beside her, careful not to jostle the mattress. She made a small sound—wordless, content—and shifted slightly closer to my warmth. I let myself relax into the pillows, watching her in the amber glow, and felt my eyes grow heavy.
Sleep came easier than I’d expected, dragging me down into darkness.
I woke to the sound of pain.