Chapter 9
Iwake up in a bed that costs more than my entire year's rent.
That's the first coherent thought my brain manages to produce as sunlight filters through floor-to-ceiling windows, casting golden light across Egyptian cotton sheets that probably have a thread count higher than my credit score used to be.
Used to be.
Because Cyprian paid off all my debts.
Because I'm his fated mate.
Because I had sex with a literal gargoyle last night and my body is still humming with the aftershocks.
I turn my head slowly.
He's asleep beside me.
Massive. Sprawling. His slate-gray skin catches the morning light, amber veins tracing soft, steady gold patterns across his chest and shoulders.
His wings are folded against his back, the heavy membrane rising and falling with each breath.
One arm is draped possessively across my waist, even in sleep.
He looks peaceful.
I feel like I'm having an existential crisis.
I carefully extract myself from under his arm—he doesn't wake, just shifts slightly and makes a low rumbling sound deep in his chest—and slide out of bed.
My feet hit polished hardwood floors that are heated.
Of course they're heated. Everything in this penthouse is designed for comfort and luxury and a level of wealth I can't even conceptualize.
I grab the first thing I can find—one of his massive dress shirts hanging over a chair—and pull it on. It falls to mid-thigh, the sleeves dangling past my hands.
I need to think.
I need space.
I need to figure out what the hell I just agreed to.
The penthouse is silent as I pad through the living room toward the kitchen.
Everything is obsidian and glass and sharp modern lines.
There's a coffee maker that looks like it belongs in a spaceship.
I stare at it for a full thirty seconds before giving up and just filling a glass with water from the tap.
The tap has a built-in filtration system.
Of course it does.
I lean against the counter and take a sip.
My hands are shaking.
Not from fear.
From the sheer overwhelming weight of what happened last night.
The mate-bond.
The biological imperative.
The way my body responded to him like it was hardwired to recognize him as mine.
But was it my choice?
Or was it just my biology making the choice for me?
I set the glass down.
My phone is sitting on the counter—Cyprian must have brought it up from my bag. I grab it and pull up Audrey's contact before I can second-guess myself.
She answers on the second ring.
"It's seven in the morning," she says. "This better be good."
"I had sex with my client."
Silence.
Then: "The gargoyle?"
"Yes."
"The obscenely wealthy gargoyle who paid off all your debts?"
"Yes."
"Okay. Scale of one to ten, how freaked out are you right now?"
I exhale slowly. "Eleven."
"Where are you?"
"His penthouse."
"Is he there?"
"He's asleep."
"Good. Talk to me. What happened?"
I lean back against the counter, staring out at the city skyline stretching endlessly beyond the windows.
"He told me we're fated mates," I say. "That his species experiences this biological bond thing once in a lifetime. That his body is literally hardwired to recognize me as his mate on a neurological level."
"Okay."
"And then we had sex. Really intense, really overwhelming, really—" I stop. "Really good sex."
"Also okay."
"But here's the thing," I say. "I don't know if I wanted it because I actually wanted it, or if I wanted it because my biology was telling me to want it.
Like, how do I even distinguish between the two?
How do I know if I'm making a choice or if I'm just responding to some ancient biological imperative that's hijacking my autonomic nervous system? "
Audrey is quiet for a moment.
Then she says: "Did you want it?"
"What?"
"When you were with him. When it was happening. Did you want it?"
I close my eyes.
I think about the way his hands felt against my skin. The way his wings wrapped around us. The way he looked at me like I was the only thing in the entire world that mattered.
"Yes," I say quietly. "I wanted it."
"Then that's the only thing that matters."
"But what if—"
"Tamsin. Listen to me. You've spent your entire adult life making choices based on survival.
You worked three jobs. You ate ramen for dinner.
You wore shoes with cracked soles because you couldn't afford new ones.
You made a thousand tiny choices every single day just to keep your head above water. "
She pauses.
"And now you're telling me that you can't trust yourself to know what you want?"
My throat tightens.
"It's different," I say.
"How?"
"Because this isn't about survival. This is about—" I stop. "This is about love. And commitment. And forever. And I don't know if I'm ready for that."
"Okay. So don't be ready."
I blink. "What?"
"You don't have to be ready. You don't have to have it all figured out right now. You just have to decide if you want to stay or if you want to leave. That's it. That's the only choice you need to make today."
I stare out at the city.
At the endless sprawl of buildings and streets and lives I'll never touch.
"I want to stay," I say quietly.
"Then stay."
"But on my terms."
"Good. Tell him that."
"What if he doesn't—"
"Tamsin. He paid off fifty-seven thousand dollars in debt because he couldn't stand the thought of you being financially vulnerable. I'm pretty sure he'll agree to whatever terms you set."
I laugh.
It's shaky and breathless and completely genuine.
"Yeah. Okay."
"You good?"
"I'm getting there."
"Call me later. I want details."
"You're not getting details."
"I'm absolutely getting details."
She hangs up.
I set the phone down.
And I just stand there for a moment, letting the morning light wash over me, feeling the weight of the decision settle into place.
I'm staying.
Not because biology demands it.
Not because I'm trapped.
Not because I don't have any other options.
I'm staying because I want to.
Because when I think about walking away from him—from this—my chest tightens with something that feels a lot like grief.
Because I'm choosing him.
On my terms.
With full agency.
With the explicit understanding that I can walk away if I need to.
I take a breath.
And I turn back toward the bedroom.
Toward him.
Toward whatever the hell this is going to become.
I don't have it all figured out.
But I don't need to.
I just need to choose.
And I already have.