Chapter 31
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Mallen deepens the kiss, his hand sliding into my hair, twisting just enough to hold me still. There’s a hunger in it now—an unspoken demand—and when his body presses against mine, it’s not just possession. It’s a plea. A prayer.
My breath catches as he pushes me back, his hands cradling me as though he needs proof I’m still here. Still his.
My hands slide down his chest, fumbling for the hem of his tunic. He breaks the kiss, lips brushing mine with a hint of laughter, and pulls the shirt over his head.
Candlelight gilds his skin. I trace my fingers over him, slow and certain—no hesitation, no regret.
When our mouths find each other again, his hands are already tugging at the neckline of my top.
Fabric slides down my shoulder, exposing bare skin to his lips.
The brush of his mouth is gentle, reverent, but it leaves fire in its wake.
My spine arches with a soft gasp, a laugh escaping me like a broken promise.
But then I still. My hand presses lightly against his chest.
“Mallen…”
He freezes. Not pulling away, not moving closer either.
“If we…” I murmur. “The magic will return. To Starsfall. And to my father.”
His jaw tightens. His breath catches. But he doesn’t flinch.
“Yes,” he says.
“But you’d still do it?”
“Yes,” he answers, voice low. “I chose you the moment I saw you. Or the gods chose me for you. It doesn’t matter. Whatever comes, we face it together.”
I glance down at him, my breath hitching—but not from fear. I smile—slow, playful, sharp as a secret—but he misses it, mistaking mischief for doubt. His eyes darken with retreat, not disappointment.
“If you’re not ready, I can wait, Mallen.”
I laugh, loud and reckless, and he doesn’t. His arms tighten around my waist as he rises to his feet, lifting me with him. I pretend to squirm in protest, and we both play the game, knowing it’s a lie.
“Azhara,” he murmurs against my skin, his voice hoarse, fingers trailing downward. “I’ll be gentle. This might hurt a little. At first.”
He carries me to the bed and lowers me onto the sheets like I’m sacred. Then he follows, his weight pressing me down, surrounding me, his hips locking between mine. His lips find mine again, and in the dark hunger of that kiss, I lose everything but him.
Fingers work at the laces of my clothes. I reach for him, hands dragging across his skin, desperate for a tether, anything to hold me in this moment before I come undone. I’m trembling—not just with want, but with wonder, with the ache of stepping into the unknown.
Mallen stills. His gaze catches mine, searching. He sees it. The flutter of nerves I thought I’d hidden.
His mouth descends slowly, reverently, until it finds my breast. He groans, low and guttural, as his lips close around me. When his teeth graze, I cry out, and his grip on my hips tightens.
“I love the sounds you make,” he whispers. “Never hide from me.”
His mouth finds my breast again, slower this time, as though he’s relearning me with reverence instead of hunger.
The sensation coils through me like lightning, sharp and bright, and I arch into him, needing more.
My leg winds around his waist, drawing him closer.
He groans as our hips meet, breath catching in his throat.
“Azhara,” he breathes, as if my name alone might undo him. He lifts his head, brushing his nose along my cheek. “Tell me what you want.”
I guide his hand downward, and he pauses—his brow furrowed in quiet restraint. Not stopping me. Just waiting.
I meet his gaze, pulse racing. “I want you,” I whisper. “Please.”
Something in him splinters—not restraint, but the softest part of him, the part he never speaks of. The part that once waited in the dark and called my name.
“You never have to ask,” he murmurs, reverent. “I’m already yours.”
When his fingers slide between my legs, I gasp—sharp, instinctive. He stills.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs.
“I want you,” I say quickly. “It’s just…it’s more than I expected.”
His hand cups me gently. “I’ll take my time.”
He kisses me as his fingers begin to move, slow and sure, and the world narrows to the heat rising beneath his touch. He watches every flicker of my breath, every shift in my body, like he’s charting stars across my skin.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispers. “Gods, Azhara, I’ve dreamed of this. Of you.”
His voice anchors me like breath to bone, and I surrender—to him, and to the truth I’ve tried so long to silence.
My hips lift to meet him, chasing the rhythm he sets. A moan escapes me, unguarded and raw. His expression darkens—not with lust, but with awe.
He presses deeper, his finger sliding inside. I stiffen at the sudden stretch, but he’s already stilling, kissing my cheek, murmuring low comforts against my skin.
“You’re doing perfect,” he says. “Tell me if it’s too much. I’ll stop. Always.”
I shake my head, breath hitching, and after a heartbeat, he begins to move again.
Each slow thrust stokes the heat inside me, every stroke unspooling what I’ve kept stitched behind ribs and breath and years of solitude, until it spills from me in gasps I don’t try to hide.
My hands grip the sheets and then his shoulders and then his hair.
I lose track of what I’m clinging to—only that I need to hold on.
“Mallen—” His name breaks on a gasp. “Don’t stop.”
Another finger joins the first. I cry out, body clenching, but he’s patient—so patient—easing me through it with steady hands and gentler words.
The heat crests higher, pressure coiling in my belly. I’m teetering on the edge, breathless, aching, every nerve strung tight.
“Let go,” he whispers. “I’ll catch you.”
I fall.
My body seizes around him, a cry torn from my throat, and I shudder through the release, overwhelmed, undone. Tears blur my vision, and I don’t know why I’m crying, only that I am, and that Mallen is there, not to rescue, not to claim—but to bear witness. To hold the edges of me when I can’t.
He lifts his head slowly, rests his cheek to my thigh, and exhales like he’s trying to quiet the storm in his chest. His hand stays on my hip, not possessive—anchoring. As if I’m the only thing keeping him here.
I brush his hair back, fingers trembling. He kisses the inside of my knee like a benediction.
“Are you all right?” he asks, voice hoarse.
I nod, unable to speak. My body’s still pulsing from the release, nerves buzzing like lightning caught beneath skin. I’ve never felt anything like this—like my soul stepped out of its own body and left me breathless in the aftermath.
I’m his. I always have been.
Even if I walk away.
Even if I choose another path.
This moment—this sacred, stolen moment—is ours.
And that, I think, is what undoes him.
He rises, eyes searching mine, and whatever he sees there—relief, trust, the shape of my heart—softens his features until he looks boyish again. That same boy who knelt beside my bed, whispering my name like a prayer.
“I’ve dreamed of this,” he says quietly. “Not like this. Not just this. I dreamed of being close to you. Waking up beside you. Hearing your voice in the dark and knowing you stayed.”
My hand finds his, fingers weaving through his. I squeeze once, and he brings our joined hands to his mouth and presses a kiss to my knuckles.
“I’m here,” I say.
His throat works around the emotion, and for a moment, he doesn’t speak. Then, as if a storm settles in him, he reaches for the drawstring at his waist. He moves slowly, as though each breath is counted. Not for show, not to tempt—but to give me time. A moment to decide if I’ll stop him.
I don’t.
He pushes his trousers off and then shifts closer. Candlelight casts him in gold and shadow, every scar a story written into flesh. I trace a line above his ribs, careful of the fresh bruising. He flinches—not from pain, but from the tenderness of it.
“Does it hurt?” I ask softly.
He shakes his head. “No. It feels like I survived what I thought I wouldn’t.”
I lift my gaze. “Me too.”
He shifts his hips, and I feel the press of him—hard and thick and terrifyingly real. My body tenses in instinct, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t force. Just rests there, breathing hard, waiting for me.
I nod.
He kisses me once, long and deep, and then begins to push inside.
It’s more than I expected. More than I’ve ever known. I gasp, clutching his shoulders. He stills instantly, his gaze locking on mine.
“I’ll stop,” he says, voice thick. “Tell me and I’ll stop.”
I shake my head. “I just need to breathe.”
He lowers his forehead to mine, sweat beading at his temple as he forces himself to stay still. His control astounds me. Even trembling, he waits for me.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs.
My body adjusts slowly, muscles stretching to accommodate him.
He’s patient, brushing kisses across my cheeks, my jaw, my temple.
His hand strokes my side, guiding me back to my own skin, tracing me into belonging, reminding me I am more than the body that trembles beneath him.
I relax inch by inch, and only when he’s sure—when I tell him—does he move again, slow and careful.
When he’s fully inside me, I exhale shakily. He’s deep—so deep—but not unbearable. Just full. Whole. And I’m no longer alone.
His gaze meets mine.
I pull him into another kiss.
He begins to move. Not fast. Not hard. Just a slow, rolling rhythm that lets me feel everything. It’s overwhelming—emotionally more than physically. The stretch fades to heat, and then to something deeper. Something sacred.
Each thrust rocks through me, pulling breathless sounds from my throat. He groans softly, pressing his face into my neck.
“I didn’t dare to dream we’d have this,” he says. “Not like this.”
“We do.”
“Yes,” he breathes. “We do.”
Our bodies move together, rhythm syncing, breath for breath. My legs wrap around him, and he holds me tighter, angling his hips until each stroke makes me cry out. The pressure builds again, faster this time, sharper.
It burns too hot. Too brightly.