CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN
RAVEN
Anote is folded between the pages of a book I’ve never read. Spine cracked once, never opened again. It’s buried on the shelf behind my sweaters now, shoved into the corner like hiding it can make it untrue.
But it still echoes.
The sentence. The implication.
Do you remember what he took from you that night in the chapel?
My skin itches.
Not the kind you can scratch.
The kind that starts under your ribs and blooms behind your eyes when the walls get too quiet and you realise you’re not alone. That you never were.
Damien’s pretending not to notice.
He’s good at that. At restraint. At watching me without letting it show. But I can feel it—the tension in his shoulders. The way he only pretends to type. How his eyes flick toward the hall every time I move.
He knows something’s changed.
I hate how fast he notices me.
I hate how badly I want him to.
Because the truth is, I don’t feel like myself anymore.
I don’t feel like his.
And if I’m not his, then what am I?
That thought drives me back down the hall.
Barefoot.
Silent.
I stop at the doorway to his room—our room, now, though I still don’t call it that out loud.
He doesn’t look up.
But he knows I’m there.
“Raven,” he says, voice low, warning-soft.
I step into the room.
He finally turns in his chair, one elbow hooked on the armrest, fingers loose at his mouth. Watching.
Not moving.
I don’t speak.
I strip.
One hand at a time. Hoodie first. Then the tank. The elastic waistband of soft pants I wore to feel safe. I drop each piece to the floor as if it offends me.
I don’t make it a show.
I make it a message.
He stands, slow, carefully.
“Talk to me,” he says.
I shake my head once.
“I don’t want to talk.”
He swallows hard. Jaw flexing.
I cross the space between us.
Place his hand at my throat.
He doesn’t squeeze.
Doesn’t flinch.
He holds me there—just enough pressure to feel real.
“I need you to remind me,” I whisper.
“Of what?”
“That I belong to you.”
His breath leaves in a sharp exhale.
But still—he hesitates.
Because he knows I’m asking for the wrong thing.
This isn’t submission.
This is control.
I rise on my toes and kiss him before he can say no.
And when he kisses me back—it’s not gentle.
It’s not comforting.
It’s consuming.
His hands grip my waist, my ass, my hair. He walks me backward until my shoulders hit the wall and my breath catches. His mouth is on my throat, my jaw, biting, tasting, claiming.
I moan—loud, desperate, shameless.
He pulls back just enough to look me in the eye.
“Tell me this is what you want,” he growls.
I reach down.
Take his hand.
And guide it between my legs.
His fingers part me—slick, hot, aching.
My voice breaks as I say it.
“This is what I want.”
He curses under his breath.
Then lifts me.
One motion—effortless.
My legs wrap around his waist, and he pushes inside me so hard, so deep, I cry out—not from pain.
From release.
Here, I am protected.
Where I’m seen.
Not as prey.
Not as broken.
As his.
His cock drives into me like he’s been starving.
No gentleness. No tease.
Just a hard, claiming thrust that slams me against the wall and splits me open around him. His mouth swallowed my gasp, his tongue already inside—like he can taste the ache dripping out of me.
I’m already soaked, already shaking, already there.
Damien holds me up like I weigh nothing.
With one arm braced under my ass, the other fisted in my hair, pulling my head back so he can lick down my throat. His breath hits hot across my skin, and I feel every syllable before I hear it.
“You want to forget?” he growls against my neck. “Then fucking remember whose cunt this is.”
A shudder tears through me.
I moan—raw, cracked—and he slams in harder.
My back thuds against the wall. My teeth catch my lip. But I don’t want soft.
I want this.
Him.
Unhinged.
Unforgiving.
His fingers dig into my hip, spreading me wider.
My legs shake, barely clinging to his waist.
Every thrust punches the air from my lungs. The wet slap of skin on skin echoes, vulgar, loud, filthy—like we want the walls to hear.
His voice dips—lower, darker—as he fucks me deeper.
“You walked in here like you wanted a reminder, little spider.”
I whimper.
“You wanted me to make you feel owned again.”
“Yes,” I gasp. “Yes—please—Damien—”
He bites my earlobe, breath ragged. “Then you crawl into the web, and you stay.”
I can’t breathe.
I don’t want to.
He grinds into me with a twist of his hips, cock angled perfectly, forcing the friction so high my toes curl. I claw at his shoulders, nails digging in. His muscles flex beneath my hands—coiled, controlled.
But his control is fraying.
I feel it in the way his rhythm stutters, breaks, recovers even harder. His breath is sharp; his growl feral.
“You think anyone else can fuck you like this?” he rasps. “Anyone else can fuck the fear out of you?”
My eyes roll back.
He slams in again.
And again.
Faster.
Meaner.
He’s not fucking me like he wants me to come.
He’s fucking me like he wants to brand me.
Like every stroke is a stake through the parts of me that ever wandered.
And then—he slows.
But he doesn’t pull out.
He buries himself to the hilt and stays there.
His chest heaves against mine.
His lips graze my jaw, my cheek, the corner of my mouth.
And he whispers—
“Open your eyes.”
I do.
His stare pins me.
“I want you to watch me while I ruin you.”
I whimper—soft, wrecked—and nod.
He thrusts again.
Deeper this time.
Cruel and slow.
And again.
My head thuds against the wall, but his hand slides behind it now, cushioning the impact.
Possession and care. Dominance and precision.
I’m breaking open around him.
And he won’t stop.
“You’re mine, little spider,” he hisses. “Every fucking inch. Every hole. Every breath.”
“Yours,” I whisper, already spiraling.
“Say it louder.”
“Yours, Damien—*fuck—*I’m yours—”
He growls something low and violent against my throat, and the sound alone nearly finishes me.
He shifts us.
Carries me to the bed without pulling out.
Lays me down.
Stays inside.
Then he starts again.
Slower.
Rougher.
Grinding with every stroke like he wants to leave something permanent behind.
His fingers find my throat again—light pressure, just enough to choke a whimper into a moan.
His other hand slips between us.
He rubs me hard, fast—fingers slick with how soaked I am.
“I want you to come,” he says, mouth at my ear.
“But not because you’re scared.”
I sob.
“Come because you know I own this.”
“I—”
He curls his fingers.
“Say it.”
“You own me—fuck—you own me—”
My orgasm hits so hard I scream.
My whole body bows off the mattress, trembling, convulsing, heat flooding out of me as I clamp around him.
He doesn’t stop.
He fucks me through it—like he’s chasing something deeper.
His own breath breaks.
And then he’s there too.
Thrusting harder, jaw clenched, veins in his neck tight.
“Take it,” he growls. “Fucking take it.”
And when he spills inside me—it’s a growl.
A claim.
A war cry.
And I collapse under it.
Not afraid.
Not broken.
Just his.
His weight is on me, heavy and warm and real.
My body is still shaking, as if tiny earthquakes are rumbling beneath my skin, yet he remains motionless. Just stays there. One arm under my head, the other wrapped around my waist like he thinks I’ll disappear if he lets go.
Maybe I will.
I blink up at the ceiling, trying to catch my breath. It takes longer than it should. My chest rises and falls like I just ran for my life—and in a way, I did.
Except I ran to him.
My thighs are sticky. My throat is raw. My skin hums where he left teeth and praise and punishment.
And still, I don’t feel clean.
Not in a dirty way.
In the haunted way.
Like something followed me here.
His fingers move finally. Slow strokes down my spine, anchoring me. His lips find the edge of my jaw, just once—bare, silent. No demands. No warnings.
Just contact.
And that’s what undoes me.
Not the roughness.
Not the force.
Not even the filthy words he whispered as I shattered beneath him.
It’s this.
The quiet.
The care.
It hits too deep, too true. And it cracks the shell I built to survive.
I turn into him, pressing my face to his chest. His scent is everywhere. Sweat, breath, leather, musk—Damien.
I inhale until it burns.
“Are you okay?” he murmurs.
His voice is softer now. No edge. No demand. Just Damien, post-storm.
I nod. “Yeah.”
“You sure?”
I nod again.
But I say nothing else.
Because if I open my mouth now, I don’t know what will come out.
Not truth.
Not yet.
He holds me tighter.
And still—I feel the space between us growing.
It’s not him.
It’s me.
It’s the note under the sweater.
The memory behind it.
The feeling that something is watching again, but this time not from across the room—not from the ceiling corners or the camera feeds.
From inside.
From before.
I close my eyes and bury myself in him, as deep as I can go.
Trying to find that place where it’s only him.
Only Damien.
Because if I let myself think about what that note really means…
I’ll have to admit it:
He wasn’t the first.
And if he wasn’t the first—
Then maybe…
He won’t be the last.
I can still feel him long after he’s gone still.
Not the weight. Not the heat. Just the echo—how my body keeps reaching for him even as my mind drifts somewhere else. Somewhere older. Somewhere I don’t remember.
The room is quiet now. Too quiet. The kind that hums at the edges, a low vibration you can’t trace but can’t escape. It threads through my veins until my pulse starts to stutter, and I can’t tell if it’s fear or memory rising under my skin.
I turn my face into his chest, pretending I’m tired. Pretending this is peace. But the words on that note won’t stop bleeding through the cracks: Do you remember what he took from you that night in the chapel?
I don’t.
I swear I don’t.
But the ache in my ribs says maybe I do—just not in a way that makes sense yet.
I close my eyes and try to find stillness. Try to forget the paper. The question. The way Damien looked at me like he already knew the answer.
Sleep doesn’t come. Only the quiet. Only the hum. Only the echo of something I shouldn’t remember—soft, distant, reverent. A voice that doesn’t belong here.
Little lamb.