Chapter 13 Lorenth
LORENTH
I'm barely holding it together.
My hands are shaking—actually shaking—as I lean against the wall outside my bedroom, wings tucked tight against my back because the space is too narrow for them to spread. The sound of running water echoes faintly into the hall, a reminder that she's in there. In my home. Safe.
For now.
The bond in my chest has quieted somewhat, that vicious lashing easing to a steady pulse now that she's close. But it doesn't change the rage still coiling through my veins, hot and acidic.
Sold.
The word keeps looping through my mind, vicious and ugly. She was sold to that piece of shit like livestock. Like property. By her own godsdamn uncle.
My fists clench, nails biting into my palms hard enough to sting.
I healed the marks Darian left on her skin—the bruise on her cheek, the cut on her lip, the finger-shaped shadows around her wrist—but that doesn't erase what he did.
Doesn't change the fact that she felt them.
That she's been living with that kind of violence for gods know how long.
And I wasn't there.
Couldn't protect her because I didn't know. Couldn't stop him because she slipped away from me at the Masquerade, disappearing into the dawn before I could even get her name.
The helplessness of it makes me want to tear something apart.
I should go back. Should fly straight to that godsforsaken village, find Darian, and break every bone in his body for what he's done to her. Make him understand exactly what happens when you hurt what's mine.
Except she's not mine. Not really.
The bond says otherwise—screams it, actually, with every beat of my heart—but Senna hasn't chosen me. Not yet. She came with me because she was terrified and desperate and out of options, not because she wants this. Wants me.
I exhale hard, scrubbing a hand over my face.
She needs safety. Stability. Time to figure out what the hell she wants without some bastard controlling her every move. And I need to get my shit together before I do something stupid like march into that bathing chamber and—
No. Not going there.
Footsteps sound behind me—soft, hesitant. I turn, knowing I need to get my raging thoughts under control—
My mouth goes dry.
Senna stands at the end of the hallway, wrapped in nothing but a towel.
Her dark curls are damp, clinging to her shoulders and neck, droplets of water still beading on her brown skin.
The towel covers her from chest to mid-thigh, but barely.
And the way the fabric molds to her curves, still slightly damp in places. ..
Fuck.
I've seen her before. In that stunning gown at the Masquerade, all elegant lines and hidden fire. In her simple village clothes earlier this morning, bruised and frightened but still defiant. But this?
This is different.
This is intimate. Vulnerable. And every instinct I have is roaring at me to close the distance between us, to worship every inch of her skin until she forgets what it feels like to be afraid.
"I, um." Her voice is quiet, uncertain. Those storm-gray eyes meet mine and I can see the flush creeping up her neck, staining her cheeks. "I don't have any clothes."
Right. Clothes. That's a thing people need.
I nod, trying to wrangle my brain back into some semblance of coherent thought.
"We can remedy that. Tomorrow, I'll take you shopping.
Get you whatever you need." The words come out rougher than I intend, my voice dropping low.
"For now, I've got some things you can wear. They'll be big on you, but..."
I trail off because she's staring at me with those bright eyes, lips slightly parted, and I can feel my magic flaring under my skin. Hot and electric, responding to her nearness the same way it did at the Masquerade. The same way it's been doing since I found her again.
Goddammit.
"Stay here," I manage, and stride past her into my bedroom before I do something monumentally stupid.
I yank open a drawer, pulling out one of my tunics and a pair of sleep pants with a drawstring. They're going to drown her, but it's better than nothing.
When I turn back, she's followed me. Standing just inside the doorway now, still wrapped in that towel, still looking at me like...
Like she trusts me.
The realization hits me square in the chest, stealing my breath.
After everything she's been through—everything Darian put her through—she's standing here half-naked in my bedroom, vulnerable and exposed, and she's not afraid.
Of me, at least.
I cross the room, holding out the clothes. "These should work until—"
She doesn't take them. Just keeps staring at me with those wide gray eyes, something unreadable flickering across her expression.
My magic surges again, crackling under my skin like lightning waiting to strike. The bond pulses in response, tight and insistent, and I can feel the pull of it dragging me toward her.
Before I can think better of it, I set the clothes aside and move closer, cupping her face the way I did in the forest. Her skin is still damp from the bath, warm under my palms.
"Are you okay?" The question comes out hoarse.
She doesn't answer right away. Just leans into my touch, eyes fluttering half-closed like she's savoring it.
And then, so quietly I almost miss it: "I want to know what it's like."
My brow furrows. "What what's like?"
"To feel safe." Her voice is barely a whisper now, fragile and raw. "To find pleasure from someone's hands instead of pain."
The words shatter something in my chest that I didn't know could break.
She's not just talking about sex. She's talking about touch. About being held without flinching. About hands on her skin that don't leave bruises. About intimacy that doesn't come with fear and violence and humiliation.
About everything that bastard denied her.
My thumbs brush over her cheekbones, careful and reverent. "Senna..."
"I know what I'm asking." She opens her eyes fully now, meeting my gaze with a steadiness that belies the tremor in her voice.
"I know this is fast and reckless and probably insane.
But I've spent years being careful. Being good.
Doing what I was told and hoping it would keep me safe. And all it got me was more pain."
Her hands come up to rest on my chest, fingers curling into the fabric of my tunic. The touch sends heat racing through me, my magic responding with an intensity that makes my wings twitch.
"You make me feel safe," she continues, voice gaining strength. "When you look at me, I don't see ownership or control. I see... I don't know what I see. But it's different. You're different."
"I am." The words come out rough, edged with the possessiveness I'm trying so hard to keep leashed. "Because I'm not going to hurt you. Ever. And I'm sure as hell not going to let anyone else hurt you either."
"I believe you." Her gaze doesn't waver. "So show me. Please. Show me what it's supposed to feel like."
Every rational thought I have is screaming at me to slow down. To give her time. To not take advantage of her vulnerability and fear and desperation.
But the bond is singing in my chest, fierce and demanding, and her hands are on me and her eyes are begging and I—
I'm only a man. A man who's been going slowly insane for two weeks, haunted by the memory of one perfect night. A man who just found the other half of his soul and discovered she's been living in hell.
A man who would burn the whole godsdamn world down to keep her safe.
My control snaps.
I kiss her.
She gasps against my mouth, hands fisting tighter in my tunic, and then she's kissing me back with a desperation that matches my own. Her lips part under mine, tongue sliding against mine, and the taste of her—gods, the taste of her—makes my head spin.
I walk her backward until her spine hits the wall, caging her in with my body but keeping my weight off her. Giving her room to breathe, to move, to tell me to stop if she wants.
She doesn't stop. Just arches into me, making these small needy sounds that drive me absolutely wild.
My hands slide from her face to her shoulders, fingers tracing the damp skin there. She shivers under my touch—not from cold, I don't think, but from sensation. From being touched with care instead of cruelty.
"Tell me if you want me to stop," I murmur against her lips, pulling back just enough to meet her eyes. "At any point. For any reason. Say the word and I stop. Understood?"
She nods, breathless. "I understand."
"Say it."
"If I want you to stop, I'll tell you." Her hands slide up my chest to curl around the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair. "But I won't. I want this. Want you."
The words shred what's left of my restraint.
I kiss her again, slower this time but no less intense, pouring everything I can't say into the press of my mouth against hers. My hands map the curve of her waist, the dip of her spine, learning the shape of her through the damp towel.
She whimpers—soft and wanting—and the sound goes straight through me like lightning.
"You're so beautiful," I breathe against her throat, trailing kisses along the column of her neck. "So godsdamn beautiful and you have no idea what you do to me."
"Show me." Her voice is ragged now, edged with need. "Please, Lorenth. Show me."
So I do.
My fingers find the edge of the towel where it's tucked against her chest. I pause there, giving her one last chance to change her mind.
She doesn't. Just holds my gaze, pupils blown wide with desire, and nods.
I tug the towel free.
It falls to the floor in a whisper of fabric, leaving her bare before me.
And gods. Gods.
I had her that night at the Masquerade—sank deep inside of her—but this feels different. More real. Because she's not some beautiful stranger anymore. She's Senna. My mate. The woman I'd kill for. Die for.
Live for.
And she's bare before me in my bed and smelling of my soaps. Because she's not going to run this time. And I'm going to take my time with her.