Chapter 21 #3
When I'm bare beneath him, his shadows caress everywhere. They slide along my inner thighs, teasing. One trails between my breasts, featherlight. I arch into the sensation, breath coming hard.
"You're shaking," he murmurs.
"You're everywhere. Your shadows are—oh—"
One presses just above where I need him most. Teasing. Testing. Waiting.
"I want to feel you," I gasp.
"Soon. But first I want to see what you look like when you come apart for me."
Then his mouth replaces the shadow—tongue sliding over me with devastating precision. I cry out, back arching, and the shadows hold my thighs open while he worships me with his mouth. He groans when I shudder, like my pleasure feeds something in him.
He doesn't stop. Not when I beg. Not when I come once, sobbing his name. Not even when I tremble and plead for mercy.
"Ruvan—please—"
"You taste like light," he says, voice thick, eyes wild. "I want more."
I drag him up to kiss me, tasting myself on his tongue, desperate to feel him now, all of him. "Now. I need you."
His shadows shift, releasing me just enough for his hands to slide beneath me, lifting me onto his lap. He positions himself, and then—
Oh gods.
He thrusts in with a single motion, and I lose everything. My thoughts. My breath. My name.
I claw at his back, gasp against his mouth. "You're—bigger than I thought."
He laughs into my neck. "You have no idea what I've been holding back."
He starts to move—deep, slow thrusts that steal air from my lungs and replace it with fire. His shadows wrap my wrists again, arching me into him. Every time he moves, it's with control—but the control is cracking.
He buries himself to the hilt, presses his forehead to mine. "You feel like salvation," he whispers. "And I don't believe in that shit."
"Believe in me," I whisper back. "Right now. Just this."
Then he loses it.
He takes me with force that should break things. His shadows snap around us, pinning my hips, pressing against my throat just enough to make me feel it. Never hurting. Always asking.
"Okay?" he rasps.
"More," I gasp.
He gives it to me.
Every thrust hits something deep and perfect. Every growl against my skin sets me alight. His mouth is on my breasts, my shoulder, my jaw. His hands hold me like I'm breakable and unbreakable all at once.
When I come again, it's with a cry that's half sob, half prayer. His name leaves my lips.
He follows with a low, brutal groan—spilling into me, shadows thrashing. Then they collapse around us both.
When I can breathe again, I realize I'm shaking. My wrists are free. His arms are around me. And the shadows are holding my injured arm very gently.
"Fuck," he breathes, forehead pressed to mine. "You'll kill me."
"You first," I whisper, smiling.
He kisses me slow this time. Worshipful.
"I'm not going anywhere," I promise.
"I know," he says, and he sounds like he believes it.
The morning progresses in ways that make my injured arm irrelevant and my thoughts scattered and my body learn new definitions of warmth.
He's careful and thorough and says my name like it's the only word that matters.
When he holds me after, shadows wrapped around us both, I think about how sometimes the best things come from the worst circumstances.
"The coffee's cold," I observe eventually.
"I'll survive."
"You should eat something too. Real food. Your body can't run on spite and exhaustion forever."
"Are you seriously discussing my meal schedule right now?"
"Someone has to." I trace one of his scars, this one on his ribs. "How did you get this one?"
"Bar fight. I was nineteen and stupid."
"And this one?"
"Prison escape. Twenty-something and slightly less stupid."
"And this?"
He catches my hand, kisses my fingertips. "How's your arm?"
"Sore but manageable." I stretch carefully. "We should probably deal with the integration. The new people. They're probably terrified."
"Good."
"That's not good. Terrified people make bad decisions."
"Then we'll feed them." He presses a kiss to my shoulder. "Your way. Breakfast worked until..."
"Until someone tried to stab me."
"We'll have to implement a no-weapons-at-meals policy."
"That seems reasonable." I turn to face him properly. "You really need to sleep. Actual sleep. Not just passing out at your desk."
"Later."
"You always say later."
"This time I mean it." He pulls me closer, and his shadows wrap around us tighter. "After we deal with the new people. After we secure the territory. After—"
"After, after, after." I poke his chest. "Sleep now. I'll handle the integration."
"You can't—"
"I can. Ridge will help. Gray Streak too. We'll have lunch. With introductions. And vegetables. And absolutely no stabbing."
He's looking at me with that expression again, the one that makes my chest burn.
"What?" I ask.
"You're managing my guild."
"Someone has to. You're terrible at the people parts."
"I'm good at the killing parts."
"Yes, very good. Very efficient. But they need more than efficiency." I touch his face, feel the stubble there. "They need to know they matter beyond their usefulness."
"That's not how guilds work."
"It's how this one's going to work." I'm already planning—meal schedules, room assignments, maybe even a rotation for who helps with cooking. "We're doing this differently."
"We?"
"We." I kiss him, quick and light. "Now sleep. I have twenty-seven new people to feed and domesticate."
"They're killers, not cats."
"Same principle. Food, shelter, and clear boundaries. Maybe some enrichment activities."
"Enrichment activities."
"Cooking lessons, perhaps. Maybe gardening. Oh! We have that garden space. We could grow vegetables!"
He's laughing again, that rusty sound that means he's actually happy.
"Fine," he says. "Domesticate my guild. Teach them about vegetables. Just... be careful."
"I'm always careful."
"You literally tried to pet my shadows the first time you saw them."
"They looked lonely."
He kisses me again, thorough and possessive, then finally closes his eyes. "Wake me if anyone else tries to stab you."
"I make no promises."
But he's already drifting off, exhaustion finally winning. His shadows stay wrapped around me though, warm and protective. Some pool near my injured arm.
I lie there for a while, listening to him breathe, thinking about how strange life is. A month ago I was painting portraits for people who didn't pay full price. Now I'm in bed with the Shadow King, planning to domesticate his newly expanded criminal empire through strategic meal planning.
My arm throbs, reminding me of this morning's violence. He killed her without hesitation. For me. The thought should terrify me but instead makes me feel... safe? Valued? Something important that has nothing to do with being useful?
"Sleep," I whisper to him, though he's already under. "I'll handle everything."
His shadows pulse warm.
Time to make lunch. And maybe those introductions. And definitely check if anyone knows how to get blood out of wallpaper.
After all, someone has to manage this disaster, and apparently that someone is me.