Chapter 7 Sanctuary Breached #2
"I don't really do romantic." He steps closer still—close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body despite how cold we both are. "But if that means I get to kiss the fuck out of you and share a shower, then sure."
Share a shower.
The words land in my brain and proceed to short-circuit approximately seventy percent of my higher functions.
A giggle escapes—nervous, delighted, slightly unhinged.
"You want to shower with a mentally unstable Omega? For what, a one-night stand?"
He shrugs.
The motion is so casual, so unbothered, like the concept of my instability doesn't faze him in the slightest.
"What if it's not a one-night stand?"
The question hangs in the air.
Heavy.
Impossible.
"No one has survived me long enough to test that theory," I whisper.
It's true.
The handful of encounters I've had—fumbled, forgettable, more about scratching an itch than actually connecting—have all ended the same way. With the Alpha leaving. With me alone again. With the confirmation that I'm too much, too intense, too fucking crazy for anyone to want more than once.
Sage bobs his head, considering.
"Well," he says finally, "I guess we're going to find out, aren't we?"
Then he cups my face in both hands and kisses me before I can change my mind.
It's different from the kiss in the rain.
That one was desperate, claiming, fueled by revelation and grief and the overwhelming need to prove this was real.
This one is... tender.
His lips move against mine slowly, deliberately, like we have all the time in the world. Like there's no storm outside, no ruined letters, no academy full of people who want us dead. Just this moment. Just us.
My body hums with life.
I didn't know it could feel like this.
Didn't know kissing could be something you savor instead of something you endure.
Every other time I've been intimate with an Alpha, there was a countdown running in the back of my head.
How long until this is over? How long until I can be alone again?
How long until I can stop pretending this isn't hollow?
There's no countdown now.
There's just him.
The warmth of his hands on my face.
The vanilla-smoke scent that's becoming my new favorite thing.
The soft sound he makes against my mouth when I tug on his soaked shirt, pulling him closer.
The letters fall from my grip.
I hear them hit the floor—a wet splat of ruined paper—but I can't bring myself to care. Not when his arms are wrapping around my waist. Not when my fingers are fisting in his jacket. Not when every nerve ending in my body is singing with the kind of awareness I've never experienced before.
This is real.
He's real.
This is happening.
We make out slowly and deeply, and I lose track of time entirely. Lose track of everything except the press of his body against mine, the exploration of his tongue, the way his hands splay across my lower back like he's trying to memorize my shape.
When was the last time I was intimate with an Alpha?
Where it felt this...refreshing?
This empowering?
Where I actually hummed to their warm touch instead of enduring it? Where their large hands felt like safety instead of threat? Where the tenderness in their movements didn't make me count down the seconds until I could escape?
I can't remember.
"Shower," I mumble against his mouth. "You mentioned shower."
He pulls back just enough to look at me—at my smeared makeup and ruined hair and probably deranged expression—and his smile is soft in a way that makes my chest ache.
"Lead the way, Sweets."
My bathroom is small.
Functional.
The only personal touches are the collection of candles on the counter—various sizes and scents, most of them stolen from different parts of the academy because I like the way they flicker—and the aerial ring I installed over the tub for when I need to hang upside down while the water runs.
Normal people don't have aerial equipment in their bathrooms, I think distantly.
But I've never claimed to be normal.
I turn on the water, adjusting the temperature until steam starts to rise. The warmth fills the small space immediately, fog blooming across the mirror, softening the harsh edges of reality.
His hands find the laces of my corset.
"May I?"
The question is quiet.
Respectful.
Like he's asking permission to unwrap something precious instead of just undressing a girl he wants to fuck.
I nod.
Can't find words.
His fingers work the ribbons slowly—untying the elaborate bows I spent so long creating this afternoon, loosening the laces one at a time until the corset gaps and I can finally breathe fully.
The fabric falls away.
I should feel vulnerable.
Should feel the familiar urge to cover myself, to hide, to minimize the amount of skin visible to someone who could hurt me.
But when his eyes travel over me—when they trace the mottled purple-yellow bruises flowering across my ribcage, the jagged eight-inch scar that slashes across my stomach like a second smile, the constellation of raised white dots and puckered tissue that map a history of violence onto my skin—I don't see disgust in the green-gold flecks of his irises.
I see reverence. Absolute, breathtaking reverence.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, voice like gravel wrapped in velvet.
And I believe him.
Fuck, I actually believe him.
We shed the rest of our clothes in pieces—his leather jacket heavy with rainwater, my once-delicate skirt now a sodden mess, his button-down shirt clinging to the ridges of his abdomen, the elaborate satin ribbons wrapped around my thighs unraveling with a whisper.
Each item falls to the slate-gray tile floor with wet splats that punctuate the silence like heartbeats.
Each revealed inch of skin makes the steam-thick air between us heavier, more charged with electricity.
He has tattoos that bloom across his golden skin like living art.
I noticed them before, teasing glimpses beneath his collar, but now I can see them properly: antique skeleton keys and intricate lockpicks and trompe l'oeil illusion motifs climbing his sinewy forearms, arcane symbols in midnight ink that I don't recognize but suspect tell stories I desperately want to hear.
And scars.
Faint rope marks around his wrists, like he's spent too long being restrained.
Like me, I think. Different chains, same cage.
We step into the shower together.
The warmth of the water is immediate—sluicing over my shoulders, washing away the cold and the rain and some of the agony still lodged in my chest. I tip my head back, letting it cascade over my face, and for a moment I just... breathe.
One-two-three-four.
One-two-three-four.
Then his lips find my shoulder.
Soft.
Feather-light.
A kiss pressed to the curve where my neck meets my body, so gentle it barely registers at first.
Then another.
Along my collarbone.
The hollow of my throat.
The sensitive spot behind my ear that makes me shiver.
He's taking his time.
Taking his time like he has all the time in the world for me. Like there's nowhere else he'd rather be than here, in this cramped shower, laying worship along my skin while the water runs hot and the steam wraps around us like a cocoon.
I've never experienced this.
The attention.
The care.
Every Alpha I've been with before treated my body like a destination—something to get to as quickly as possible, to use and discard and forget about. Even the ones who weren't cruel were rushed, focused on their own pleasure, counting down the seconds until they could finish and leave.
Sage isn't rushing.
Sage is... savoring.
His hands roam my body with the same deliberate attention as his mouth—tracing the lines of my ribs, the dip of my waist, the curve of my hips. Every touch is electric. Every caress sends sparks shooting through my nervous system, awakening parts of me I didn't know were asleep.
"You're shaking," he murmurs against my skin.
I am.
Trembling, actually—fine tremors that have nothing to do with cold and everything to do with the overwhelming sensation of being touched like I matter.
"I'm not used to this," I admit.
The words come out smaller than I intend.
More vulnerable.
He pulls back to look at me, water streaming down both our faces, his green-gold eyes searching mine.
"Used to what?"
"Being... touched. Like this." I gesture vaguely, frustrated by my own inability to articulate. "Like you're not in a hurry. Like you actually want to be here instead of just wanting to get off and leave."
Something dark flickers across his expression.
Anger, I realize.
Not at me.
At everyone who came before.
"Then they were idiots," he says simply. "Every single one of them."
Before I can respond, his mouth is on mine again—softer this time, almost worshipful, like he's trying to apologize for sins that weren't his. His hands frame my face, thumbs stroking my cheekbones, and when he pulls back, there's a tenderness in his eyes that makes my chest crack open.
"I'm not going anywhere, Seraphine." His voice is rough. "This isn't going anywhere. Whatever this is, this connection we're building, I'm not in a hurry to reach the finish line."
My eyes burn.
Don't cry. Don't cry. You've cried enough today.
I blink rapidly, forcing the tears back, and summon a smirk that's mostly bravado.
"Careful. Keep talking like that, and I might start thinking you actually like me."
His laugh is warm.
"I've been writing to you for five years, Sweets. I think we're past like."
Past like.
The words echo in my brain, refusing to settle into meaning.
What's past like?
Love?
Obsession?
The desperate, consuming need to be known by another person that's driven both of us to pour our hearts onto paper for half a decade?
I don't ask.
Can't ask.
Too much.
Too soon.
Instead, I rise onto my toes—even in the shower, even without my ballet shoes, the movement is instinctive—and press my lips to his jaw.
"Your turn."
"My turn?"
"To be touched." I trail kisses along his jawline, down his neck, across the ridge of his collarbone. "Fair's fair."
His breath catches.
The sound is gratifying.
Powerful.
This is what I've been missing—the give and take, the mutual pleasure, the understanding that intimacy is supposed to be shared instead of something one person does to another.
I explore him the way he explored me: slowly, deliberately, with the kind of attention usually reserved for studying something precious.
My fingers trace his tattoos, feeling the slight raise of ink beneath skin.
My lips follow the path of old scars, kissing each one like an apology for pain I had no part in causing.
He lets me.
Stands there under the hot water with his eyes half-closed and his hands resting gently on my hips, making soft sounds that tell me I'm doing something right.
When I look up, the expression on his face makes my breath catch.
Want.
Pure, unadulterated want—but not the hungry, demanding kind I'm used to seeing in Alphas. This is softer. Warmer. The want of someone who's been starving for something they thought they'd never find.
"What does my Omega enjoy, hmm?"
The words rumble through his chest.
My Omega.
The possessive sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with temperature.
I consider the question.
Consider all the ways I could answer—the things I've done before, the things I've tolerated, the things I've pretended to like because it was easier than explaining what I actually wanted.
But this is different.
He is different.
And could this mean I can be honest?
"That depends," I say, letting a smirk curl my lips. "How risky do you like it?"
His eyes darken.
Interest.
Intrigue.
The predator in him is rising to the challenge in me.
"Try me, Sweetness."