Chapter 13
Talin
I woke to warmth.
Not the artificial heat of piled blankets or the suffocating closeness of too many clothes. Real warmth. Living warmth. The kind that came from another body pressed against mine, solid and safe and here.
Elias.
My eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the pale morning light barely filtering through my curtains.
His muscled arm was draped across my waist, holding me tight against his chest. I could feel the steady rhythm of his breathing, the rise and fall of his ribs against my back.
Could smell the clean scent of his skin.
I'd never woken up naked next to anyone before.
It was… strange.
I had half a mind to scramble out of bed and find my clothes so I could hide my deformity before he saw it in the bright light of day.
But I didn't move. Didn't want to move. Because this—lying here in his arms, feeling the silver thread between us pulse with quiet satisfaction—this felt right in a way nothing else ever had.
I shifted slightly, feeling the delicious ache between my legs and in my muscles as I turned in his embrace so I could see his handsome face.
He looked different in sleep. The harsh lines of control softened, the perpetual tension in his jaw eased.
His short dark hair was mussed, making him look almost vulnerable.
Almost.
Because even in sleep, there was something formidable about Elias Noire. Something that whispered of violence held in check, of power barely contained. I could see it in the breadth of his shoulders, the corded muscle of his arms. In the way his large hand, even now, rested possessively on my hip.
Mine, that touch said.
And gods help me, I wanted to be his.
My gaze drifted lower, tracing the landscape of his chest. Olive skin marked with thin white scars that crisscrossed his tattooed torso like a map of old battles. I wondered about each one. Wondered what he'd survived to earn them.
Before I could stop myself, I lifted my hand and traced one of the lines.
A long, thin slash that ran from his collarbone to his sternum.
The skin was smooth beneath my fingertips, cool and unmarked by time or the dark hair that covered his chest. My scar was rougher.
Angrier. A jagged reminder of what had been cut away.
But Elias had kissed it last night.
Kissed it like it was beautiful. Like I was beautiful.
"You're thinking too loud, little witch."
His voice was rough with sleep, sending a shiver down my spine. I looked up to find his dark eyes watching me, lazy and warm and filled with something that made my breath catch.
"I didn't mean to wake you," I whispered.
"I'm glad you did." He caught my hand, the one still resting on his chest, and brought it to his lips. Pressed a kiss to the inside of my wrist, lingering a moment over my fluttering pulse. "That sun creeps any closer and I would've woken up in a much more painful way."
My eyes widened. "Oh. Shit. I'm sorry. I didn't even think about that."
"Obviously not. You were too busy ogling me in my sleep." When I went to get up to try to black out the room, he pulled me back down.
"But, the sun—"
He rolled us to the far side of the bed, pinning me beneath him, his heavy weight pressing me into the mattress. One hand came up to cup my face, thumb brushing across my cheekbone with devastating gentleness.
"Won't get to me here," he said. He brushed the hair out of my eyes. "Tell me you don't regret last night."
"I don't." The words came easily, because they were true. "I just… I'm not used to this. To waking up with someone. To..." I gestured vaguely between us, unable to articulate the enormity of what we'd done. What we'd become.
"Neither am I." He stared down at me for a long moment, his dark eyes troubled, before his lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile. "But I think I could get used to it."
His words should've reassured me. Should've chased away the doubt coiling in my chest like smoke.
But they didn't. Because what if last night had just been the mate bond talking?
What if the silver thread binding us together had made him say all those things he'd said about my body, about my scars, about me being beautiful?
What if he woke up tomorrow and realized what he'd tied himself to?
"Stop." Elias's thumb pressed against my lower lip, his eyes narrowing. "Whatever you're thinking, stop."
"You don't know what I'm thinking."
"Don't I?" He shifted his weight, settling more fully against me.
The movement brought every inch of his bare skin into contact with mine, and I both loved and hated how my body responded.
How heat pooled low in my belly despite the soreness and the anxiety churning in my chest. "I can feel you pulling away from me. Right now. While I'm still inside you."
My face flamed. We weren't—I mean, we were, but—
"Not literally," he clarified, and there was something almost amused in his tone. "But I can feel it. Through this." His hand moved to rest against my sternum, right between my breast and my scar. Right over the place where the silver thread pulsed beneath my skin. "You're pulling away from me."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Liar." He leaned down, his mouth hovering just above mine. Close enough that I could feel the ghost of his warm breath. "Talin. Look at me."
I forced my gaze up, and found his dark eyes waiting, intense and unwavering.
"I meant every word," he said quietly. "Every. Single. Word."
"But how do I know that's you talking and not just—" I gestured helplessly between us. "This. Whatever this is between us."
His jaw tightened. For a moment I thought he was going to argue. To tell me I was being ridiculous. Instead, he pulled back, putting space between us that felt like a chasm despite only being inches.
"You think the bond made me want you." His voice was flat. Carefully controlled.
"I think the bond makes you need me." The distinction mattered. It had to matter. "Your body needs my blood now. You can't feed from anyone else."
"No. I can't." There was no denial in his tone. No attempt to soften the truth. "I tried."
Hot rage instantly filled me at his confession, sending heat across my face and chest.
Elias watched the blood rise to the surface of my skin, and his lips parted, the tip of his tongue touching the sharp tip of one fang.
"Settle down, little witch." Despite the appearance of his canines, he sounded perfectly calm.
"After the first time I tasted you, I tried to drink from one of the donors at the club—from a glass—and nearly vomited. "
The confession should've made me feel powerful. Should've made me feel wanted. Instead, it just made the fear worse.
"So you're stuck with me," I said. "Whether you actually want to be or not."
Something dangerous flickered in his eyes as he repeated my words. "Stuck with you."
"Yes."
"That's what you think this is?" He shifted again, and suddenly his hands were on either side of my head, caging me in, and I could feel the tension vibrating through him. "You think I'm stuck with you?"
"Aren't you?" Hot tears burned behind my eyelids as I closed my eyes, unable to face the truth in his expression.
"Talin." My name came out rough. Almost violent. "I've lived for over a century. I've met thousands of people. Fed from hundreds. And not once—not once—have I felt anything even close to what I feel when I look at you."
I opened my eyes, but couldn't look at him. "Because of the bond—"
"Because I've wanted to fuck you since the first time I ever saw you.
Because you walked into that bar two weeks ago looking like you'd fight the devil himself to save your cousin.
" His thumb traced my jaw, the touch at odds with the intensity in his voice.
"Because you stood up to that devil even though you were terrified.
Because you came to me bleeding and desperate and still refused to beg for help. "
My breath caught.
"Because you trusted me with your body last night even though you were scared out of your mind.
" His gaze dropped to my chest, to the scar I could feel burning under his attention.
"Because you showed me this and thought I'd run.
As if this—" He laid his hand on the flat plane of my chest over the scar, gentle and reverent, my heart pounding as though it wanted his touch as much as every other part of my body, "—could ever make me want you less. "
Tears pricked at my eyes, but I blinked them back, refusing to let them fall and ruin this moment.
"I don't know how to do this," I whispered. "I don't know how to trust that this is real."
"Neither do I." The admission surprised me.
He saw it in my face and his mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"I've spent a century barely keeping myself sane.
And then you walked into my life and blew that all to hell in under two weeks, and I feel like my feet are no longer rooted to the ground.
And I'm not gonna lie, little witch, it fucks with me. "
"I'm sorry—"
"Don't." His thumb pressed against my lips again. "Don't apologize for being exactly what I need. Even if I don't know it, yet."
"But what if I'm not? What if the bond is wrong? What if—"
"What if you stop thinking for five seconds and just feel?" He pulled my hand from where it was clenched in the sheets and pressed it against his chest. Against his heart. It beat steady and strong beneath my palm. "Tell me what you feel."
I closed my eyes. Let myself sink into the connection thrumming between us. The silver thread pulsed with warmth, with certainty, with something that felt terrifyingly like forever.
"I feel scared," I admitted.
"Good. So do I."
My eyes snapped open. "You're scared?"
"Terrified." His hand covered mine, holding it against his heart. "Because I've never needed anything the way I need you. And need is dangerous. Need makes you vulnerable. Makes you weak."
"You're not weak."