Chapter 35 SAGE
SAGE
Imoved through the kitchen effortlessly, my fingers trailing along the edge of the marble counter as though tracing the spine of a familiar book. My steps were slow, measured, deliberate. It wasn’t just a kitchen—it was a gallery of precision. A curated reflection of him.
Everything had its place.
Everything was immaculate.
Everything about it whispered control.
Power. Restraint.
The appliances gleamed under the soft, diffused light filtering through the large windows.
The island stretched like an altar, bare but for a glass bowl of fruit, each piece perfectly ripe, perfectly arranged.
Even the cutting boards, stacked neatly by size, looked untouched. Like they were there for show.
It was unsettling.
And impressive.
Not just the order, but the obsessive need for it.
This house wasn’t a home.
It was a statement.
An extension of Reich.
A manifestation of discipline and control.
And here I was.
This broken thing.
Standing barefoot on his cold floor in his oversized t-shirt, hair tangled from sleep, skin still marked by his hands, trying to navigate his world as if I belonged here.
But I didn’t.
Not really.
Not in a place like this.
I didn’t belong anywhere anymore.
And yet, he wanted me here.
I exhaled slowly and caught my reflection in the dark glass of the cabinets. Pale, hollow-eyed. A ghost dressed in his clothes.
What did he see when he looked at me? Was it weakness? Or something else?
I shook my head. I wasn’t going to spiral. Not today. I needed to focus.
If I couldn’t understand why he wanted me here, then I’d give him a reason. I’d prove I could hold my own in this world. In his world.
Maybe even fit into it.
Maybe even… belong.
I turned back to the stove, adjusting the flame beneath the pan, watching the sauce settle into place with practiced ease. Cooking wasn’t new to me. It was grounding, a kind of ritual that reminded me I was still human, even when everything else tried to strip me of that truth.
And then—I felt him.
Before I heard him. Before he spoke.
He was there.
His presence shifted the air, thickened it, made everything in the room bend toward him.
Even me.
Especially me.
He was gravity.
A force I couldn’t resist.
“There you are.” His voice slid over me, dark and smooth, settling low in my belly like a warning. Or a promise.
I startled, nearly dropping the plate in my hands.
My heart skipped—too fast, too loud.
I turned.
And there he was.
Leaning in the doorway like he belonged in a painting. Effortless and devastating. His shirt was half-buttoned, his sleeves rolled carelessly to his elbows. A few strands of dark hair fell across his forehead, damp from the shower, or maybe sweat.
“One night in my bed,” he murmured, his gaze dragging slowly over me, pausing on my bare legs, “and already walking around like you own the place… in my shirt?”
I scrambled to pull myself together, torn between the urge to laugh and the sharp edge of embarrassment prickling beneath my skin.
“I—” I didn’t know what to say. I never did with him.
“Relax—” He interrupted.
His grin was slow. Dangerous.
He pushed off the doorway, closing the space between us with those long, easy strides.
“—I’m not complaining about the view.”
My breath hitched.
He was close enough now that I could smell him. That faint blend of cedar, smoke, and something darker that always made my knees weak.
I turned away before he could see the heat blooming on my cheeks.
Focusing on the wine rack, I pulled a bottle of a red, more for distraction than anything else. I poured two glasses with hands that weren’t quite steady, but I managed.
When I handed him his glass, our fingers brushed.
A shiver shot straight through me, quick and hot, as if I’d been struck.
I hoped he hadn’t noticed.
But of course, he had.
He took the glass from me, his eyes holding mine. There was something unreadable there. Something that made my stomach twist in knots.
“Helping yourself to my wine now?” His voice was deceptively light, but the edge was there.
It always was.
I forced a smile, as I responded, “Why? Trying to teach me a lesson about taking things that aren’t mine?”
His quiet laugh was low and rich, the sound of it sliding over me like warm honey.
God, this man.
He could unmake me with a single glance.
We settled at the bar; our bodies close but not touching.
The silence wasn’t uncomfortable.
It was weighted. Expectant.
Every time his gaze flickered to me, it felt like a touch. Like he was peeling me open without ever laying a hand on me.
And then I asked it.
“Why did you let me stay in your bed?”
The question hung there.
Heavy. Real.
Reich’s gaze never wavered, as he asked, “Why do you think?”
I hated when he did this. Made me work for the answers. Made me say things I wasn’t ready to say. But I thought about it.
I forced myself to.
“You didn’t think I was going to run?” I said it like a challenge, but my voice was softer than I wanted it to be.
His eyes darkened, something flickering behind them. “Were you?”
I shook my head. “No.”
And I meant it.
He set his glass down slowly, the sound of it on the counter sharp in the silence. “Then you have your answer.”
I swallowed hard.
I could have walked away. I could have left this house. Left him. I could have. But I wouldn’t. Not because I couldn’t. But because I didn’t want to.
I tested him anyway.
“I could walk away.”
His expression didn’t change.
But his voice—his voice was steel wrapped in silk. “No. You couldn’t.”
I arched a brow, “You sound sure of that.”
He leaned in, his eyes locking onto mine.
“Because if you could,” he said quietly, “you would’ve already.”
He was right. God, he was right. And it terrified me how much I didn’t care.
My gaze flickered down to the ink coiled around his arms.
The tattoos I’d been dying to ask about.
Symbols. Lines. Stories carved into flesh.
And one, in particular that I couldn’t stop thinking about.
The same symbol I’d seen in his library.
On the back of his neck and Castor’s. The familiar one I couldn’t place.
His voice broke through my thoughts, “Something you want to discuss, Sage?”
I blinked. “I was wondering about your tattoos. They are … unique.” I tried to keep my tone casual.
Failed.
He studied me for a long moment before he smiled.
Slow. Lethal.
“Thank you,” he said, amusement in his tone.
I laughed softly, “Which one’s your favorite?”
He glanced down at his arms, running his fingers absently along one of the designs. A gesture so intimate, it made me ache. “These are where I feel most vulnerable,” he said after a long pause.
I frowned.
“Vulnerable?”
He nodded, the shadow in his gaze deepening. “Yes, I got them to destroy the soft parts of myself. My weaknesses…” He said quietly. “So, nothing can break me.”
My eyes drifted to the tattoo over his heart.
“And you think these all make you invincible?”
His smirk was sharp. “No. But I do think they make me look really fucking cool.”
I laughed again. This time it was genuine. “I’m sure your concubines agree.”
His grin widened. “Wildflower,” he murmured, voice thick with amusement, “I’m too preoccupied to entertain any concubines.” He leaned in slightly, his breath warm against my skin. “You’re the first person to ever ask about them and probably the only one I’d ever tell.”
I swallowed hard, absentmindedly playing with the cuticles on my fingers.
His words shouldn’t have mattered, but they did.
Too much.
He was letting me in, and it was dangerous.
For both of us.
His gaze softened, “So, what’s going on in that head of yours?”
I tried to answer.
But nothing came out, just the constant fiddling of my fingernails. A habit I grew accustomed to when I felt unsure.
“How are you feeling?”
His voice was low. Gentle. Like he was asking for something more than just an answer.
I met his gaze.
“I’m okay,” I said, trying to give him more, “Just fine, I guess.”
His brow arched.
“Just fine…you guess?” he continued, “You know, in my house, I want my guests to feel better than just fine.”
I smiled faintly before responding, forgetting what made me nervous in the first place.
“Got any suggestions?” I teasingly asked.
His gaze darkened. “Why don’t you get on your hands and knees and crawl to me?”
My breath stalled in my throat at his directness.
“Why?” My voice was soft, but the heat underneath it was undeniable.
“Because…” he said, his voice rough with promise, “when I’m done with you, you won’t feel ‘just fine.’ You’ll feel immaculate.”
And before I could stop myself—I sank to my knees ready to let him ruin me again.
The heat between us throbbed, thick and consuming, with every inch I closed between us.
His gaze followed my movements—controlled, unreadable—but I saw it.
The hunger.
I smirked, teasing him, letting the tension coil between us. Letting him watch as I slid closer, inch by inch, my body betraying my mind’s futile attempts at restraint.
The moment we met, there was no going back.
And I didn’t want to.
Not when it felt this raw.
This real.
But just when I thought I had him—just when I thought he’d let me win this round—he pulled back.
Regaining control.
A wicked thrill shot through me because I already knew—
The more he resisted and held back, the more I wanted him to break.
Reich was the kind of man who would make you beg for what you wanted.
And tonight?
I was ready to plead until he pleaded with me.
His eyes locked onto mine, dark and unrelenting.
He knew.
He knew exactly what he was doing to me.
And I was powerless to resist.
He leaned back, exuding a quiet, absolute dominance, every movement deliberate, controlled.
His gaze flickered to my face, catching something—some tiny slip in my mask—before I could steady myself.
Before I could pretend, I wasn’t completely undone by him.
And then—he was already moving, threading his fingers through my hair, his grip just tight enough to send a shiver down my spine.
His lips crashed into mine, a kiss that was electric and devastating.
We moved together, tongues dancing on the edge of surrender, teasing, tasting—but never giving in completely.
Never letting go.
When we pulled apart, our breaths mingled in the heavy silence, ragged and uneven.
We were playing with fire.
His fingers traced my cheek, his touch impossibly gentle for a man who kissed like that.
I shivered, my body reacting before I could think.
Before I could stop myself, a sound escaped—a quiet, breathless moan.
Something flickered in his eyes. Triumph. Amusement. Possession.
Then, without warning—he lifted me effortlessly, his strength unraveling me in ways I wasn’t ready for.
I straddled him, my hips moving instinctively against his.
Chasing friction. Chasing him.
But instead of giving in, instead of letting me rush him, he pulled back.
Control. Again.
He carried me with ease, setting me down onto the table, his body slotting between my thighs as he pinned me there.
Every inch of him pressed against me. Hot. Solid. Torturous.
I swallowed hard, barely able to breathe.
“What are you doing?” I asked, my voice unsteady.
His lips curled into a smirk. “So many questions.”
His gaze dragged over me, dark and slow, as if drinking me in.
“And never any answers,” I teased, my voice laced with defiance.
That smirk widened.
And then he pulled me in again, mouth claiming mine one last time—a promise, a warning and a surrender all at once.
His hands were everywhere.
Gripping. Teasing. Taking.
Staking his claim with every touch, every kiss and every slow drag of his fingers over my skin.
I arched into him, helpless against the way he unraveled me.
His breath ghosted against my ear, sending a shiver straight through my body.
“You knew this was inevitable, didn’t you?” he asked.
I couldn’t answer.
Not when his lips traced fire down my neck.
Not when I was already too far gone to deny him.
I don’t know how much time passed after that.
I just know that we didn’t stop.
Didn’t slow down.
Didn’t hold back.
We made our way across every surface—every inch of space blurred by heat and need and hunger.
The living room.
The dining table.
The kitchen counters.
All of it—devoured.
And it felt endless.
Like the world beyond us had ceased to exist.
Like we had stepped outside of time itself.
That night wasn’t just unforgettable.
It was one of the best of my entire life.