Chapter 17 Freya
FREYA
Iwake tangled in heat and breath and something that feels an awful lot like peace.
My cheek is pressed to a wall of muscle — real, solid, warm, and entirely too big to be anything but Vokar. His arm is slung heavy across my waist, claws curved inward just enough to rest without scratching, though every tiny twitch reminds me exactly who he is. What he is.
And what he did to me.
My body aches — deliciously. My thighs are tender, my hips sore, my pussy still throbbing from being stretched around him. Even just shifting makes a shiver crawl up my spine.
“You’re watching me,” I murmur without opening my eyes.
“I like what I see.”
His voice rumbles against my cheek, deep and low, and it vibrates through my bones in a way nothing human ever has. I feel my body respond instantly, heat blooming low in my belly.
I smile. “Pervert.”
“You didn’t seem to mind last night.”
When he brushes his nose along my hairline, my breath catches. His skin is hot — Reaper-hot — like he carries a small furnace under his ribs. I could drown in that warmth. I shouldn’t. It’s dangerous. He’s dangerous.
But gods help me, I lean closer instead of away.
“I should go,” I whisper, even though neither of us believe it. It feels like the thing I’m supposed to say — the responsible thing, the human thing.
He doesn’t tighten his grip. Doesn’t command or correct.
He says one word.
“Stay.”
I freeze.
Not an order.
A plea.
I open my eyes slowly and look up at him. His red eyes aren’t blazing with hunger or arrogance. They’re… raw. Unarmored. That might be the most terrifying thing of all.
“Vokar…” I start, unsure.
He takes my hand gently — impossibly gently for someone whose fingers end in lethal weaponry — and lifts it to his chest. To the center of his ribcage where the bone spurs split around a softer patch of dark skin.
His hearts beat under my palm. Two of them. Strong. Steady. Anchoring.
“This beats for you.”
My breath stumbles. I blink at him. “That’s… a lot.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“I don’t know what to believe,” I admit. “You’re a warlord. You eat fear for breakfast.”
His claws graze my hip in a slow, thoughtful stroke. “I don’t want your fear,” he says softly. “I want your fire.”
And just like that, everything in me melts.
I shift to straddle him, and the sheet slips away. His hands move to my waist, holding me steady on top of him. He sits up, towering even though he’s sitting and I’m on his lap. My hair falls forward, brushing his jaw. His eyes flicker closed like the contact means something to him.
Heavy. Dangerous. Real.
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” I whisper, searching his face.
“I don’t promise lightly.” His thumbs stroke over my hips, reverent. “But I will swear to this — you are mine.”
There’s no threat in it. Just certainty. Like he’s stating the color of the sky.
“And what if I said I’m not ready for forever?” I ask.
His lips twitch in a near-smile. “Then I will wait. But I won’t let go.”
Something inside me cracks. A door I didn’t know was still locked swings open.
I lean in and brush my lips against his. “You’re a pain in my ass.”
“You love it.”
“Maybe,” I whisper. “Just… don’t break me, okay?”
His arms wrap around me — tightening, caging, protecting — all at once. “I would rather die.”
The words land in my chest with the weight of a vow.
And maybe I should be afraid. Maybe I should run.
But I don’t.
I settle against him, letting my cheek rest over his hearts. Letting his arms tighten around me. Letting his breath warm the top of my head.
Right now, I’m his.
And somehow that feels more right than anything ever has.
Later, when I’m pulling on my boots, still sore between my legs and along my thighs, the door shifts behind me. Vokar steps back into the room, and I can feel his gaze on me like a physical touch.
I glance over my shoulder. “What?”
“You already got what you wanted, warlord,” I tease, tugging my hair into a braid.
He tilts his head. “Not everything.”
I roll my eyes. “Fine, fine — you’ve got a one-track mind.”
He shakes his head. “No. I’ve got a one-heart focus.”
My fingers still mid-braid. The room suddenly feels too quiet. Too warm.
“What does that mean?” I ask.
Instead of answering, he holds something out.
A shard of violet crystal, carved to fit a leather loop. It glows faintly — not bright, not showy. Just steady. Persistent.
“What’s that?” I ask softly.
“A key crystal,” he says. “For clan passage.”
My heart flips. “You’re serious.”
He nods.
“It means protection,” he continues. “Status. Safety. No one touches you without consequences. You walk as one of us.”
I stare at it like it might bite.
“Is this supposed to make me yours?”
His jaw flexes, but his voice stays soft. “You were never something to claim.”
I snort. “Could’ve fooled me.”
“I know,” he says, stepping closer until his shadow falls over me. “That’s why I give it to you now. Not to bind you. Not to trap you. But because if the day comes when you choose me, you should already have the right.”
My throat tightens.
He places the crystal in my palm — warm from his hand, glowing faintly against my skin.
“Take it anyway,” he murmurs. “Not because you belong to me… but because I belong to you.”
My breath stutters.
That’s not lust.
That’s not possession.
That’s surrender.
I slip the crystal into the inner pocket of my jacket — close to my heart — and his fingers brush mine as I do. The contact sparks all the way down my spine.
“I have to go,” I whisper, voice tight.
“I know.”
I step back.
Pause.
Then step forward again and press a soft kiss to his cheek. His eyes flutter closed — just briefly — as if the touch cuts him wide open.
“See you later,” I whisper.
“Count on it,” he rumbles.
I slip out into the hallway. The air feels colder. Too sterile. Too empty. But the crystal pulses faintly against my chest, warm through the layers of fabric.
I touch it.
And for the first time in a very, very long time…
…I don’t feel alone.
Not even a little.