Chapter 16 #2
She was slick everywhere—skin to skin, sweat matting her hair to her face, a wet sheen on her chest that made her freckles pop.
I wanted to cover her in it, to mark her in every way a body could be marked.
So I did. I fucked her through the mattress, slow and ruthless, until she was clawing for air and the headboard rattled against the wall.
When I felt her start to come again, I pressed all the way in, letting her feel the full, brutal stretch of the knot, and just held her there, deep as I could go.
She broke. She fucking shattered—arched up off the bed, back bowed, mouth open in a scream that probably woke every demon in a mile radius.
Her cunt clenched so hard I saw stars, and in that moment, I let the last bit of control go and came inside her, every pulse of it a promise, a seal, a surrender.
We stayed locked together, shaking and gasping, until the aftershocks faded and the sweat cooled on our skin.
I almost couldn’t move, but I wanted to see her face, so I rolled us to the side, keeping us tied together. She gave a low, exhausted moan, then started laughing, a wild, delirious sound that made my chest ache.
“That was…” she started, but the words fell apart. “You’re going to actually kill me one of these days, Samiel.”
I kissed her forehead, careful, then her eyelids, then the tip of her nose. “No,” I said, “I’ll just fuck you back to life if I do.”
She giggled, then winced, legs trembling as she tried to shift.
“I think I’m stuck,” she said, which was technically true—my knot still anchored us, and every little twitch sent a new spark up my spine.
I tried to shift and failed, so I just let myself collapse on her, the full weight of my body draped over hers, sweat making us both slick as raw steak.
I could still feel the knot, the way it pulsed inside her, a living fist clamped tight to her want, keeping us fused together even though every muscle in my body was screaming for sleep.
Annie’s breath came shallow, a laugh and a gasp tangled up, and she reached behind to slap my ass, weak but proud.
“I’m going to need so many electrolytes,” she muttered. “And an ice pack. Possibly a wheelchair.”
I laughed, but my voice was ruined—just a scrape of sound. “I’ll carry you anywhere you want to go. But you’re not moving until I say you can.”
She wiggled her hips, which sent a shockwave up my spine and nearly made me see double. “Don’t think I can’t get up by myself, demon. I’ll drag you through the house like a dead dog.”
I bit her shoulder, lazy and lingering, then nuzzled the mark I’d made. “Try it.”
The knot loosened with a soft, viscous pop, and I slid out of her, rolling to the side and pulling her with me in the same motion so she landed on my chest, skin to skin. She laughed again, this time breathless but content, and rested her cheek right over my heart, her hair a wild halo between us.
We lay there, a tangle of legs, sweat, and sheets, for a long time. I stroked her spine, letting my claws trace the heat map of every bruise and scratch, while she idly played with the veins on my forearm, tapping out a rhythm I didn’t know.
When the last of the aftershocks faded, she rolled off, stretched like a cat, and stared up at the ceiling with the dazed pride of a marathoner who’d just set a personal record and wasn’t sure if she’d ever walk again.
“If you ever wanted to murder me,” she said, “that would have been the time. I wouldn’t have even noticed.”
I dragged a hand across my face, trying to catch up with her. “I’m not done with you yet.”
She snorted. “You say that, but I think your cock’s going to need CPR.”
I propped myself up on one elbow, damp hair sticking to my face, and looked at her—really looked at her. The marks on her chest, the bite prints on her neck, the line of my claws down her side, raw and red and healing already. She met my gaze, blue eyes rimmed black with mascara and want.
“What?” she said, voice soft.
“I just—” I stopped. The words didn’t come easy. “I like seeing you like this.”
She raised an eyebrow, waiting for more.
I tried again. “I’ve never seen anyone who looked better when they were ruined. You make destruction look like art.”
She smiled, slow and bright, and for a second I thought she might laugh it off, but she didn’t. She sat up, pulled her knees to her chest, then slid off the bed and padded to the bathroom, not bothering with anything like a robe or towel.
She left the door open. I watched her in the mirror, the way her body caught the light and refracted it in a hundred shades of bruised and perfect.
She didn't look at herself—she looked at me, every time, like she wanted me to see her as she was, not as what she thought she should be.
I followed, unable to stay away, and stepped into the shower with her, the spray hot and stinging against my skin.
The water hit her marks, and she hissed, but didn't flinch, just braced her hands against my chest and let me wash her.
I used my claws like a loofah, scrubbing her scalp, her back, the insides of her thighs, everywhere I'd left a mark. She let me do it, never looking away.
When we were clean, she wrapped a towel around her hair and shook herself off like a dog, then raided my closet for something to wear.
She picked a T-shirt first—a black one, vintage and thinned with age, the words "HELL'S KITCHEN" across the chest in cracked red type.
But then she found the pajama set I'd ordered, hoping she’d stay—black, soft as sin, trimmed with lace at the hem and sleeves.
She held it up, eyebrows raised, and I shrugged. “I told Mara comfortable but sexy,” I said, suddenly unsure.
She pulled off my HELL’S KITCHEN shirt and put on the set, top and bottom.
She looked down at herself and gave a little, satisfied hum.
"They're perfect," she said, and the way she said it made my chest hurt.
She curled up on the bed, knees to her chest, towel turban slowly sliding off her head, and patted the space beside her.
I got in, still naked, and let her tuck herself into the crook of my arm.
The sheets were cool, the air outside the window sharp enough to bite, but under the blankets it was pure body heat.
She traced lines on my chest with her fingers, lazy and aimless, and for a while, neither of us said anything.
"Are you happy?" she asked, finally, voice so small I almost didn't hear it.
The question shocked me because it had never occurred to me to check.
I'd spent so many years hungry, so many more years angry, that the idea of contentment was foreign, like waking up in someone else's skin.
But lying there, with her pressed to me and the echo of her laugh still in my bones, I realized I was.
I was fucking ecstatic. I was terrified.
I turned and kissed the top of her head, breathing in the smell of her hair, the clean edge of it. "I'm not just happy," I said. "I'm ruined for anything else."
She laughed, but it was a soft sound, and I felt her relax all at once, every muscle going liquid in my arms.
We slept that way—her heartbeat in my ribs, my wings folded in around us, the cat a warm weight at our feet.