Chapter 27 #2
Safe, I don't say. But the word travels between us anyway, and I feel his fierce protective instinct flare in response.
"You do belong to yourself," he murmurs, his thumbs tracing my cheekbones with devastating tenderness. "You always have. Let me show you."
He undresses me with reverent hands and when his fingers brush my skin, I shiver—not from cold, but from the gentle worship in his touch. Every caress is a question, every kiss a request for permission.
"I'm going to erase every trace of him," he breathes into my throat, his voice thick with promise. "Every touch, every mark, every memory. There will be only us."
When his lips trail down my neck—so close to the mating mark he left there—I arch beneath him, gasping.
He takes his time, pressing reverent kisses to my collarbone, my shoulder, the sensitive hollow of my throat.
His mouth moves lower, worshipping my breasts with gentle devotion that makes moisture leak from my closed eyes.
"So beautiful," he breathes over my skin. "So perfect. How did I ever think I could live without this?"
His confession breaks something open in my chest. When he continues his worship, mapping every inch of my body with lips and tongue and gentle teeth, I tremble beneath him.
He kisses my ribs, my stomach, the sharp jut of my hip bones, murmuring endearments in a language I don't recognize but somehow understand through his emotions.
"Mine to protect," he breathes over my inner thigh, his breath hot on sensitive skin. "Mine to cherish. Let me worship you the way you deserve."
When his mouth finds the center of my need, I cry out, my back curving violently off the bed. The first touch of his tongue on my most sensitive flesh sends lightning through my veins. He starts with gentle, exploratory licks, his tongue flat and warm as he tastes me with reverent hunger.
"Sweet," he murmurs into my heated core, his voice vibrating against my sensitive flesh, making me gasp. "Absolutely perfect."
His tongue circles my swollen center with maddening skill, alternating between broad, languid strokes and focused flicks that make my thighs tremble.
When he draws the sensitive bud between his lips and sucks gently, I nearly come apart completely, my fingers fisting in his hair as a broken moan tears from my throat.
But it's the tenderness that truly undoes me—the way his large hands spread over my hips to hold me steady when I thrash beneath his mouth, the way he gentles his assault when I'm overwhelmed, murmuring soothing words into my slick flesh.
He maps every fold, every sensitive spot with devoted attention, his tongue delving deeper to taste my arousal before returning to that perfect spot that makes me see stars.
He brings me to the very edge of release, my entire body strung tight as a bowstring, and then pulls back, pressing soft kisses to my inner thighs while I sob with need. "Not yet," he breathes over my wetness, his voice commanding but gentle. "I want to worship you properly."
Again and again he builds the pleasure, his tongue working me with devastating skill—now quick, darting flicks that make me buck beneath his mouth, now slow, thorough strokes that make me keen his name.
When he slides one long finger inside me while his tongue continues its relentless worship, I shatter completely, crying out so loudly I'm sure the entire palace can hear.
"Malakai, please—"
"I know, my heart," he soothes, pressing kisses to my trembling thighs. "I know. Let me take care of you."
When he finally rises above me, his body covering mine without crushing me, I reach up to touch his face with shaking hands.
My palms slide down to his chest, and my fingers find that scar again—the jagged line I asked about in the bath.
He never answered me properly. In this dim light, so close, it looks even more deliberate.
Carved. The word failure echoes through our connection before he can suppress it.
I don't ask again. Not now. But I file it away with everything else I'm learning about this man who is far more broken than he lets anyone see.
The emotion in his eyes—love, fear, desperate need—mirrors everything I'm feeling but can't yet voice.
"I won't break," I whisper, though we both know I'm already broken in ways we're still discovering.
"No," he agrees, turning his head to press a kiss to my palm. "You're the strongest person I've ever known. And I will spend the rest of my life making sure you never forget that."
When he enters me, it's with exquisite slowness, his eyes never leaving mine.
I feel every inch of him as he stretches me, fills me completely.
He's larger than I remember, and the sensation of being opened so thoroughly makes me gasp and arch beneath him.
The drag of his cock against my sensitive walls sends sparks of pleasure racing through my nerve endings.
"God, you feel incredible," he breathes, his voice strained with the effort of restraint. "So tight, so perfect around me."
He pauses when he's fully seated inside me, both of us breathing hard.
I can feel him pulsing within me, hot and hard and perfectly fitted to my body as if we are made for this.
The connection is so intense—not just physical, but emotional, spiritual—that tears spring to my eyes.
This isn't the frenzied coupling from before.
This is a claiming that goes soul-deep, a joining that rewrites everything I thought I knew about desire.
When he begins to move, withdrawing almost completely before sliding back in with deliberate slowness, I cry out at the exquisite friction.
Every ridge, every vein of his length drags along my inner walls, hitting spots that blur my vision with pleasure.
He fills me so completely that I can feel him everywhere—stretching me, claiming me, marking me from the inside out.
"Stay with me," he murmurs when my eyes start to flutter closed. "I want to see you. I want to watch you come apart in my arms."
His movements are unhurried, each thrust deliberate and deep. His hands frame my face like I'm something precious, his thumbs catching tears I don't realize are falling. I feel his awe through our connection, his wonder, his desperate love.
"You're everything," he whispers, his voice breaking. "Everything I never knew I needed. My mate."
Time becomes meaningless. There's only the rhythm of our bodies, the building tension, the soft sounds of worship and need that escape us both. When his hand slides between us, finding my most sensitive spot with unerring accuracy, I curve beneath him with a broken cry.
"That's it," he encourages, his voice raw with restraint. "Let go for me, Seraphina. I've got you. I'll always have you."
The climax that builds is unlike anything I have ever experienced—not just physical release, but emotional salvation.
When it crashes over me, I cry out his name like a benediction, my body bowing as waves of pleasure consume me.
I feel his fierce satisfaction through our connection, his joy at my surrender.
He continues moving within me, prolonging every sensation until I tremble and gasp beneath him. Only when the last aftershock fades does he allow his control to slip, his rhythm growing urgent as he chases his own completion.
"Seraphina," he breathes, burying his face in my neck—so close to his mating mark. When his release takes him, I feel the moment he surrenders completely—not just his body, but his heart, his soul, everything he kept guarded for centuries.
For just a heartbeat, as pleasure crests through him, our bond flares with stunning clarity.
In that moment of perfect connection, I glimpse emotions he keeps carefully hidden—loneliness so profound it aches, fear of attachment warring with desperate need, and beneath it all, a tenderness he has buried for centuries.
Then it's gone, the connection dimming as he carefully lowers himself beside me, gathering me close like I might try to escape.
His heartbeat thunders beneath my ear, gradually slowing as we lie entwined.
His shadows return, but not to threaten or possess—they drape over us like a living blanket, their touch surprisingly gentle on my cooling skin.
Afterward, he holds me close, one hand stroking my hair in soothing patterns. I should feel shame. Should feel like I betrayed everything I once stood for. Instead, I feel a strange peace stealing over me, my body relaxing into his embrace as exhaustion claims me.
I drift in and out of sleep, vaguely aware of Malakai leaving the bed at some point, his voice a low murmur near the doorway. Curiosity stirs me to wakefulness, though I keep my eyes closed, feigning sleep as I listen.
"The prophecy is spreading," Emmett's voice, tense with concern. "Whispers in both courts. They're calling her the cursed bride, the one meant to end the courts as we know them. Some are calling the prophesied child an abomination—neither Alpha nor Omega."
"How?" Malakai's voice is cold, controlled, but I sense the tension in him.
"The usual channels. Court gossip. Diplomatic circles. But it feels...orchestrated. As if someone wants the information circulating. Some say an Alpha-Omega child from a fated bond would be too powerful."
"My father-in-law, perhaps?"
"Possibly. But Lady Isla seems unusually interested in your mating. The Neutral Territories always benefit from division between Shadow and Light. And a child that's neither full Alpha nor full Omega..."
A silence falls, broken only by the soft sound of pacing footsteps. "Increase her security," Malakai finally says. "Discreetly. And I want every record of this prophecy found and brought to me. Especially anything about what this child would be."
"The danger to her…and to any offspring..." Emmett begins.
"Is substantial," Malakai finishes. "If this prophecy truly predicts unification of the courts through an Alpha-Omega child, there are many who would see her dead before allowing it to be fulfilled. And the child itself would be hunted."
A cold dread seeps into my bones. Not for myself, but for the child the prophecy mentions—a child who doesn't yet exist but who already has enemies eager for its destruction—a child of shadow and light who would carry both Malakai's darkness and my magic.
"And if the child is already conceived?" Emmett asks, voicing my own fears. "If she's already carrying?"
Another silence, longer this time. "A child has no place in this world," Malakai says, his voice softer, tinged with something that sounds almost like fear.
The door closes, and moments later, the bed dips as Malakai returns.
His arm slides around my waist, pulling me close like he's shielding me from threats he cannot yet see.
I sense something in his emotions, I never expected to feel fear from him.
Not for himself, but for me. For us. For the child we might create.
I should tell him about the vial Asher tried to force on me—the potion he claimed would break our mating bond.
In the chaos of the cottage, I saw Ivy slip it into her pocket when no one was watching, her quick fingers securing the dangerous magic before we left.
The knowledge of its existence weighs on me now.
Should I tell Malakai? Should I ask Ivy to return it?
But the words stick in my throat. Too many revelations for one day. Too many broken certainties.
Tomorrow. I'll tell him tomorrow, when I've had time to process everything. When I understand my own heart better.
For now, I let myself sink into the comfort of his arms, the steady beat of his heart along my back lulling me toward sleep. The questions—about the prophecy, about my father's manipulation, about the strange territory my heart wanders into—can wait until morning.
As consciousness slips away, I find myself wondering which is the greater danger: the enemies who want me dead because of what I might bring into the world, or the realization that I'm no longer entirely certain I want to kill the man holding me close to his heart.
My mate.
The male whose child I might already be carrying.