Chapter 37 #3
Chad's eyes flare, molten red searing into me, and for a heartbeat, the world narrows to just us—the rough bark digging into my back, the impossible heat of his body pinning me without quite crushing, his claws flexing against my sides like he's one wrong breath away from shredding my clothes.
Or more. His face is inches from mine, horns curving back like a crown of shadows, and gods, up close, he's not just terrifying…
he's beautiful in a way that steals my air.
That rough skin under my palms feels like heated stone, alive and thrumming with power, and I can feel the low rumble in his chest vibrating through me, making my pulse stutter in places I didn't know it could.
“The real me,” he echoes, voice guttural. One massive hand slides up, claws trailing along my jaw, tilting my chin so I'm forced to hold that burning gaze. “You have no idea what you're asking for.”
The way his claws skim my skin sends lightning straight down my spine.
I swallow hard, my throat bobbing under his touch, and his eyes track the movement like it's the most addicting thing he's ever seen. Heat pools low in my belly, uninvited and insistent, and I curse my body for deciding now is the perfect time to remind me that underneath the demon, this is still Chad—the same infuriating, stupidly hot idiot who’s somehow always just there when things go wrong.
“Then enlighten me,” I challenge, my voice coming out breathier than I'd like. “What am I asking for? Because from where I'm pinned, it feels like you're the one doing most of the asking.”
Chad's low growl rolls through his chest, and it's like being pressed against a live furnace.
His free hand braces against the tree above my head, claws digging into bark with a sharp crack that sends splinters raining down.
He leans in closer, his breath hot against my ear, and I swear I feel the tip of one horn brush my hair.
I can feel the tremor in his massive frame, the way his claws press just a little too hard against my jaw—not breaking skin, but close enough that one slip, one loss of control, and I'd be scarred forever. Or worse.
Gods, the hunger in his eyes is more than feral, like he's a breath away from devouring me whole, soul and all.
I don't know what demon branding involves exactly—some kind of dark ritual I've only glimpsed details of here and there, in arcane texts—but I think it’s something about claiming a person so completely they might not survive the intensity, and I can sense it hovering in him, that monumental effort to hold back, his entire body shaking with the strain.
“Chad,” I dare whisper, my voice steadier than I feel, because if I let it crack, I fear he might shatter too.
“Look at me. You're still you… the guy who argues with me about stupid things. Who says he doesn’t care but still hangs around. Who trusted me enough to let me use his soul juice to crack open an ancient dragon entrance. Who had enough control to hide what he was for years… Remember that. Ground yourself in it.”
His breath hitches, his claws slowly halting their path.
A low, tortured groan escapes him, and I see the war in his eyes—the demon clawing to break free versus the man fighting to hold on.
His free hand comes up, massive fingers curling around mine where it rests on his chest, almost crushing, but not quite.
“Brynn... I can't... it's pulling me under.”
“You can,” I insist, locking my gaze with his, refusing to look away even as fear coils tight in my gut. “Look at me. Really look. I'm not afraid of you. Not the real you.”
Our eyes lock, and for a suspended, breathless moment, all I can sense in the world is us, staring into each other, his burning crimson meeting my steady gray. I see the flicker there—the Chad I know surfacing, grounding himself in my words, in this connection.
His breath evens slightly, the tension in his frame easing just a fraction, and suddenly the air between us shifts.
It's like the storm inside him pauses, caught in this suspended beat where neither of us dares to move.
I'm still pinned against the rough bark of the tree, his massive body a wall of heated muscle caging me in, but now it's not just pressure… it's intimacy, raw and unexpected.
His molten eyes bore into mine, and for the first time, I really see him, not the demon or the soldier or the mentor, but Chad—the man beneath it all, stripped bare in ways I never imagined.
His gaze softens a touch, those crimson depths pulling me in like they're drinking me up, seeing straight through to the parts of me I've always kept hidden behind books and sarcasm.
Breathless, I stare back, my chest rising and falling in sync with his, the entire world narrowing to the pulse thundering where our bodies meet.
Gods, he's beautiful like this—terrifyingly so.
The ridges of his dark skin gleam under the faint moonlight filtering through the leaves, every sculpted line of his chest and shoulders radiating that impossible, demonic heat.
His claws, still curled around my waist, flex gently now, not digging in but holding me with a possessiveness that sends sparks racing across my skin.
I can feel the hard planes of his body pressing against mine, the way his thigh slips between my legs to steady me, all raw power and restrained fire that makes my pulse stutter low in my belly.
My hands, trapped against his chest, splay over him, fingers tracing the texture of his body—skin that catches against my fingertips, rough and unyielding, heat seeping through, alive with something that calls to every reckless inch of me.
His breath fans across my lips, carrying the faint, smoky scent of him, and I can't help it—my body arches just a little, instinctively seeking more of that intoxicating warmth.
“Chad,” I whisper, my voice barely audible, laced with a need I didn't know I had until this moment.
His name on my lips seems to unsteady him; a low, rumbling growl rolling through his chest, sending more shivers racing down my spine.
One of his hands slides, claws trailing lightly along my side, leaving goosebumps in their wake as they skim the curve of my hip, my ribs.
Then his thumb brushes my lower lip, parting it slightly, and I gasp at the contact, heat pooling in places that make my thoughts scatter.
We're suspended here, breathless, the forest forgotten—it's just us, seeing each other anew in this impossible moment, his demonic hunger mirroring something wild and unspoken in me.
He leans in, horns brushing my hair, his forehead nearly touching mine, and for a heartbeat, I think he might close that last inch, might claim whatever this is with teeth and fire.
But then his eyes flicker, that internal war resurfacing, and he pulls back just enough to search my face, like he's memorizing every freckle, every breath.
“Brynn... I don't deserve this,” he rasps, voice thick with restraint, but his grip on me tightens, drawing me impossibly closer.
“Why don’t you deserve this?” I practically gasp, ignoring the more obvious question: Deserve what?
“Because if I did, I'd have asked you out months ago instead of lurking like some repressed idiot and waiting for this,” he growls.
My breath hitches, a sharp inhale that catches in my throat like I've forgotten how lungs work.
The words hang between us, raw and unexpected, and for a second, my mind blanks—because is this him talking, or is it the demon?
The massive, horned version of Chad who's got me pinned like some dark fever dream, his eyes burning with that possessive fire.
Does the human Chad—the one who gives orders, corrects my form, and keeps everything locked down so tightly it barely breathes—actually feel this way, or is this just his warped demonic side twisting everything into hunger and impulse?
It's a stupid question, I know. His perception's all tangled up in whatever monstrous wiring is firing right now, making everything bigger, hungrier.
But I can't stop the words from tumbling out anyway, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Do you... Do you really mean that? Or is this just the demon talking?”
He goes still, his massive frame tensing against me, claws flexing where they cage my waist—not hurting, but holding on like I'm the only anchor keeping him from unraveling. Those burning eyes search mine, the glow dimming just a fraction, like he's fighting through the haze to find the words.
“Brynn,” he manages, voice low and rough. “If it was just the demon, I'd have already dragged you off to some cave and marked every inch of you as mine. No questions, no hesitation. That's what it wants—raw, absolute claim.”
I swallow hard, heat flooding my cheeks at the image, but I don't look away. “And the human part? The repressed idiot part?”
A ghost of a smile tugs at his mouth, fangs glinting.
“The repressed idiot's the one who's probably been, deep down, wanting to say it for months. But kept chickening out, telling himself you were too busy with your books and your sarcasm to notice a half-breed like him hanging around.” He shifts closer, his breath warm against my temple, and it's like being wrapped in a storm—fierce and electric, but there's something vulnerable underneath, subtle as a hidden footnote in one of my dusty books.
“Maybe, it turns out, unlocking this side gave him the guts to admit it.”
“And to stop talking in the third person?” I breathe.
“Maybe that, too,” he says, mouth curving. “I never told you but… I always thought you were special, Brynn.”
I hesitate, my mouth feeling dry. “What do you mean?”