Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Draco
The last few days have blurred together in a way that feels almost dangerous—small lessons, late-night conversations, Lucky wedging himself between us like a chaperone with opinions. But tonight… tonight feels different.
It’s the evening after our trip into the city.
The cottage is quiet after dinner, the kind of quiet that sharpens my senses instead of soothing them.
Lucky has flopped in his usual spot, snoring softly, paws twitching as he dreams. The lamplight throws warm shadows across the small room.
And Charity—she’s still moving around, putting dishes away, smoothing surfaces already clean. Nervous hands.
She doesn’t look at me, but I feel her awareness like heat on my skin. After years living on the streets, in arenas, in barracks, in dark cells, I know when another body is tuned to mine. I should leave her be. I should stretch out on the couch, close my eyes, and pretend I don’t notice.
But I do notice.
And I can’t pretend.
She turns at last, catching me watching. Her breath hitches. My pulse answers as if it’s tied to hers with invisible thread. I stand slowly, giving her time to move if she wants. She doesn’t. Her chin lifts, not much, just enough. That small defiance pierces me more than a sword ever could.
I cross the space between us.
"Charity." Her name is rough on my tongue. A prayer, a warning, both.
"Yes?" Her voice is barely sound.
I lift my hand, pause, let her see it. She doesn’t flinch. When my fingertips brush her jaw, her eyes flutter closed. The world narrows to that contact—the warmth of her skin, the leap of her pulse beneath it. I lean down, slowly, until my lips find hers.
It’s fire and it’s ruin and it’s everything I’ve been holding back. She makes a small sound, a broken plea that undoes me. My other hand slides into her hair, tilting her to me. Her arms circle my waist, tentative, then stronger, pulling me in. The kiss deepens until I’m dizzy.
I break away just enough to breathe, my forehead pressed to hers. "Tell me to stop."
Her hands fist in my shirt. "Don’t you dare."
The hunger that surges through me nearly buckles my knees.
I kiss her again, harder, tasting her gasp, her surrender.
We stumble backward together until the backs of her thighs hit the edge of the couch.
She sits, pulling me down with her, and suddenly we’re a tangle of limbs, of mouths, of frantic, desperate want.
Her sweater rides up, and my hand meets bare skin. Soft, hot, perfect. She arches into me, a shocked moan tearing from her throat. My body responds with painful urgency. I force myself to slow, to remember she’s new to this. My thumb brushes lazy circles along her ribs, coaxing, asking.
Her fingers dig into my shoulders. "More," she whispers.
I give her more. My mouth trails fire down her throat, over the quick hammer of her pulse, across her collarbone. Her skin tastes of salt and faint citrus, of life itself. She trembles under me, not in fear, in discovery. The sound of it—her breathless gasp—nearly undoes me.
I push the sweater higher, over her head, leaving her in a thin camisole that does nothing to shield her from my gaze. She covers herself instinctively, arms folding across her chest. My heart twists.
"Don’t hide from me," I murmur. I take her wrists gently, pull them away, kissing her palms like they’re relics. "You’re beautiful."
Her eyes glisten, but she nods. She lets me look. More than that, she lets me touch—my hands skating reverent paths up her sides, down her arms, across the soft skin of her stomach. She sighs my name like it’s something precious.
Her mouth finds mine again, urgent and hungry. The kiss lengthens, our mouths exploring with growing need. My hand cups her breast through the thin fabric, and she gasps against my lips. I stroke with my thumb, learning the shape of her, feeling her nipple peak beneath the cotton.
"Please," she whispers, and I don't make her ask twice.
I ease the camisole up slowly, giving her time to change her mind. She doesn't. Just lifts her arms to help me, her breath coming faster as the fabric slides away.
For a moment I can only stare. She's perfect—small and pale and trembling slightly in the lamplight.
And there, resting between her breasts, is something she didn’t take off.
A small key on a thin chain, gleaming softly against her skin.
I don’t touch it. Some mysteries deserve time. I lower my head and press a kiss to the soft skin above her heart, feeling it thunder beneath my lips.
"Draco—"
I silence her with my mouth, trailing kisses across her collarbone, down the gentle slope of her breast. When I take one peaked nipple between my lips, she arches off the couch with a broken cry.
I lavish attention there—circling with my tongue, alternating gentle suction with the barest edge of teeth—while my hand cups her other breast, thumb stroking until she's writhing beneath me.
Her fingers dig into my shoulders, my hair, anywhere she can reach. The sounds she makes are driving me to the edge of sanity—little gasps and whimpers and my name repeated like a prayer.
I switch sides, giving equal reverence to her neglected breast, and she trembles so hard I have to wrap an arm around her waist to keep her steady. Her skin tastes like salt and something sweeter, and I can't get enough.
"I need—" she starts, but can't seem to finish.
"Tell me." I kiss the valley between her breasts. "Tell me what you need."
"More." Her voice is half moan, half plea. "Please, I need more."
Her whispered plea drives me lower—kisses trailing over her ribs, her stomach, the soft skin just above her waistband. She's shaking, her hands fisted in the cushions like she needs something to hold on to.
I unfasten her pants slowly, watching her face for any sign of hesitation. There's none—just desire and trust and something that looks like wonder.
I ease them down her hips along with her underwear, kissing my way along newly revealed skin. She's breathing so hard her small breasts are heaving, and when I settle between her thighs, she makes a sound I've never heard before—need and vulnerability and absolute surrender.
"I've got you," I promise, pressing a kiss to her inner thigh. "I've got you."
And then the first taste of her makes my head spin.
She's already trembling, already desperate, and I take my time—learning her with my tongue, finding what makes her gasp, what makes her arch, what makes her whisper my name like a broken prayer. She's sweet and salt and I could worship here for hours.
Her thighs shake against my shoulders. I hold her steady, one arm banded across her hips to keep her from flying apart too soon. My other hand slides up to find hers, threading our fingers together—an anchor while I take her higher.
"Draco—" Her voice breaks. "I can't—"
"You can," I murmur against her skin. "Let go, cara. I've got you."
I increase the pressure, the rhythm, adding my fingers to work in tandem with my mouth. She's close—I can feel it in the tension of her thighs, hear it in the way her breathing has gone ragged and desperate.
When I find that perfect spot and stay there—relentless, devoted—she shatters.
Her cry echoes through the cottage as she comes undone, her hand squeezing mine so tight it almost hurts. I work her through it, gentling my touch as the waves crest and break, until she's boneless and shaking and making these small, overwhelmed sounds that make my chest tight.
When her shaking softens, I kiss my way back up her body—her stomach, her ribs, the soft undersides of her breasts.
She kisses me slow and deep, tasting herself on my tongue, her hands sliding up my chest with trembling fingers.
"Your turn," she whispers, and tugs at my shirt.
My hands catch hers. Stop her.
She looks up, confused. Hurt, maybe. "Don't you want—"
"I do." The words come out rough. "Goddess, I do. But Charity, if I take this off, you're going to see things. Things I haven't shown you yet."
Her brow furrows. "What things?"
How do I explain? That my body is a map of violence. That every inch of skin tells a story I've been trying to bury since I woke up and discovered that I’m a free man. That once she sees, she'll know, and I can't unknow her knowing.
"Scars," I say finally. "A lot of them."
"I don't care about scars." Her fingers tighten on the fabric. "I want to see you. All of you."
"You say that now." I close my eyes, remembering other times. Other people who looked at me and saw only the damage. "But these aren't normal scars, Charity. They're… they'll make you ask questions I'm not sure I'm ready to answer."
She's quiet for a moment. Then: "Are you ashamed of them?"
"No." The answer comes instantly, because it's true. I survived. That's nothing to be ashamed of. "But I'm afraid of what you'll think when you see them. What you'll think of me."
Her hands move from my shirt to my face, cradling it with a gentleness that makes my breath catch. "Nothing you show me is going to change how I feel about you. Nothing."
"You don't know that."
"I do." She leans forward, presses her forehead to mine.
"I know you, Draco. Even though we’ve only known each other a handful of days, I know you're kind and patient and you brought me a dog because you knew I was lonely.
I know you teach me magic tricks and city survival and how to be brave.
" Her voice drops. "Whatever these scars are, whatever they mean—they're part of your story. And I want to know your story."
I should still stop this. Should wait until we're not already naked and desperate for each other. Should tell her while we're clothed and clear-headed, and I have some chance of maintaining dignity if she rejects me.
But I'm so tired of hiding. So tired of being ashamed of surviving. I told her I wasn’t ashamed, and I shouldn’t be, but I am. I’m so tired of keeping the ugliest parts of myself locked away where no one can see them.