Chapter 4 #2
I look at this woman—this slip of a girl who survived slavery and branding and an auction and still has enough fire to stand here demanding freedom—and something in my chest shifts.
Settles.
Decides.
"Yes," I hear myself say. "I'll try."
Her breath catches. "You mean it?"
Do I?
The curse is still burning under my skin. The runes are still glowing faint red. Everything rational in me says this is suicide—political, social, probably literal.
But she's right.
Yesterday, when she touched me, something happened.
Something that felt like finding a piece of myself I didn't know was missing.
"Say yes," I murmur.
She blinks. "What?"
"If I claim you—really claim you, not this leased pretense—it has to be your choice." I turn my hands over so I'm gripping hers now. "So I'm asking. Will you let me?"
Understanding blooms across her face.
"Yes," she whispers.
The word hits me like lightning.
I stand, still holding her hands, and draw her up with me. She's so much smaller than me—has to tilt her head back to meet my eyes—but she doesn't look afraid.
She looks certain.
I cup her face, thumbs brushing her cheekbones. "Once I do this, there's no going back. For either of us."
"I don't want to go back."
"Annora—"
"Kiss me."
It's not a request.
I kiss her.
It's not gentle. Can't be, not with the curse still burning, not with the decision I just made settling like an oath in my bones. But it's not violent either. It's claiming—deep and possessive and asking a question with every movement: Is this what you want? Is this enough? Is this too much?
She answers by fisting her hands in my shirt and pulling me closer.
We break apart breathing hard.
"Inside," I rasp. "Not here."
She nods, and I lead her out of the infirmary, through corridors that echo with our footsteps, to my chambers.
The door closes behind us with a soft click.
I've had lovers before.
Not many—the curse makes intimacy... complicated—but enough to know what I'm doing. Enough to recognize that this is different.
This isn't just need. Isn't just attraction.
This is a claiming. A binding.
This matters.
"Are you certain?" I ask, because I need to hear her say it again. Need to know she understands.
Annora looks at me steadily. "Yes."
"If you want me to stop—at any point—you tell me."
"I will."
"Promise."
"I promise." A ghost of a smile touches her mouth. "You're stalling."
I am.
Because once I do this, once I touch her like this, everything changes.
The oath becomes real.
I cross the distance between us and kiss her again, slower this time. Learning her. She tastes like honey and herbs and something indefinably her. Her hands come up to my chest, fingers spreading over where my heart pounds.
I feel it when the decision settles in her—a subtle shift, a leaning in.
Permission.
I walk her backward to the bed. Guide her to sit. Kneel between her legs and start unlacing her boots with hands that are steadier than they should be.
"You don't have to—" she starts.
"I want to." I slip one boot off, then the other. Run my palms up her calves over the thick stockings. "Let me."
She nods, silent now, watching me with wide eyes.
I unlace her overdress slowly. Peel it off her shoulders. The linen shift underneath is thin, and I can see her skin through it—the curve of her breasts, the dip of her waist.
Beautiful.
I kiss her collarbone where the collar sat. Feel her pulse jump under my lips.
"Here?" I murmur against her skin.
"Yes." Her voice is breathless.
I kiss down to the hollow of her throat. "Here?"
"Yes."
Lower. The swell of her breast through linen. "Here?"
Her answer is a soft gasp.
I pull back enough to meet her eyes. "Tell me if you want me to stop."
"Don't stop."
I pull the shift over her head and just... look.
She's perfect. Scars and all. The brand on her shoulder. The faint marks where the collar rubbed. The curve of her hips and the softness of her stomach and the way she's breathing too fast, chest rising and falling.
"You're staring," she whispers.
"You're worth staring at."
I guide her to lie back, spread her thighs gently. She's trembling—not fear, I don't think, but anticipation. Nerves.
"Breathe," I tell her.
She does.
I kiss the inside of her knee. Her thigh. Higher.
When I put my mouth on her, she makes a sound that goes straight to my cock.
I take my time. Learn what makes her gasp, what makes her hips lift, what makes her fingers tangle in my hair. She's sweet and wet and responsive, and I could do this for hours.
"Vorak—" My name breaks on her lips. "I can't—"
"You can." I add pressure, rhythm, focus. "Let go."
She comes apart beautifully. Her whole body arches, thighs trembling around my head, a cry spilling from her lips that she tries to muffle with her hand.
I don't let her.
I want to hear every sound.
When she collapses back against the furs, breathing hard, I strip off my own clothes and move over her.
Her eyes track my body—taking in the scars, the runes, the barely-contained violence of the curse marking every inch of me—and I wait for fear.
But she just reaches up and touches my chest, right over my heart.
"You're warm," she murmurs.
I catch her hand. Bring it to my lips. "Last chance. Say no and I stop."
"I don't want you to stop." Her other hand comes up to cup my face. "I want this. I want you."
The words break something in me.
I kiss her as I line myself up, as I press inside slow and careful, watching her face for any sign of pain.
She's tight and perfect and I have to stop halfway just to breathe.
"Okay?" I manage.
"Yes." Her legs wrap around my hips. "More."
I give her more.
When I'm fully seated, when we're joined completely, I have to stop again because the feeling is overwhelming.
Complete.
Home.
"Move," she whispers.
I do.
Deep, steady thrusts that make her gasp. I watch her face, read every flicker of sensation, adjust my angle until I find the spot that makes her eyes roll back.
"There," she breathes. "Right there—"
I give her there. Again and again, building rhythm, pressure, until she's writhing underneath me and my control is shredding.
"Mine," I hear myself growl. "Say it."
"Yours." Her nails dig into my back. "Yours, Vorak, I'm—"
She comes with my name on her lips, and I follow her over the edge.
The orgasm rips through me with enough force that the runes flare gold—gold, not red—and for a moment I feel the curse simply... quiet.
At peace.
I collapse beside her, dragging her against my chest, breathing her in.
We lie there tangled together, heartbeats slowing, while the golden light fades from my skin.
"That was—" She stops. Laughs softly. "I don't have words."
"Good." I press a kiss to her hair. "Good is enough."
She traces one of the runes on my forearm—dark again, dormant. "What happened? At the end. They turned gold."
"I don't know."
But I'm lying.
I do know.
Or I'm starting to.
The Bloodkey magic. The curse. Her blood calling to mine.
We're connected now in a way I don't fully understand but can feel.
"Vorak." Her voice is quiet. "When the thirty days are up... what happens?"
I tighten my arms around her. "I don't let them take you."
"But how—"
"I don't know yet." Honesty. "But I'll find a way. Even if it means war."
She's silent for a long moment.
Then: "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For choosing me." She tilts her head up to look at me. "Even when it's dangerous. Even when it's stupid."
"You're not stupid."
"Breaking the Compact for a branded witch? Pretty stupid."
I catch her chin. Make her meet my eyes. "You're not just a branded witch. You're mine. And I protect what's mine."
The certainty in those words surprises even me.
But it's true.
Somewhere between the auction and now, between touching her and being touched, between fearing my curse and feeling it quiet in her presence...
She became mine.
And I became hers.
"Sleep," I murmur, pulling the furs over us. "We'll figure out the rest tomorrow."
She curls into me, one hand resting over my heart.
"Don't let go," she whispers.
"Never."
I mean it.
Even if the king sends armies.
Even if the Compact demands her return.
Even if it costs me everything.
I'm not letting go.