8. Chapter 8 #2
I knew that feeling. I knew what came next, too—the lost sensation, the not knowing what to do with your hands, your body, your mind now that the weight was gone.
She needed something to fill the space. Something to hold onto.
She needed me.
And I couldn't give her that. Not the way I wanted to. Not the way we both needed.
Not yet.
I watched her for a long moment. The curve of her spine. The way her fingers pressed against the cold stone like she was trying to ground herself. The slight tremor still running through her.
My father thought he'd won. Thought the distance between us was a chain he controlled.
He had no idea.
"My father thinks he's put you in a cage."
Her head lifted. Eyes finding mine.
"He doesn't realize he's locked me in a room with the only thing I'm starving for, and told me not to eat."
A dangerous smile curved my mouth. I let her see it—the hunger I'd been keeping leashed, the want I'd been choking down for months.
"He's going to learn what happens when the starving thing gets out."
I crossed to where she knelt. Stopped just outside the boundary our Marks demanded. Close enough to feel the heat of her. Close enough to watch her pupils dilate.
"I'm going to hold you, Amaria."
The words came out like a vow. An oath. A threat against the universe itself.
"I don't care what it costs. I don't care what we have to burn. I am going to put my hands on you and I am never letting go."
Her breath caught. I locked eyes with her. Let her see every ounce of intent behind the promise.
She was still kneeling. Still looking up at me with those devastated eyes, that emptied-out expression, that need radiating off her like heat.
She didn't know what to do with herself. I could see it—the restlessness, the ache for contact, the desperate need to feel something after everything she'd just released.
The guilt was gone, but it had left a hollow space behind. A dangerous quiet. If I let her sit in it, the cold would creep back in. I needed to fill that silence. I needed to fill her—until there was no room left in her mind for the past, for the war, or for the princess who had tried to claim me.
She needed to be reminded of what she was. Not a weapon. Not a warrior. Just mine.
I couldn't catch her with my hands.
But I could catch her with my voice.
"Stand up."
I raked my gaze over her. She was vibrating with adrenaline, her pupils blown wide, her hands twitching at her sides. She was a live wire looking for a place to ground.
"You're floating," I sighed. She nodded, her throat working.
"I feel..."
"Untethered," I finished for her. "I know. I'm going to tie you down, Amaria. Not with ropes. With my eyes. I am going to look at you until you feel heavy with it."
I let the silence stretch, thick and suffocating. I didn't just look at her; I traced her. I started at the boots she’d marched across mountains, dragged my gaze up the worn leather encasing her legs, lingered on the curve of her hips, and finally settled on the rapid, shallow rise of her chest.
I saw the exact moment the shift happened.
The frantic, grating vibration of trauma died out, replaced by a different kind of trembling. A darker, heavier heat. Her shoulders dropped. She licked her lips and she didn't look away. She let me pin her there, caught in the crosshairs of a hunger I was finally done hiding.
The air between us crackled, static and storm.
"Your leathers." I kept my voice steady. Controlled. The way I'd learned to give commands on battlefields. "Take them off."
She inhaled sharply.
"You're going to let me see every inch of what's mine." I held her gaze. "And I'm going to tell you exactly how beautiful you are until you believe it. Until you feel it. Until there's no room left in your head for guilt or grief or anything except my voice telling you what you're worth to me."
Her throat worked as she swallowed hard.
She stared at me. I watched the understanding dawn—slow, then all at once.
"Eryndor..."
"I can't touch you tonight." The admission cost me. "But I can worship you. I can remind you who you belong to. I can make you feel so seen, so wanted, so held by my attention that you forget we're not skin to skin. Take off your leathers, Amaria."
Her lips parted and her eyes went wide.
But she still didn’t move and for a moment, I thought she'd refuse. Tell me to go to hell. Throw something at my head.
Instead, her hands moved to the clasps on her jerkin.
Good girl.
One by one she undid the clasps. Her breathing was shallow and pupils dilated.
"Slower."
Her fingers stilled on the second buckle. Her eyes found mine—defiant, even now. Even doing what I asked.
"Make me."
Heat flared in my core. "I can't make you do anything from here. That's rather the point."
"Then ask nicely."
The audacity of this female.
"Please," I said, low and rough, "take off your leathers. Slowly. Let me see you."
Her lips curved. Victory and surrender wrapped in the same smile.
She undid the second clasp, then the third.
Her breasts were straining now, caught on the last clasp and waiting to spring free.
My mouth started to water and my cock was pushing painfully against the waist of my breeches.
I stroked it over the fabric to give it some relief and watched her eyes dip to the motion.
She unleashed the next clasp and her breasts spilled free.
I caught my breath, immobilized by her beauty.
The vulnerability and readiness waiting for me.
And then I saw it.
The scar.
White and jagged, carved across her sternum like a lightning strike frozen in flesh. The place where the bond used to live. The place where they'd ripped us apart in front of a cheering crowd while I stood in wedding garb and let it happen.
My hands fisted at my sides. The Marks flared grief and rage so black it threatened to swallow the room.
I did that. I agreed to that. I stood there and let them—
"Eyes on me, Crownforged."
Her voice cracked through the spiral like a whip.
I met her eyes and found no pity there. No shame. Just heat and wickedness and a challenge that said: You don't get to fall apart over this. Not tonight.
She shrugged off the jerkin completely and let it hit the floor. Shoulders back. Chin lifted. Wearing that scar like a crown instead of a wound.
That's my girl.
"Pants." I rasped, my cock growing painfully hard.
"Demanding."
"Yes." I gritted my teeth. "The pants, Amaria."
She undid the button on the top of her pants and glided them down her legs. They dropped and pooled at her feet. She stood motionless like a Goddess at temple waiting for worship.
"Perfection," I murmured "You are a ruinous, perfect thing, Amaria." She shivered.
"There's a bath behind that screen. And you're going to get in it while I watch every step you take to get there."
She glanced over her shoulder. Back to me.
"I want to take care of you. I can't do that with my hands, so I’ll use yours. Get in the bath."
"And if I don't?"
"Then once we kill the King and I can touch you, I will punish you Little Fox. Punish you for denying me to take care of what's mine and to give you what you deserve."
A deep rose flush crept up her chest and she swallowed hard. I smirked. “You’d like that wouldn’t you?”
She bit her lip. “Don’t make me have you spank yourself since I can't do it now. Although I’m sure they have whips here that reach more than ten feet.” “You wouldn’t dare!” Her chin lifted. A challenge, even now. I almost laughed but reined it in.“Let's not test it. Get in.”
She huffed and strode toward the tub. With one last defiant glance over her shoulder she turned the faucet on and filled the tub.
“Good girl.” I crooned. "Now get in. Let me see the water take you."She stepped into the hot water and I could instantly see her muscles relax, the tension melting out of her body like wax near a flame.
"Lean back."
She sighed and closed her eyes letting out a shuddered breath. "I can feel you. Watching."
I smiled, ever defiant. "Good. Lean back. Let the water take the weight."
She leaned back and let the water hold her.
"Now breathe. Deeply. I want to watch your chest rise for me."
"I am breathing."
"You're holding your breath. Denying yourself full relaxation. In through your nose. Hold it. Out through your mouth."
"You're insufferable."
"I'm patient." I watched her chest rise and fall, the wet skin glistening in the firelight. The scar on her sternum—the mark of our severance—shone white and stark against her flushed skin. I wanted to trace it with my tongue. I wanted to apologize to it.
"You are not just the one I love," I whispered, the truth ripping out of me at last. "You are the wound in the world I was born to bleed for."
The words landed, raw and exposed. I hadn't meant to say them—hadn't known they were there until they clawed their way out.
She stared at me. Her mouth opened on a silent gasp. Eyes glassy. I watched her try to form a response—watched the words rise and fall in her throat, unable to find their shape.
"You don't have to say anything."
Her brow creased. Frustrated with herself. Wanting to give me something back and not knowing how. I understood. Some truths are too big for words.
"Show me."
Her breath caught.
"There's soap on the ledge." I leaned back against the wall, letting her see exactly how affected I was. "I want to see your hands do what mine can't."
She kept her eyes on mine as she obeyed. She rubbed the bar between her palms slowly, gliding it up and down, like it was my thick cock between her silken hands. The slick sound of wet skin on soap filled the silence. Suds dripped down her wrists.
I groaned. My hands were shaking and I fisted my cock to temper the pain.
My fangs slid out as I watched her working the soap.
It was so sudden one of them nicked my lip and I felt blood drip down my chin.
A wicked grin split her lips and she tracked the blood trickling down my face.
I growled at her. It was so deep the water in the bath rippled. She froze.