Chapter Thirty - Three
Chapter
Thirty-Three
SAGE
He says it so quietly I almost miss it.
“I wish I’d met you first.”
The words settle into the quiet between us like a stone into deep water—small, but rippling far and wide.
I don’t know what makes me do it. Maybe it’s the ache in his voice. The way he hasn’t once tried to claim me or possess me. Maybe it’s the fact that for the first time since all of this began, I feel seen. Not just as a vessel for power or some mythical witch bound to ancient fate.
Just… me.
So I lean forward.
And kiss him.
Softly. Tentatively. My lips brush his with barely-there pressure, as if asking a question I’m not brave enough to speak.
He goes still. Not tense—but stunned, like he didn’t expect it. Like he doesn’t dare believe it’s real.
Then—his hand comes up, fingertips grazing my cheek, and he kisses me back.
God, it’s different.
Malachi is fire and storm and raw hunger. But Elias… Elias is warmth and gravity and something deeper than want. Something like wonder.
His lips part, his breath catching slightly as I lean in again, bolder now. My hand rests against his chest, feeling the steady drumbeat of his heart. When I pull back slightly to look at him, his gaze is full of questions—but also reverence. Like I’m something sacred.
“I didn’t mean to—” I start.
“You don’t have to explain,” he says, voice low. “Not to me.”
I nod, exhaling shakily. But I don’t move away.
Neither does he.
His hand slides to my hip, tentative, waiting for any sign that I want to stop.
I don’t.
I rise up slightly, straddling him where he sits on the window seat. The kiss deepens, slow and heady, the kind of kiss that makes the world fall away. He groans softly into my mouth, and it lights something up inside me—something reckless and greedy and new.
My fingers find the hem of his shirt. He lets me lift it, baring skin that’s warm and smooth, lean muscle beneath soft cotton. I run my palms up his chest, exploring, and he shudders beneath my touch like it means something to him.
“Sage,” he whispers, like it’s a prayer and a warning.
But I don’t stop.
I can’t.
He lets me explore him, lets me guide the pace. His hands stay gentle, reverent—thumbs brushing my thighs, my waist, never taking more than I offer.
And when I unfasten the buttons of my own sweater and let it fall from my shoulders, his breath catches audibly.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, eyes drinking me in with something close to awe. “So beautiful.”
His mouth finds my neck, then my collarbone, lingering in the space just above my heart.
His breath is warm against my skin, and the way he moves—slow, reverent—makes every nerve in my body come alive.
I arch into him without meaning to, my fingers gripping his shoulders, anchoring myself to the only thing that feels real right now.
He murmurs something soft against my skin—my name, I think—and then his mouth is lower, brushing the swell of my breast, his lips closing gently around my nipple.
I gasp, my back curving, as sensation sparks through me like a lit fuse.
My hands thread through his hair, holding him there, needing more, needing everything.
I can feel him beneath me. Hard. Unyielding. The heat of his arousal pressing between us, impossible to ignore.
And suddenly, I want to be closer. I want to give him everything, take everything. There’s no fear now—just the sharp ache of want that burns through me like wildfire.
I slide down between his legs, my fingers finding the fastening of his trousers.
He watches me, breath shallow, eyes darkened with something raw and real.
My hands tremble slightly as I ease the fabric open and slip my hand inside, feeling the heat of him, the way his breath stutters at the first touch.
He tastes like heat and salt and something uniquely him, and when I take him into my mouth, his hands clench in the cushions beneath him, a soft, choked sound escaping his lips.
“Sage…” he groans, his voice a broken thread. “If you keep going—I won’t be able to stop.”
I look up at him, breathless and aching. “Then don’t.”
Something in him snaps.
In the next breath, I’m in his arms—lifted effortlessly, my back cradled by his strength as he rises to his feet. The air shifts. Magic hums between us like a living thing.
And then—he lowers me, slow and reverent, onto him.
He fills me inch by inch, and the stretch of him steals my breath. His forehead rests against mine as we both try to hold onto the moment, to feel it fully.
This isn’t just a claiming.
It’s a communion.
Each movement is slow, deep, intentional. Like he’s carving his name into my soul with every thrust, with every whispered promise in the space between our mouths.
And when I shatter—when I fall apart around him—it’s not just pleasure.
It’s transformation.
Because I’m not just Sage anymore.
I’m his.
And somewhere deep in my magic, something answers.
A new thread winds itself into place—binding, anchoring, remembering.