The Reaper Prince

CHAPTER 36| The Feral Vow

I wake up to warmth.

Not the artificial heat from the shitty radiator that barely works. Not the scratchy polyester of my cheap blankets. Not the temporary comfort of too many layers.

Real warmth.

Human warmth.

The kind that seeps into your bones and makes you feel safe in a way that has nothing to do with logic or self-preservation.

Nikolai's warmth.

I'm wrapped in blankets and psychopath, his massive body curled completely around mine like he's trying to absorb me into his skin.

One arm is locked around my waist. One leg is thrown over both of mine.

His face is buried in my hair, and I can feel the steady rhythm of his breathing against the back of my neck.

We're still naked from last night—from the desperate, frantic moment when I stopped being angry and started being terrified that he was going to die on my doorstep.

The winter sunlight filters through my dorm window, harsh and bright against the snow still piled outside. The storm must have passed sometime during the night while we were both unconscious, tangled together in my tiny bed like two people who forgot how to exist separately.

I shift slightly, testing whether my body will cooperate with basic movement.

Everything aches.

Not in a bad way. Just in the way that tells you you've been holding tension in your muscles for weeks and your body finally remembered how to relax.

The movement makes Nikolai's arm tighten around my waist.

"Don't move," he murmurs against my hair. His voice is rough with sleep, low and gravelly in a way that does extremely inconvenient things to my lower stomach.

"I'm just—"

"Don't move," he repeats. More firmly this time. "Stay exactly where you are."

I should probably be annoyed by the command. Should probably snap at him about bodily autonomy and personal choice and all the other things we need to eventually have a very long conversation about.

But I don't.

Because there's something in his voice that isn't controlling.

It's desperate.

Like he's afraid if I move even an inch, I'll disappear. Or come to my senses. Or remember that I'm supposed to hate him.

So I stay still.

Let him hold me.

Let him breathe like I'm the oxygen his broken brain forgot it needed.

"Your fever broke," I say quietly.

"Mmm." His lips press against the curve where my neck meets my shoulder. Not quite a kiss. Just contact. "Because of you."

"Because you stopped being a stubborn asshole and came inside before you literally froze to death."

"Non." His hand splays flat against my stomach, fingers spreading wide like he's trying to touch as much of me as possible. "Because you came to get me. Because you dragged me in here. Because you let me hold you."

He pauses.

"Parce que tu m'as sauvé." Because you saved me.

My throat tightens.

I don't know what to say to that. Don't know how to process the fact that the most dangerous man I've ever met just told me I saved him.

So I don't say anything.

I just lace my fingers through his where they rest against my stomach.

We lie there in silence for a long time. Long enough that I start to think he might have fallen back asleep. Long enough that I'm considering trying to extract myself to use the bathroom or find food or deal with any of the basic human necessities we've been ignoring.

Then I feel him shift behind me.

Not pulling away.

Moving closer.

His face turns so his nose brushes along the line of my jaw. His breath ghosts across my cheek.

"Leah."

Something about the way he says my name makes my pulse spike.

Not my nickname. Not papillon or any of the French endearments he uses like weapons.

Just my name.

Raw and real and completely unfiltered.

I turn my head slightly so I can see him.

And immediately wish I hadn't.

Because the expression on his face is going to fucking destroy me.

His dark eyes are fixed on my face with an intensity that should be terrifying.

His features are soft in a way I've never seen before—no mask, no careful control, no practiced manipulation.

Just Nikolai, looking at me like I'm some kind of miracle he doesn't understand but desperately wants to keep.

"Hi," I whisper, because I don't know what else to say.

The corner of his mouth quirks up. Not his predatory smile. Not his empty social smile. Something genuine.

"Bonjour, mon papillon." Hello, my butterfly.

Then he reaches out slowly—giving me time to pull away if I want to—and traces the line of my cheek with his fingertips.

It's such a simple touch.

Gentle. Reverent. Almost hesitant.

But something about it makes my breath catch.

Because I didn't flinch.

The realization hits me like a physical blow.

I didn't flinch.

Six months ago, I would have. Three months ago, I definitely would have. Even a month ago, unexpected touch made my entire body tense with automatic fear response.

But right now, with Nikolai's fingers trailing down my cheek to my jaw to my throat, I'm completely still.

Not frozen.

Not panicking.

Just... letting him touch me.

Wanting him to touch me.

"Tu ne trembles pas," he breathes, and there's wonder in his voice. Awe. Like he just witnessed something impossible. You're not trembling.

"No," I agree quietly. "I'm not."

His thumb brushes over my bottom lip.

"The nightmares?"

"Gone." I've noticed that too. The violent dreams that used to wake me up screaming, the flashbacks that would hit at random moments, the hypervigilance that made it impossible to relax—all of it has faded over the past few weeks. "I don't know when it happened. I just... they stopped."

"Je sais." His eyes search mine. "I've been watching you. Checking. You sleep through the night now. You don't jolt awake. You don't cry in your sleep anymore." I know.

Of course he's been watching. Of course he's been cataloging my sleep patterns from whatever shadowy corner he's been haunting.

I should probably find that creepy.

I don't.

"You healed it," I say, and the words feel heavy. Important. "The trauma you didn't even cause—you somehow fixed it."

His expression shifts into something complicated. Guilt and pride and possessiveness all tangled together.

"I broke other things in the process."

"Yeah." I won't lie to him about that. Won't pretend the psychological warfare didn't leave scars. "You did."

"Je suis—"

"Don't." I press my fingers against his lips, stopping the apology. "Don't apologize again. You already did that. We're past the apology stage."

"Then what stage are we in?"

Good fucking question.

I don't have an answer.

So instead of speaking, I lean forward and kiss him.

It's meant to be soft. Gentle. A morning kiss between two people who are figuring out what the hell they are to each other.

But the moment my lips touch his, something ignites.

Nikolai makes a low sound in the back of his throat—almost a growl—and suddenly his hand is in my hair, gripping tight, angling my head exactly how he wants it.

The kiss turns aggressive immediately.

Demanding.

Consuming.

His tongue slides against mine with absolute confidence, like he's mapping territory he already owns. His other hand slides down my bare back, over the curve of my hip, gripping my thigh hard enough to leave marks.

Heat floods through my entire body, pooling low in my stomach.

I gasp against his mouth, and he swallows the sound, using the opportunity to kiss me deeper.

We're still tangled in blankets. Still pressed together in my tiny dorm bed. But suddenly the space feels too small and too big at the same time.

Nikolai rolls, taking me with him, until I'm on my back and he's hovering over me.

His weight settles between my thighs.

I can feel every inch of him against me—hard muscle, warm skin, and the very obvious evidence of exactly how much he wants me pressing against my inner thigh.

"Leah." My name comes out rough and desperate. "I need—"

"Yes," I breathe against his mouth.

Because I know what he needs.

I need it too.

His hand slides down my body, mapping curves and dips and soft skin with fingers that are somehow both gentle and possessive. Over my ribs. The curve of my waist. My hip.

Then lower.

His fingers trail along my inner thigh, and my breath hitches.

He pauses.

Completely freezes with his hand inches from where I'm already aching for him to touch.

I look up at him, confused by the sudden stop.

His dark eyes are locked on mine, and there's a question in them.

"Tell me you want this," he says quietly. "Je ne prendrai jamais—I will never take what you don't freely give. So tell me, papillon. Tell me this is what you want." I will never take—

My heart does something complicated in my chest.

Because this is consent.

Explicit. Clear. Asking for permission even though we're already naked and tangled together and I already said yes.

A tiny spike of the old panic hits my chest. Muscle memory from trauma that has nothing to do with him. The automatic fear response that says touch is dangerous and sex is a weapon and letting someone in means getting hurt.

But then I actually look at his face.

At Nikolai.

At the monster who spent seven days freezing on concrete because I told him to go away.

At the psychopath who drops to his knees for me.

At the boy with the broken brain who somehow learned how to care about someone other than himself.

And I realize something profound.

I trust him.

Completely.

Irrevocably.

Even after everything he's done, everything he's capable of, every dark and twisted part of his psyche—I trust him with my body in a way I've never trusted anyone.

So I spread my legs wider, opening myself to him.

Reach up and bite his bottom lip hard enough to make him groan.

"Don't stop," I breathe against his mouth. "Don't you dare fucking stop."

For exactly three seconds, Nikolai goes completely still.

His chest heaves like he just ran a marathon. His pupils are blown so wide his eyes look black. His whole body trembles with the effort of holding himself back.

Then he pulls away.

Completely.

Sits back on his heels, putting space between us.

I make a sound of protest—half confusion, half frustration—and reach for him.

"Wait." His voice is strained. Tight. Like every word costs him physically. "Just—give me a moment. Please."

I prop myself up on my elbows, staring at him.

His hands are clenched into fists on his thighs. His jaw is tight. There's a muscle ticking in his cheek.

"What's wrong?" Panic starts creeping in. "Did I—did I do something wrong? Did I trigger—"

"Non." He laughs, and it sounds broken. Desperate. "You're perfect. Tu es parfaite. That's not—" You're perfect.

He closes his eyes. Takes a deep breath.

When he opens them again, there's something vulnerable in his expression. Something I've never seen before.

"This is my first time," he says quietly.

I blink.

Process those words.

"What?"

"My first time," he repeats, and his voice is steadier now. More certain. "I've done foreplay in the past. Experimentation. Learning what bodies respond to and how to use sex as a manipulation tool. But I've never actually—" He gestures vaguely between us. "I've never had sex."

I stare at him.

Nikolai de Rivel. Crown Prince of two crime empires. Master manipulator. The Reaper who kills without hesitation. The psychopath who has probably had hundreds of people throw themselves at him.

Virgin.

"I don't understand."

"I refused." He says it simply. Matter-of-fact. "Sex is... intimate. Vulnerable. It requires a level of emotional exposure that I couldn't give to people who meant nothing. And everyone meant nothing."

He reaches out, his fingers brushing along my collarbone.

"Jusqu'à toi." Until you.

His eyes lock onto mine.

"I refused to give this part of myself to anyone until I found the one person in the world who actually mattered. The one person who could look at the monster I am and not just accept it, but match it. Challenge it. Make me want to be something other than empty."

He leans closer, his forehead almost touching mine.

"That person is you, Leah. It has only ever been you."

Oh.

Oh fuck.

The confession should probably terrify me. Should probably set off alarm bells about obsession and unhealthy attachment and all the psychology textbook warnings about codependency.

But all it does is make me want him more.

"Nikolai." I cup his face with both hands, forcing him to look at me. "I'm on birth control. The campus clinic. I've been on it for months because it helps with—other things. Medical things."

Understanding flashes across his face.

"There's nothing stopping us," I continue quietly. "Except you. So if you're not ready—if you need more time—I can wait. I can—"

He kisses me.

Hard and desperate and absolutely filthy.

"I've been ready since the moment I first saw you," he breathes against my lips. "Depuis le début." Since the beginning.

Then his hands are on me again, and this time he doesn't stop.

His fingers slide between my thighs, finding me wet and ready and aching for him. He groans at the discovery, the sound raw and unfiltered.

"Putain, Leah." His forehead drops to my shoulder. "Tu es tellement—" Fuck, Leah. You're so—

"Nikolai." My hands fist in his hair, pulling hard. "Please."

He lifts his head, his dark eyes meeting mine.

Then slowly—agonizingly slowly—he positions himself and starts to push inside.

He's careful. Gentle. Moving inch by inch like he's terrified of hurting me or triggering my trauma or doing anything that might make me panic.

It's sweet.

It's considerate.

It's completely wrong.

Because my sex-hazed brain can read him like a book now. Can see the tension in his shoulders. The restraint in his movements. The way his hands shake slightly where they're gripping my hips.

The monster inside him—the feral, possessive psychopath who wants to consume me—is locked in a cage of his own making.

And I don't want it caged.

I want it unleashed.

So when he's halfway inside me, still moving with that agonizing care, I grab his dark hair with both hands and pull him down until his face is inches from mine.

"Don't be gentle," I breathe.

He freezes. "Leah—"

"I'm not fragile." I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. "I'm not going to break. You spent months making me stronger, Nikolai. So stop treating me like I'm made of glass and fuck me like you actually want me."

Something in his expression shatters.

The careful control vanishes.

A dark, terrifying smirk crosses his face—the smile of the Reaper before he destroys something beautiful.

"Tu vas regretter ces mots, papillon," he growls. You're going to regret those words, butterfly.

Then he slams the rest of the way inside me in one brutal thrust.

I scream.

Not from pain—though there's a stretch, a burn, a feeling of being overwhelmingly full—but from the sheer intensity of it.

He doesn't give me time to adjust. Doesn't wait for my body to accommodate him. Just pulls out almost completely and drives back in with the same relentless force.

"Fuck!" My nails dig into his shoulders hard enough to draw blood. "Nikolai—"

"C'est ce que tu voulais, non?" His voice is rough and dark and absolutely feral. "You wanted me to stop being gentle. You wanted the monster." This is what you wanted, right?

He shifts the angle slightly, and suddenly he's hitting something inside me that makes my vision white out.

"Yes!" I'm babbling now, incoherent and desperate. "God, yes, don't stop—"

"Je ne m'arrêterai jamais." I'll never stop.

The careful rhythm shatters completely.

Becomes something raw and primal and utterly consuming.

He fucks me like he's trying to crawl inside my skin. Like he wants to erase any memory I have of existing without him. Like he's claiming every inch of me in a way that has nothing to do with romance and everything to do with possession.

And I let him.

I meet every brutal thrust with my own desperate movements. I scratch down his back. I bite his shoulder hard enough to leave marks. I lose myself completely in the feeling of him surrounding me, inside me, becoming part of me.

"Leah." My name is a prayer and a curse. "Mon papillon. Ma reine. Mon tout." My butterfly. My queen. My everything.

The orgasm hits me like a fucking train.

I come so hard I see stars, my entire body seizing as pleasure rips through me in waves. I scream his name—actually scream it—as he drives me through the climax and straight into another one.

"Encore," he demands against my ear. "Give me another one, papillon. I want to feel you come apart." Again.

He shifts our position without pulling out, rolling us so I'm on top.

"Ride me," he orders, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise. "Show me how much you want this."

I'm already oversensitive, already shaking, but I do what he says.

I roll my hips, finding a rhythm that makes both of us groan. His hands guide me, controlling the pace even as I'm the one moving.

"Parfaite." His eyes are locked on where we're joined, watching me take him over and over. "Tu es parfaite." Perfect. You're perfect.

The second orgasm builds slower but hits harder.

I come with his name on my lips, my body clenching around him as pleasure obliterates every coherent thought.

Before I've even finished shaking, he flips us again.

This time he pulls out completely, and I whimper at the loss.

"Turn over," he says roughly. "On your hands and knees."

I obey without thinking, my body moving on pure instinct.

He positions himself behind me, one hand gripping my hip, the other pressing between my shoulder blades to arch my back.

Then he slams back inside me.

This angle is deeper. More intense. Almost overwhelming.

"Nikolai—" I can barely form words. "I can't—I already—"

"Tu peux." His hand tangles in my hair, pulling my head back. "You can take it, papillon. You can take everything I give you." You can.

He's relentless.

Driving into me with a rhythm that's both brutal and precise, like he's conducting a symphony of my destruction.

My arms give out. I collapse forward onto the mattress, and he follows me down, covering my body with his.

The weight of him is crushing and perfect.

His teeth find the curve where my neck meets my shoulder, biting down hard enough to leave a mark.

"Mine," he growls against my skin. "You're mine, Leah. Say it."

"Yours," I gasp out. "I'm yours."

The third orgasm destroys me.

I come so hard I forget how to breathe, my body convulsing as pleasure turns into something almost painful in its intensity.

Only then—only after he's made sure I'm completely ruined—does Nikolai finally let himself go.

His rhythm falters. His grip on my hip becomes bruising. His breath comes in harsh pants against my shoulder.

"Leah—" It's a warning. A question. A plea.

"Yes," I manage. "Come inside me. I want—"

He doesn't let me finish.

He slams into me one final time and comes incredibly hard, his release tearing a rough, desperate groan from his throat.

I feel him pulsing inside me, feel the warmth spreading, feel the way his entire body shudders as the orgasm rips through him.

He buries his face in my neck, breathing hard, his weight crushing me into the mattress.

We stay like that for a long time.

Neither of us moving.

Neither of us speaking.

Just breathing together in the aftermath.

Finally, he shifts slightly, and I wince at the sensitivity.

"Pardon." He presses a kiss to my shoulder. "Did I hurt you?" Sorry.

"No." My voice is wrecked. Hoarse from screaming. "You didn't hurt me."

He pulls out carefully, and we both groan at the loss of contact.

Then he collapses beside me, pulling me against his chest so we're facing each other.

His fingers trace lazy patterns on my back.

His dark eyes study my face like he's memorizing every detail.

"Leah."

"Hmm?"

"Je t'aime." I love you.

The words are quiet. Simple. Absolute.

I look up at him—at the monster who just completely destroyed me in the best possible way.

"I love you too, Nikolai," I whisper.

His expression softens into something almost human.

He leans forward and kisses me.

Gentle this time. Tender.

"Only you," he breathes against my lips. "It will only ever be you."

And somehow, I believe him.

Because we didn't just claim each other's bodies.

Two broken people—a girl with trauma and a boy without the capacity for normal emotion—just learned how to be whole together in the dark.

And maybe that's fucked up.

Maybe that's twisted.

Maybe that's the most unhealthy relationship dynamic two people could possibly create.

But it's ours.

And I wouldn't change it for anything.