“You don’t want me.” The words hurt coming out. “You want what the bond makes you feel. You want—”
“I wantyou.” Her hand finds my face. Cups my jaw. Forces me to look at her when every instinct is screaming to look away. “The real you. Not the bond. I don’t care about the corruption. I want you.”
“Kaia—”
“Tell me to stop.” Her voice is steady. Certain. “Tell me you don’t want this, and I’ll stop. I’ll pull away. We’ll pretend this never happened.”
I should tell her to stop.
I should be strong enough to do that.
But she’s looking at me like I’m something worth wanting. Like the broken, corrupted, ruined thing I’ve become might still deserve to be touched.
And I am so tired of fighting.
“I can’t.” The confession tears out of me. Raw. Wrecked. “I can’t tell you to stop. I’ve wanted you for so long it feels like dying, and I—”
She kisses me.
The taste of her floods my senses — soft and desperate andreal, nothing like the forced intimacy of the arena. This is her choice. Her want. Her mouth moving against mine like she’s been waiting for exactly this moment.
I’m lost.
My hands find her hips. Pull her closer. She swings a leg over me, straddling my waist, and the heat of her pressed against my cock makes every thought in my head dissolve.
Around us, I feel the shadows shift.
They’re not hostile. They’re watching.
I can feel it.
Mouse makes a sound that might be approval.
They’re not stopping this.
They’re not stopping this.
“Are you sure?” I manage against her lips. “Kaia— I need you to be sure—”
“I’m sure.” She rocks against me, grinding down on my cock through the thin fabric separating us, and stars explode behind my eyes. “I’ve been sure. I just didn’t know how to tell you.”
“We have to be quiet,” I breathe. “The others—”
“I know.” She’s already tugging at my shirt. “I know, I’ll be quiet, just—”
Her hands find bare skin and she gasps. Not quiet.
“Shh—” I clamp a hand over her mouth, but I’m laughing despite myself. Despite everything. “You’re terrible at this.”
She bites my palm. I yank it back.
“Your fault,” she whispers. “You’re the one who—”
I kiss her to shut her up.
Her shirt comes off. Then the rest. Layers shed in clumsy, urgent movements until there’s nothing between us but skin and heat and the bond humming in my chest.
The wrongness is still there — that sour twist I’ve carried since Thorne first gave me corrupted magic. But it’s quieter now. Muted. Like something inside it is waiting to see what happens next.
