Annie
Ifelt claimed.
My body still throbbed with the memory of his hands pinning me down, his teeth grazing my neck, the delicious stretch of his knot locking us together. Every inch of me felt marked—not like property, but like territory worth fighting for. My skin still burned where he'd touched me, like he'd left invisible fingerprints that only I could feel.
When he looked at me now, I could see the hunger hadn't faded—that same primal need to possess me completely, to make me come apart under him again and again until I couldn't remember my own name. And God help me, I wanted him to. I wanted to be ruined and remade by those hands, that mouth, that perfect, brutal tenderness that saw every desperate, needy part of me and wanted more.
That was the part that made my head go fuzzy as Samiel carried me up the last switchback, my shorts bunched in one hand and the rest of me bundled against his chest like I was something fragile. The air was starless and blue-black, the skyabove the valley so endless it felt like I’d slipped out of the world entirely. Sweat dried on my skin, dirt crusted on my knees, but the heat in my chest never cooled. Everything felt too sharp: the scrape of his calluses, the wet pulse between my legs, the sting of rock dust and sage in my lungs. Every step he took, I remembered the way he’d held me down—pinnedme—I wanted to make it happen again, even if I had to let him win every time.
By the time the lights of the house came back into view, my brain was half shut down from aftershocks. My thighs still shook, and every little jolt set off a secondhand quake in my stomach. I’d never come like that; I didn’t think it was possible for a person to lose it so completely, to be so ruined and want more. I was used to sex as performance, as leverage, as a means of getting what I wanted (even if what I wanted was sometimes just to feel wanted). This wasn’t that. This was: you lose, and you win anyway.
At the top of the deck, Samiel slowed, then stopped, wings drooped so wide they blotted out the porch lights. He waited, breathing hard, as if he was afraid to set me down and risk the spell breaking. I let my face rest against the curve of his neck, inhaled the furnace of his skin, and made a low, involuntary whine. He tightened his grip, like he was scared I’d be snatched away.
“Do you want to go inside?” he asked, his voice frayed around the edges.
I shook my head. “Not yet.”
He sank down to the deck, folding his legs under us, and set me in his lap. It was colder up here, the wind off the lake smelling like wet iron and desert, but I didn’t care. I was still slick with sweat and him; my scalp was a mess of snarled hair and dust. I sat there, leaning into his chest, and let the silence fill up with the sound of our synchronized breathing.
His scent was still all over me, marking me as his in a way no human man ever could. I ran my fingertips over the tender bruises forming on my hips, pressing lightly to feel that sweet ache bloom again. My body remembered the weight of him, the way he'd covered me completely. I thought of the run—how my heart had hammered against my ribs on the descent when I realized I wanted him to catch me. My legs had kept pumping anyway, making him work for it, making him prove how badly he wanted me. I imagined us years from now, me darting through these same trails, him always just a few strides behind, both of us knowing exactly how it would end. His. Mine. Ours.
We didn’t talk for a while. The wind rattled the porch railing, and the moon came out, a pale coin caught on the edge of the clouds. Eventually, Samiel shifted, tucking the tangle of my hair behind my ear. His hands, so brutal a few minutes ago, stroked the side of my face with a care that made me want to cry.
“Do you want a bath?” he asked, and the question was so out of place, so gentle, it made me snort.
“Are you offering to scrub the dirt off, or just watch?”
He considered. "I could do both. But I'll stay outside the door, if you want. Just in case it's too much." His voice shrank on that last word, his wings drawing in tight against his back. I twisted in his lap until I could see his face—the downturned eyes, the tight line of his mouth.
"I wanted you to claim me, Sam. Every mark, every bruise." I traced my fingers along his jaw where the muscle pulsed beneath my touch. "I ran so you would chase me. I fought so you would pin me. I wanted all of it."
He nodded, but I could tell he didn’t believe me. He was holding me so carefully now, like I was some piece of glass he’d just learned was already cracked. “Still. You should have a bath. You need it more than I do.”
I pushed up, tested my legs, and nearly laughed when my knees buckled. “You going to help, or just watch me crawl?”
He stood, scooped me up—no warning, no effort, just hands under my thighs and back, wings curled to keep out the cold. He carried me inside, through the kitchen and up the stairs.
He carried me all the way to the upstairs bathroom, the one with the sunken black marble tub and the rack of fancy towels I’d been too chicken to use this morning. He set me down on the counter, careful to keep my knees from banging the edge, and started the water. I watched his face in the mirror as he tested the temperature with the back of his wrist and frowned, like he was worried it wouldn’t be perfect.
He filled the tub, then rummaged through the cabinet for bath salts and a tiny bottle of bubble bath, which he uncorked and sniffed before pouring a cautious glug into the running water. The smell was sweet, like gardenias and petrichor, and the first curl of steam made the whole room soften around the corners.
He hesitated, wings tucked tight, hands balled into fists at his sides. “You want me to help you in?” he asked, but there was a wariness in his voice, like he thought I might say no, or worse, that I’d changed my mind about everything that happened outside.
But I wanted him. Here, now, even in this. “Stay,” I said, reaching for his hand. “I don’t want to be alone.”
He blinked, processing, then let his shoulders drop. I saw the relief on his face, but also something softer, almost embarrassed. He helped me peel off what was left of my shirt, the fabric stiff with dust and sweat. He was careful with his claws, always, and when he touched my skin, it was with the gentlest pressure, as if afraid to leave another bruise. He saw the red prints on my hips, the bite marks on my shoulder, the rawness between my thighs. For a second, his jaw clenched likehe wanted to apologize, but he didn’t—he just met my eyes in the mirror and waited for me to flinch.
I didn’t. I wanted every mark, every aching patch of skin. I wanted to know he’d been there.
He helped me into the bath. The water stung at first, in all the places he’d left his mark, but the heat numbed it quickly. I sank down, let the bubbles rise to my chin, and melted. He knelt beside the tub, one big hand braced on the tile, the other hovering just above my knee, as if waiting for permission.
I reached for him, pulled his hand into the water, and settled it just above my shin. "Get in with me," I said, and tugged at his wrist.
He laughed a little and shook his head. "I'll break the tub," he said, but the protest was half-hearted.
"Try," I said.
Samiel gave a little snort, then kicked off his sweatpants and stepped over the side, careful and slow. He was so broad across the chest that for a second I thought he really would shatter the porcelain, but the tub just groaned and settled, the waterline rising to the very lip. He folded himself behind me, wings draping up and over the towel bar like expensive blackout curtains. I leaned back against his chest, and his hands found my shoulders, thumbs making small circles against the knots there. I traced idle patterns on his forearm with my fingertips, following the ridges of muscle and tendon. Neither of us spoke. We just breathed together, his chin resting on the top of my head, my palm sliding lazily up and down his calf.
