I scoop her up, carrying her to the bed. The sheets are cool and unfamiliar beneath us, our limbs a desperate tangle as I push her down. I strip her with shaking hands—her shirt, her bra, the last defenses she has left. She arches, baring herself not just in body but in the wild, unguarded look in her eyes. I am relentless, feasting on her skin, her throat, the pulse at the hollow of her collarbone. She tastes like salt, like fear, like something new and dangerous blooming in the dark.
She claws at me, nails raking red tracks down my back, her own hips bucking up to meet me. I pin her wrists above her head, holding her there with one hand, the other exploring, demanding, learning her body as if I have the right. She trembles, torn between fury and want, her legs parting to let me in.
Sera’s fingers fumble for my zip and my cock springs free. I’m already hard, and she gasps as she takes me into her hands.
I want to own her. I want to mark her, ruin her for anyone else, for any other life. I press into her with no gentleness, just the blunt force of years spent denying myself any softness. She gasps, the sound sharp, shocked, but she doesn’t pull away.
Her eyes fly open, meeting mine, pleading and furious and needy all at once.
I thrust into her, cock pulsing, the rhythm harsh, desperate, not giving either of us a chance to breathe. She whimpers, her head tossing back, the sheets bunching in her fists. I slow, just for a moment, easing the burn, pressing kisses along her jaw, her temple, her eyelids.
“Sera,” I whisper, the word a plea, a confession. “Be a good girl for me, yeah?”
She moans my name softer now, surrendering to the drag of my hips, the heat building between us.
I move faster, harder, chasing the high I’ve denied myself for too long. She clings to me, nails digging into my shoulders, her body arching up to meet every stroke.
Her voice breaks, a sob, a curse, a cry of something she can’t name. I watch her unravel beneath me, the mask of hatred and fear slipping away, leaving only hunger and the purest, rawest need.
Her legs wrap around my waist, dragging me deeper. Sweat slicks our bodies, the air thick with the scent of sex and longing. Every movement is a war, her hips twisting to meet mine, her teeth catching my lip, her hands tangled in my hair.
I murmur to her, Russian and English, promises I don’t remember making. I tell her she’s mine, that I’ll never let her go, that no one will ever touch her again.
She answers in broken syllables, pleading for more, for mercy, for release. Her voice is hoarse, her body shaking. I thrust harder, pushing her to the edge, savoring the way she clings to me, the way her body bows with every stroke. She comes undone, a scream muffled against my shoulder, her whole body tensing, shaking, clutching at me like I’m the only thing keeping her from falling apart.
The sight, the sound, the feel of her breaking under me rips the control from my hands. I follow her, my own climax tearing through me, white-hot and violent. I bury my face in her neck, breathing her in, losing myself in the storm we’ve made.
I come deep inside of her, and her walls clench around my cock as her second release hits like a tidal wave. She gasps, and I grip her hips so tightly I’m sure they’ll bruise.
For a long moment, there is only the sound of our hearts pounding, the ragged echo of our breathing in the quiet. I hover above her, arms shaking, the taste of her sweat and tears on mytongue. She lies beneath me, bare, exposed, her chest heaving, eyes shining with something I don’t want to name.
When I finally pull back, guilt coils tight in my chest. The bed is a mess, the sheets tangled, her hair wild around her face. She turns her head away, hiding her tears, her trembling, her confusion. I want to reach for her, to say something that might soften the violence of what we’ve done, but the words die in my throat.
I realize then that whatever I meant to take from her—power, submission, obedience—I’ve lost something of myself in return. I can’t go back to the man I was before this night. She’s carved her name into me, claimed a piece of the darkness I thought I could control.
She meets my gaze, finally, her eyes wet and wary. There is terror in them, yes, but also understanding. Something raw and human I can’t look away from. It terrifies me more than any enemy ever has.
We lie there, caught in the aftermath, neither of us able to speak. I watch her, wondering if I’ve damned us both, if I’ve crossed a line that can’t be uncrossed. My hand hovers over her cheek, longing to comfort and claim, but I stop myself.
She doesn’t tell me to leave. That’s what undoes me most.
I lie beside her, silent, heart pounding with regret and need and the slow, dawning knowledge that nothing will ever be the same.
I lie beside her, staring at the ceiling, breath still rough in my chest. Her warmth presses along my side, her hair fanned out across the pillows, her body trembling in the aftermath.
I don’t reach for her. Instead, my hand hovers above her hip, caught between the urge to soothe and the certainty that Ihave no right. The room is quiet, the only sound our unsteady breathing, the ghost of her last whispered plea.
Sera turns her face into the pillow, silent tears tracking down her cheeks. I want to comfort her, to say something that will make this bearable, but there are no words left.
I watch her instead, memorizing every detail, every shiver, the rise and fall of her back as she fights for control. My own body aches with the violence of what we’ve done—with need, with guilt, with a desperate hope that maybe, somehow, she will see the man I became for her tonight.
Chapter Nineteen - Seraphina
The morning after is a fog. I wake tangled in sheets that smell like him—smoke and something darker, something hungry. Light seeps around the curtains, soft and gold, but it brings no comfort.
My body aches, bruised inside and out, and for a moment I let myself remember: his hands, his mouth, the desperate way he took me. I should hate him for it—hate myself too, for giving in after everything he’s done, after every line he’s crossed. But as I stretch, soreness blooming under my skin, my body betrays me. I shiver at the memory of his touch. Shame curls inside me, sharp as a knife.
I want to scrub the night from my skin. Instead, I sit up, pressing my palm to my lips, willing myself not to cry. Every inch of me aches with contradiction.
