He's standing in the corridor, frozen mid-motion. Eyes solid black, no gold remaining. Shirt askew like he dressed in a hurry, or maybe undressed—I can see the planes of his chest through the gap. Claws out, gleaming in the torchlight.
"Come in," I say again. "Stay with me."
"If I come in there, I won't be able to stop." His voice breaks on the words. "The rut is already?—"
"I know what happens when you come inside." I step back, making space. "I'm asking anyway."
Something shifts in his expression. That careful control he's been maintaining for weeks—through dinners and conversations and one almost-kiss that still burns on my lips—cracking apart.
Then he's through the door.
It slams behind him. His hands find my waist, my hips, sliding over bare skin with a reverence that makes my breath catch. I'm already naked, already dripping, and his fingers find the slick between my thighs and he makes a sound like I've wounded him.
"Kess—"
I grab his shirt and haul him down to me.
The kiss is nothing like before.
Not the violent claiming on the altar, teeth and blood and fury. Not the desperate collision in the armory, more battle than embrace. Not even the ghost of a kiss in my chambers, that brush of lips before he pulled away.
This is soft.
His mouth moves against mine slowly, learning the shape of me, the taste. His hand comes up to cup my jaw, thumb stroking my cheekbone like I'm something precious. Something worth being careful with.
I've bitten this man. Torn chunks from his throat. Swallowed his blood while he fucked me against stone walls.
But this—this gentle press of lips, this tender exploration—this undoes me in ways violence never could.
I make a sound against his mouth, something embarrassingly close to a whimper, and he swallows it. Deepens the kiss by degrees, tongue sliding against mine, still so careful, still so controlled.
I don't want controlled.
I bite his lower lip—not hard, not to hurt, just enough to feel him shudder. He groans and the careful kiss fractures into something hungrier, his hand fisting in my hair, tilting my head back to take my mouth more thoroughly.
Better.
My hands work at his clothes, shoving the shirt off his shoulders, fumbling with the laces of his trousers. He helps, stripping efficiently, and then he's naked and I let myself look.
Really look, for the first time without heat-madness blurring the edges.
He's built like a weapon. Broad shoulders that block out the lamplight, arms corded with muscle that flexes as he reaches for me, chest wide and sculpted and scattered with dark hair that trails down his stomach in a line I want to follow with my tongue. His skin is pale gold, marked here and there with old scars—a slash across his ribs, a starburst on his shoulder, the claiming marks I've left on his throat still pink and healing. His hips are narrow, his thighs thick with power, and between them his cock juts hard and flushed, the head slick and weeping, bigger than I remembered.
He's terrifying. He's beautiful.
He's mine.
Then he's pressing me back toward the bed and the heat roars through me so intensely I nearly black out.
"Wait." He stops, breathing hard, holding himself above me. "Wait. I want to?—"
"What?" I'm panting, desperate, every nerve screaming for him to stop talking and start fucking.
"I want to do this right." His thumb traces my lower lip, and even that small touch sends sparks cascading down my spine. "Not just rutting. Not just satisfying the heat. I want to actually—" He stops, swallows. "I want to make love to you."
The words hang between us.
Make love. Like we're something other than a monster and his captive. Like we're two people who chose each other, who want each other, who might be building something worth keeping.
