"Feel you," he gasps. "So close?—"
The first wave hits me like lightning. My pussy clenches hard around his cock, milking him as pleasure rips through every nerve. I cry out, body convulsing beneath his. He groans deep in his chest, the sound vibrating through both of us.
"Fuck—Kaleigh?—"
His hips slam forward once, twice, then he's coming with me. Hot pulses fill my pussy as his cock throbs deep inside. His whole body shudders, face buried in my neck as he emptieshimself. I feel every spasm, every drop of his release marking me from within.
We ride it together: waves crashing, breath stolen, hearts hammering against each other. His hand squeezes mine tighter as the aftershocks roll through us both. Smaller tremors that make us gasp and cling.
When the storm passes, we're tangled and spent. His cock still twitches inside me, oversensitive. My pussy pulses around him, drawing out the last whispers of pleasure. Sweat cools on our skin. The safehouse settles around us, quiet except for our ragged breathing.
He lifts his head to study my face, pupils blown wide. His thumb traces my cheekbone with infinite tenderness.
"Beautiful," he whispers. "When you come apart like that."
I capture his hand, pressing a kiss to his palm. He's still buried deep, neither of us ready to break the connection. The bond between us hums satisfied and complete.
I can't imagine my life now any other way.
28
RAFE
Moonlight slants through the ruined windows, pale and fractured by broken glass, casting sharp reflections across scorched stone and shattered beams. The villa’s corridors echo with the memory of fire—charred walls, smudged soot, embers half-dead in fallen urns. Smoke lingers in corners, curling like ghosts reluctant to leave.
But in this one room, we find a bubble of calm, a fragile silence that feels impossible after the devastation. The air is heavy, warm, scented faintly of ember and lavender from the herbs Kaleigh tucked in the windows that morning. Shadows flicker across walls as candlelight trembles. In the quiet, I feel every scar in my bones, every echo of rage and grief pulled back, waiting.
She sits near the hearth, a single candle flickering beside her, pages of old Pact scrolls spread like a fan across her lap. The margins are annotated in her hand, ink smudged from dust and sweat and hope.
Her hair falls loose over her shoulders, damp in places where sweat and ash cling, glowing faintly here and there with that light I’ve come to recognize—not just the Seal’s echo butsomething deeper. She raises her eyes when I enter, softening, and I swallow the chaos in my chest.
I step into the circle of light we’ve carved out for tonight and let the door click shut behind me. The world beyond these walls feels distant. Rain taps on the broken rooftop, an insistent rhythm, and I imagine the water will wash away the blood, at least for a night. I don’t speak at once. I don’t dare break this fragile calm. I walk slowly, boots heavy on stone, and sit beside her, fingers brushing across her hair—not needing to ask permission. She leans toward me, as though she’s been waiting for me to close that distance.
“How do you feel?” I ask, voice rough from smoke and stress.
She turns, eyes bright. “Alive,” she says quietly. “Hopeful. Even here.” The way she says it carries weight—hope in a place built of ruin. She lifts her hand and flexes her fingers, the glow flickering beneath her skin like embers stirred by wind. I want to trace every line of light on her hand, but I wait. Some things demand stillness.
I reach for her hand, smooth with dust, and hold it between my own. Its glow warms my palm. I feel her pulse—steady, defiant. My throat constricts. “Do you regret any of this?” I ask, the words dragging years behind them. “The pain, the blood, everything we’ve had to face?”
She laughs then, low and soft, a sound that echoes in my chest. “Not even the blood,” she says. She lifts her chin slightly, measuring me with those luminous eyes. “Not the nights I felt broken. Not the moments I begged for darkness.” The boldness in her voice cuts through me. She meets me halfway. I close the distance, pressing my forehead to hers. Rain drums on the rooftop, wind rattles cracked windowpanes, and somewhere a shutter swings in the breeze. But between us, the world tightens to just skin and breath.
“I promise I will never walk alone again,” I murmur, voice raw. It’s a vow born from desperation and longing. She presses a hand to my chest, right over my heart. Her fingers trace the line of a scar. Her glow pulses. “You won’t,” she says. “You never will.”
Then I kiss her. Gentle first, but hunger cracks through it. I taste ash, smoke, determination, and her skin beneath my lips seems to burn brighter than the candles around us. I cradle her face in my hands, thumb brushing across her cheek. Her glow mirrors the flickering firelight, shadows dancing across her features. Every breath she draws seems to anchor me. Her lips part, she leans in deeper.
Around us, the villa creaks. A roof beam sags. A distant gust of wind rattles the charcoal-dark shutters. But we steal the moment. We anchor it. I press kisses along her jaw, her neck, tasting salt and smoke and something daring—her pulse beneath my lips. She arches into me, pressing her body into mine, and I feel strength and vulnerability collide. My arms tighten around her.
She pulls back just a little, breathing fast. Her eyes shine with emotion—fear, joy, fierce determination. She reaches for my face again. “Tell me a secret,” she says softly.
I hesitate. A lifetime of ghosts sits behind my ribs. But I whisper: “I’ve always been afraid. Afraid I’d lose you before I earned you. Afraid that even if I fought, I wouldn’t deserve your light.” My voice cracks.
She shakes her head. “You always deserved it. Even when you stood in shadow, I saw you.” She presses her forehead to mine. I feel her warmth, the glow under her skin threading into mine.
We kiss again, and it’s fierce. The candle gutter flickers, wax pools. Rain hammers the roof above. The wind pulses through holes in the stone, carrying distant thunder. But here, inside, we are tethered to each other and nothing can dislodge that.
Eventually, she guides me down, letting us fall tangled into the bed. The mattress sags where we lay, pillows askew. Shadows spread across walls like ink. I hold her close, limbs entwined, her head resting on my chest. I feel the slow rise and fall of her breath, hear it echo in my ribs. My arms wrap around her, hands brushing against her waist, hair, back. I trace the fine lines along her collarbone, the glow beneath her skin pulsing gently in time with her heart.
The night stretches around us. Outside, rain drums, windows sigh. Torches in the courtyard gutter, embers drift upward across broken glass. But inside this room, in this moment, the world holds its breath. There is neither war nor fear—not yet. Just two people, battered but alive, holding something fragile and beautiful.
