"Yes."
The word hangs between us like a confession at an execution.
Nesilhan's face crumples, and for a moment, I think she might cry. Might scream. Might finally let out the grief she's been holding in her chest like broken glass.
Instead, she straightens. Wipes her eyes. And something shifts in her expression.
"Come here," she says.
I blink. "What?"
"You heard me." Her voice has gone soft. Dangerous. "Come here, husband."
Every instinct I possess screams that this is a trap. But I'm a moth to her flame, always have been, so I cross the distance between us.
When I'm close enough to touch, she reaches up and cups my bloodied face. Her thumb traces the wounds her nails left, and the gentleness of the gesture is devastating.
"Do you want me to forgive you?" she asks.
"More than anything." The admission costs me, but I give it anyway.
Her smile is slow. Measuring. "Then make me come. Make me forget for a few minutes that our child is dead and you're the reason why."
My mouth crashes against hers, swallowing whatever protest she might have made. She tastes like tears and rage and home,and when her teeth sink into my already injured lip again, I don't pull away.
I kiss her harder.
Let her violence fuel mine.
Let her pain mingle with my own until neither of us can tell where one ends and the other begins.
My shadows wrap around her thighs, lifting her against the wall. Her nightgown tears—whether from my hands or my shadows, I neither know nor care. All that matters is skin against skin, her heat against my eternal cold.
"Tell me to stop," I demand against her throat.
"No."
"Tell me you don't want this."
"I can't." Her hips roll against mine, seeking friction. "I hate myself for it, but I can't lie through the bond. You know I want this even though I shouldn't."
Through our damaged connection, I feel the war raging inside her. Hatred and desire twisted together so tightly they're inseparable. Grief and need feeding off each other in ways that should be impossible but somehow aren't.
"I'm going to fuck you," I tell her, my voice dropping to that dangerous register that used to make her shiver. "And you're going to let me."
"Promises, promises," she breathes, but there's no humor in it.
I carry her to the bed, my shadows already spreading her thighs before I even set her down. She's wet—fuck, she's soaked—and when my fingers brush against her entrance, she releases a shuddering gasp that goes straight to my cock.
"Look at you," I murmur, settling between her legs. "Hatun. So desperate for a monster's touch."
"Shut up and put your mouth on me."
"Since you asked so sweetly."
I drag my tongue up her center in one long, slow lick, and her entire body arches off the bed. She tastes like salt and sin and everything I've been denied for so long. I devour her with single-minded intensity, using every lesson learned during our brief time when she didn't hate me.
My shadows wrap around her thighs, holding her open. One hand braces on her hip—right over the faint silver lines that mark where our child once grew—while the other slides up to cup her breast. I alternate between long, slow licks and focused attention on her clit, building her higher and higher until she's sobbing.
