“You feel everything,” he gasps.
“I feel you,” I pant. “Gods, I feel you everywhere.”
He lifts one of my legs, angling me so every thrust slams against that perfect spot inside me, and I scream—raw, wrecked, begging. The table thumps with every motion. Our bodies slap together, soaked and shining with sweat and desire.
He grinds against me, and I unravel. My orgasm hits like lightning—blinding, burning, infinite. I sob his name, stars bursting behind my eyelids.
He doesn’t stop.
He fucks me through it, then up into another, and another, until I’m gasping, shaking, spent. Only then does he let go, roaring my name as he spills inside me, his cock pulsing deep, each spasm like a vow.
We collapse together, skin to scale, chest to chest.
Our breathing slows. Our heartbeats sync.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper against his skin.
He brushes a strand of hair from my face. “Don’t be. Just... don’t leave.”
I nod.
Not because I’m sure.
But because right now, I want to believe there’s still something left to stay for.
When he finally pulls back, I curl against his chest. His arms wrap around me like a fortress.
Outside, the wind howls through the broken shutters.
Inside, the fire crackles low.
But for the first time in weeks, the storm in my chest is quiet.
I don’t know what tomorrow brings.
But tonight, I am warm.
And I am not alone.
CHAPTER 18
KENRON
She’s curled beneath my blanket like the gods carved her to fit there. One arm draped across her belly, hair like burnished light fanned over the pillow. There’s a ridge of soft skin exposed between the sheet and her shoulder, and it calls to me like a promise.
The window’s cracked—barely—but the early light cuts through it in this holy sort of way. Pale blue, soft around the edges, the kind of light that turns even rusted metal into something sacred. It brushes across her cheekbones, her mouth, the slope of her throat. I’ve never seen her look like this. Peaceful. Not guarded. Not flint-eyed and snarling through conversation. Just... human. And whole.
It guts me.
I sit on the edge of the bed, elbows braced on my knees, trying not to breathe too loud. My hand’s still dusted in the scent of her skin. Earth and sweat and whatever she put in her hair. I should pull back the sheet, go clean up, maybe put on a shirt and pretend last night didn’t rip the floor out from under me. But I don’t. I just sit there and watch her sleep like I’m afraid the moment’ll vanish if I blink too slow.
Because truth is? I never thought she’d come back. But she did.
And not to beg. Not to say sorry in that tight, brittle way she’s got when she’s lying to herself. She came to fight. She came like fire—shoulders square, eyes full of steel, voice low and shaking but real—and she looked me in the face and said, “I was wrong.” No stammer. No deflection.
Just that.
Then she kissed me like we were made for ending wars together.
