He moves like something unchained.
With effortless strength, he lifts me and sets me on the table. Books clatter to the floor, followed by a quiet curse. He glances back at the others, but whatever blessing Death’s granted us, they sleep like corpses.
He steps between my knees, spreading them. His belt—still binding my wrists—is now wrapped around his fist, anchoring me to him.
And then he kisses me.
This time, it’s ten times better. Because I let myself feel it. All of it.
His teeth scrape my lip. His tongue slips into my mouth like it’s claiming me. And my whole body buzzes from the inside out.
I arch into him, legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer. His hips slam into mine. Hard. I feel the press of weapons, of gear beneath the thin fabric of my scrubs. All edge and heat and the sharp, undeniable truth of who he is.
A killer.
And somehow, the friction of that—of him—ignites something deep and primal. Sparks flare behind my eyes. My back bows instinctively, chasing more.
And in that moment, it hits me: I have no idea what I’ve just agreed to.
I’ve had sex before. I was married, for fuck’s sake. But that? That was ritual. Obligation. Something hollow I endured while trying to enjoy it but never knowing how to.
This?
This is being seen. This is being wanted.
No.Devoured.
Mark was suffocation.
Not just literally—though yes, the bastard did kill me in the most poetic fucking way—but in all the creeping, quiet ways. He filled every space like fog, curling into every corner until nothing was left untouched. He was control, obsession, ego disguised as care. A slow choke that looked like love from the outside.
He stole the air from the room. From my lungs. From my soul.
Talon?
Talon is oxygen set on fire.
He’s motion. Heat. Life. The kind that pulses through the dark and dares you to chase it. He burns at the edges, dances just out of reach, then pulls you straight into the flames.
He’s not asking for permission. He’s asking how much I can take.
And me?
I want to find out.
“Relax,” he murmurs behind me, voice low, intimate. Almost gentle. “What’s got you thinking so hard?”
When I don’t answer, he leans in. His chest presses to my back, his breath warm at my neck.
“Is it Cassian?” he whispers, teeth grazing my ear. “Or Nathaniel?”
His words curl through me.
There’s jealousy in them—sharp, dark edges wrapped in teasing.
But it’s not them. I wish it was.
Silence stretches between us. Just our mingled breathing, the soft creak of the table under us, and the distant, steady heartbeat of the night.
