I said I wanted to be shared, not owned.
But what if those two things were never separate options?
“Easy,” Nathaniel murmurs again, kissing my damp hair.
“‘Gentle,’ huh?” Talon huffs a laugh. “Think we got shockingly close this time. For us, anyway.”
I want to snarl at him. I want to kiss him. I want to sink my teeth into his shoulder until he feels me tomorrow. All I manage is a broken little sound against Nathaniel’s throat—wrecked, dizzy, ruined in the exact way I asked for.
I knew these men couldn’t dogentle.
Turns out, I can’t either.
And saints preserve me, I think I like the monster I become in their hands.
The crows never leave.
They’re still there the next morning.
And the morning after that.
And the morning afterthat.
At this point I’m ninety percent sure they’ve unionized.
Everything that was haunting us before is still haunting us now, just… politely. Like it actually heard us and gave us a sick week. It plays perfectly into my men’s coaxing for me to relax, so I let it. I keep pretending that if I don’t make eye contact with the cosmic horror looming above my head, it doesn’t exist.
I’m perfecting the art of denial, and frankly? Fuck it. It’s treating me beautifully so far.
The guys treat me beautifully, too.
Better than beautifully.
One morning, after Talon fucks me into the mattress hard enough that I forget my own name for a solid sixty seconds, I finally stagger downstairs in search of water, dignity, or maybe a second round. The hospital’s ground floor is half shadows, halfmid-morning light, and smells faintly of disinfectant and coffee. I collapse onto the couch and melt into the cushions.
Cassian’s already there, shirtless, carving vegetables at the kitchenette. When he notices me, he silently crosses the room, pours me coffee, pours one for himself, and goes back to the workstation.
His version of affection is deadly stillness, and I’ve grown addicted to it.
I’ve also grown addicted to how danger looks on him. How a knife becomes an extension of his hand. How he wears lethality so naturally it’s toe-curling.
He glances at me sideways. “Hungry?”
“Maybe,” I say slowly, draping my arm over the back of the couch like a lazy cat in heat. “Depends what you’re offering to feed me.”
The smallest flicker touches the corner of his mouth. Then his jaw works—once, twice—before he lifts his eyes to me.
That look alone is a felony.
“You know what I want to feed you.”
Oh, Ido. And I want it. And suddenly every vertebra in my back forgets gravity and turns into something molten.
I have to bury the pathetic little laugh that threatens to escape, coughing into my fist like a child. Cassian may be made of ice and bloodlust, but the instant something cracks through that armor? I drop straight through the floor like I’ve been trapdoored through my own ribcage.
“Do I?” I tilt my head, goading him gently. “Because I’ve been sitting here for some time, and you’restillover there. If you want to feed me, Cas, maybe you should—”
He’s already halfway decided. I can feel it in the subtle shift of weight in his stance, the widening of his shoulders, the way his gaze drags over me. He’s about to move—
