If she doesn't kill me first.
"Fuck, I'm close," I growl. "Going to fill this tight little cunt. Going to pump you full of my cum one more time before everything changes." My claw works her clit frantically, and I feel her body starting to tighten, that telltale flutter that means she's close too. "Come for me, Adelaide. Come all over my cock like the dirty slut you are. Show me that my dragon cock is all you'll ever want."
"Tomorrow," I pant, my rhythm becoming erratic as my orgasm builds. "Tomorrow, I'll call you my love, my treasure, my princess. But tonight... tonight you're my slut. My whore. My perfect little fucktoy that I've been using for a hundred years."
I feel her body start to convulse, that phantom orgasm that her sleeping body still experiences, and it pushes me over the edge. "Fuck, Adelaide, fuck!" I roar, slamming into her one final time as I come, filling her with my release. "Good girl. Good girl. Good girl." I chant the words in tune with my final thrusts.
I collapse over her, my chest heaving, my cock still buried inside her. Tears are streaming down my face now, and I'm shaking with the force of my emotions.
"I love you," I whisper brokenly. "I love you so much it's killing me. I'm ready to wake you. I'm finally ready."
I pull out slowly, watching my cum leak out of her, marking her as mine one last time. I clean her gently, reverently, my touch tender now that the madness has passed.
"Tomorrow," I murmur.
I lie down beside her, pulling her into my arms. My tail wraps around her leg possessively. My wing drapes over her like a blanket.
"I don't want to do this," I admit to the darkness.
I press a kiss to her forehead, gentle and reverent.
I close my eyes, holding her close, memorizing the feel of her in my arms. Because tomorrow, she might never let me hold her again.
"I love you," I whisper one more time like it's a prayer. And maybe it is. "And I'm so sorry. For everything. But I'm not sorry enough to let you go."
I drift off, exhausted. Memorizing the rise and fall of her chest as she sleeps. The slope of her nose. The flutter of her lashes against her cheeks as she settled into sleep herself.
The knife is small.
Ceremonial. Older than I am. Its edge gleams in the candlelight, and for a moment, I think of all the things I have cut away for her. Kings, princes, futures that dared to imagine her elsewhere.
There’s no hesitation.
I slice my finger open where the magic will listen best. Blood rises immediately, dark and heavy, thick with everything I am. My hand shakes. Not from pain, but from the knowledge that once this is done, she will no longer belong to silence alone.
She will belong to choice.
I turn to her.
She lies exactly as I left her, as I have kept her, as I haveguardedher. Lashes resting against perfectly tan skin, lush lips parted just enough to remind me that she is not dead—only waiting. For me. Always for me.
For a century I have held the world back with my body and my claws.
My wings shift behind me, vast and restless, the membranes trembling as if they already know what I am about to lose. Or what I am about to claim forever. I force them still. I will not retreat from this. I have never retreated from anything that tried to take her from me. Not even my own father.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, though the words ring hollow even as I give them voice. Sorry is a thing spoken to equals. Sorry is too small for what I’ve done.
The spell book lies open behind me, its pages whispering like traitors. I do not look back. I no longer need its permission. I know the truth now and I understand fully what this reversal will cost me.
I press my bleeding finger to her lips. The magic recoils violently, as if struck. Green and blue smoke spirals slowly from her lips and glitters in the weak sunlight.
The wards carved into the stone shudder. Candle flames bow, then snap upright in defiance. The air thickens, charged with something ancient and furious. Something that has waited far too long to be acknowledged.
My wings begin to shake in earnest now, powerful muscles locking and unlocking as magic surges through me. Instinct screams to spread them wide, to shield her, to cage her from whatever comes next. I resist the urge with a snarl caught in my throat.
I begin the words. They are not prayers.
They are commands meant for endings. Each syllable rips something loose inside me. Control, certainty, the careful illusion that I was the master of this fate instead of its instrument.
