“I didn’t know that. Saoirse taught me that,” I added cheerfully, my words slurring slightly as I leaned into him.
With a possessive grip, Caden laid me down onto the bed, his fingers firm against my skin. Then he slowly stepped away, gaze locked on mine—dark, intense, and edged with something almost predatory. The kind that made my pulse spike.
I could hear his breath coming in rough, uneven pulls. Every inch of him radiated restraint, his chest rising and falling with the weight of it.
“What do you mean, Saoirse taught you that?” he asked, voice low and frayed at the edges. There was no mistaking the hunger in his tone—or the way it made my skin light up.
I pushed myself up on my elbows, eyes fixed on him. Gods, he was gorgeous. And right now, completely wrecked by whatever fire I’d stirred in him.
I giggled again, feeling the rush of adrenaline and alcohol mixing together. “You like that idea? The whole girl-on-girl thing? And Saoirse’s pretty too. I wouldn’t mind trying it with her…”
My voice drifted off, the words trailing into haze as the room tilted gently, intoxication pulling me somewhere soft and slippery.
Caden’s entire body tensed, muscles flexing like a loaded trap. But then—restraint. He forced a breath, jaw tight, knuckles whitening at his sides. “You’re drunk,” he muttered, almost like he needed to say it out loud to stop himself.
I rose to my feet, slow and unsteady, stepping into his space. “Only catching on now, huh? Well, you might be hot, but you’re not that quick…”
He moved.
So fast I couldn’t register it—only air and motion and thenwall. My back slammed against it, his body pinning me in place. Hard, overwhelming,deliberate.
Heat surged through me. Not the hazy kind—this was sharp, electric, breath-stealing. His hips ground into mine, anchoring me there like he was daring me to push back.
I couldn’t.
His arms caged me in, his body pressing so close it felt like we shared a heartbeat. His breath hit my skin in hot, ragged bursts. His lips hovered a whisper from my own, not touching—tormenting.
His eyes were almost black with need. Not playful. Not safe. Consuming.
“Call me hot. One. More. Fucking. Time,” he growled, each word low and lethal, like it came from somewhere deep in his chest. The sound of it hit me lower than I wanted to admit.
A shiver raced down my spine.
I swallowed, hard. The fog of alcohol evaporated under the weight of him. “I… I’m sorry,” I whispered, suddenly unsure where the line was—where we were.
Something flickered in his features—something softer. Almost regret. But it vanished before I could name it.
He inhaled slowly, a long breath through clenched teeth, then stepped back. The loss of his body against mine felt like a slap. Cold air rushed in where his heat had been.
Without another word, he turned his back to me, the air between us still charged, like the silent hush before lightning strikes.
I sat back down on the bed, feeling a wave of disorientation and regret. My head spun from both the alcohol and the emotional rollercoaster we’d just been through. I rubbed my lids, trying to clear the fog clinging to my mind.
“I didn’t mean to make things awkward,” I said, struggling to articulate my thoughts. “I guess I didn’t think things through.”
There was no response from him.
“Caden?” I whispered, reaching out to catch his attention.
He turned back around, his eyes now their usual warm color, but his stare was as cold as ice. I shivered at the stark contrast. The Caden I had known these past few weeks—kind, supportive, and unexpectedly friendly—seemed to have vanished, replaced by the First Offensive I had first encountered, capable of torturing maga’s like me for the good of his people.
I swallowed hard again, as I tried to steady my racing heart.
“Can you heal yourself sober?” he asked, the words dry and clipped.
“I don’t know,” I whispered. My throat was tight with apprehension. “I can try.”
“Then try,” he commanded, his tone brooking no argument.
