She gasps as her skin meets the surface, her eyes fluttering open. I hold her there, my hands under her thighs, her heat pressed against my stomach. I’m so hard it aches.
“I need to be inside you again,” I tell her, my voice low, rough.
“Yes,” she breathes, her head tilting back against the wall. “Now, Silas.”
I guide myself to her entrance, the head of my cock slick with her wetness. I push into her in one slow, deep thrust. She criesout, a sharp, beautiful sound that echoes in the quiet room. She’s so tight, so perfect around me. I bury myself to the hilt and stop, letting her adjust, letting us both feel the fullness of it.
Her inner muscles clench around me, a pulse of pure pleasure. “Move,” she begs, her voice a ragged whisper against my neck. “Please.”
I pull out almost all the way, then drive back into her, hard. The force of it slams her back against the wall. A moan is torn from her throat. I set a relentless pace, fucking her against the wall, each thrust deep and claiming. The room fills with the sound of our skin meeting, her soft cries, my ragged breathing.
Her nails score my back. Her breasts press against my chest with every movement. She meets each thrust, her hips rolling, taking me deeper. “God, Silas… right there…”
I can feel her starting to tighten around me again, her body coiling for another release. My own climax builds, a hot pressure low in my gut. I drive into her faster, harder, losing myself in the feel of her.
“Come with me,” I growl into her ear.
Her answer is a broken sob as her body convulses around mine, her orgasm crashing over her. The intense clenching of her pussy pulls my own release from me. I thrust deep and hold there, groaning her name as I spill into her, my own pleasure a blinding white heat that empties me out. We stay like that, pressed against the wall, panting, connected, until our hearts slow.
I’m still buried deep inside her, our bodies slick and trembling. Her forehead rests against mine, our breath mingling in the cold morning air. The weight of what we just did hangs between us, thick and real.
Her fingers trace the line of my brow, the bridge of my nose. “You’re staring.”
“Can’t help it.”
A small, tired smile touches her lips. “See something you like?”
“Everything.” The word comes out raw, stripped bare. It’s too much. I look away, my gaze catching on the dust motes dancing in a sliver of light cutting through the cabin window. I have to say it. The truth has been a stone in my throat for years. I shift, pulling us both down to the worn rug by the hearth, holding her against my chest. The fire pops, casting shadows that dance over her skin.
She nestles into the crook of my arm, her hand splayed over my heart. “Silas?”
I press my lips to her hair, inhaling the scent of pine and us. The words feel like gravel. “You were always the light.” I feel her go still against me. “I just didn’t know how to face it.”
She lifts her head, her eyes searching mine. There’s no judgment there, just a quiet, aching understanding. “Face it?”
“It was easier to live in the dark. Safer.” My thumb brushes her cheekbone. “Looking at you… it meant I had to look at everything else. All the things I’d done. All the things I wasn’t.”
She’s quiet for a long moment, her gaze steady. “And now?”
“Now I’m looking.” I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “And I’m not turning away.”
25
MARY
The ridge doesn’t sleep anymore.
Even before the sun claws its way over the mountains, the air is alive with the sound of blades grinding against stone, the heavy thud of wolves testing their strength against one another, the low hum of witches whispering charms into the very earth beneath our feet. Every corner of camp carries motion, the weight of bodies moving not in peace, but in restless readiness.
I move among them, my wolf pressed sharp against my skin, her ears pricked, her tail raised. The air tastes of iron and pine, sweat and smoke, fear and fire. Wolves strap leather across their chests, checking blades, their hands steady despite the shadows behind their eyes. Witches kneel near the hearths, their hands steady in sigils drawn into ash and salt. For once, fox and wolf move the same pace, but the air between them still crackles, distrust hot and sharp.
I stop where Kaleigh bends over a young fighter whose arm hangs limp. Blood runs from his shoulder, the scent sharp. She presses glowing hands against the wound, her face pale with concentration, sweat damp on her brow.
“Hold still,” she murmurs. The boy hisses but obeys, his breath shuddering as the glow seeps into him, the torn flesh knitting slow but sure.
“You’ve been at this since dawn,” I say.
Her lips twitch, but her eyes don’t leave her work. “Better to be tired now than too late later.”
