Outside, a distant siren wails like lost conscience.
Inside, two fallen people decide whether to forgive—and rebuild, or watch everything burn.
He grabs my wrists like he might break my bones—strength coiled in desperation. “I don’t know how to stop,” he rasps, panic fraying the edge of his voice.
I don’t flinch. Instead, I step closer, heels clicking against the soft rug—a heartbeat amplified in the hush. My skin is on fire where he holds me. His chest heaves under tailored silk. The scent of him—smoke, blood, rain—wraps around me like a promise I may not be ready to keep.
Then I press my palm flat against his chest, over the rhythm of his heart. A soft clatter, like a sparrow’s wing trembling in her throat. My voice is gentle but steadied by resolve.
“Then let me help you.”
Time stretches, pulling thin and golden between breaths.
Aebon blinks, eyes burning crimson in the low light of the suite. It’s late—after the storm, after the confessions, after the silence became too heavy to carry alone. The air smells of ozone and firewood. The faintest hum of power lingers from the shields built into the walls, but here, in this quiet, everything feels ancient. Sacred.
He breathes in my words—"Let me help you find a way"—and something shifts behind his eyes. Not softened. Stripped.
His fingers, massive and lethal, loosen their grip on the moment. Shoulders once carved from restraint sag with a tremor I know too well—it's the quake of a creature trained never to need.
That’s when I reach for him.
I touch his suit jacket with cautious reverence. Beneath layers of armor, fabric, and instinct, I feel heat. Muscle. Scar. Memory. Aebon’s built like war. But under my hands, he’s unarming.
I tug the silk tie from his collar, slow. It slips free with a whisper and falls to the floor. His breath catches like he’s just been untethered. I press my hand to his chest—buttons part one by one, each revealing dark skin stretched over strength and old wounds. My mouth finds the center of him. I kiss him there, over the faint white seam of a scar that runs like a forgotten river across his sternum.
His head tips back. Eyes closed. Breathing uneven.
When the shirt falls, he’s half shadow, half flame. White bone spurs gleam faintly in the lamplight—jutting from his elbows, his back, like the remains of broken wings.
“You’re staring,” he murmurs.
“You’re breathtaking,” I whisper.
He pulls me into him, mouth claiming mine—urgent, then reverent, then something between. I sink into the kiss, tasting heat and fear and hunger. He lifts me in one arm and carries me to the bed. The sheets are silk. The mattress swallows us. Outside, rain taps like a heartbeat against the windows.
His hands roam—large, sure, rough. He cups the curve of my hips, the underside of my breast. My nipple tightens instantly under his thumb. I gasp. He lowers his mouth to it, tongue circling the ringed tip, then biting softly.
“Aebon…” I shiver.
“You’re real,” he growls softly. “Every breath. Every sound. All mine.”
He kisses down my ribs, pausing when I flinch. His touch gentles. “Tell me where it hurts.”
“Only when you stop,” I murmur.
He groans, sinking lower. His breath hovers over my belly, then down between my thighs. He spreads me open with one massive hand, fingers stroking my folds. I’m already soaked—clit pulsing, pussy aching with need.
“You’re so wet for me,” he whispers, reverent. “Your body knows before your words do.”
He licks.
Gods.
His tongue is hot, broad, and impossibly smooth. He circles my clit, then flattens his tongue and sucks. My hips buck. I moan—a ragged, broken thing.
I grab the sheets as his fingers slide inside me. Two, then three—stretching, filling, curling deep. His tongue never stops. I sob his name. My orgasm slams through me like lightning. My pussy clenches around his fingers, slick and throbbing.
He rises, eyes wild with need. His cock is enormous—thick, long, jet black, veins ridging its length. It presses against my thigh, hot and solid.
