I slam into her once more and spill deep inside her, heat flooding her in pulse after pulse.
We collapse together. She clings to me, shaking. I curl around her, holding her gently even though my body still vibrates with aftershocks.
Her breath warms my chest. Her fingers trace my ribs. She whispers into my skin:
“I heard you.”
I close my eyes, letting the truth settle:
I am not war here.
I am not Warlord or Reaper or killer.
I am hers.
And she is mine.
CHAPTER 17
FREYA
Iwake tangled in heat and breath and something that feels an awful lot like peace.
My cheek is pressed to a wall of muscle — real, solid, warm, and entirely too big to be anything but Vokar. His arm is slung heavy across my waist, claws curved inward just enough to rest without scratching, though every tiny twitch reminds me exactly who he is. What he is.
And what he did to me.
My body aches — deliciously. My thighs are tender, my hips sore, my pussy still throbbing from being stretched around him. Even just shifting makes a shiver crawl up my spine.
“You’re watching me,” I murmur without opening my eyes.
“I like what I see.”
His voice rumbles against my cheek, deep and low, and it vibrates through my bones in a way nothing human ever has. I feel my body respond instantly, heat blooming low in my belly.
I smile. “Pervert.”
“You didn’t seem to mind last night.”
When he brushes his nose along my hairline, my breath catches. His skin is hot — Reaper-hot — like he carries asmall furnace under his ribs. I could drown in that warmth. I shouldn’t. It’s dangerous. He’s dangerous.
But gods help me, I lean closer instead of away.
“I should go,” I whisper, even though neither of us believe it. It feels like the thing I’m supposed to say — the responsible thing, the human thing.
He doesn’t tighten his grip. Doesn’t command or correct.
He says one word.
“Stay.”
I freeze.
Not an order.
A plea.
I open my eyes slowly and look up at him. His red eyes aren’t blazing with hunger or arrogance. They’re… raw. Unarmored. That might be the most terrifying thing of all.
