I grab her throat, not to choke—but to hold. Just hold. Just feel her pulse hammering against my palm like a war drum.
I kiss her like I’m sealing a vow.
Then I bury myself so deep inside her there’s no part of her I haven’t claimed.
“You’re not just mine, Raven,” I whisper into her skin, “You’re made for me.”
And when she cums, it’s with my name on her lips—and my obsession carved into every broken breath she takes.
She’s trembling in my hands when it happens — that sound I’ve been chasing for years. Her voice breaks on my name like a secret snapping in half, her body arching, eyes unfocused, mouth parted, completely lost.
I don’t stop moving. Not yet.
I drag it out — slow, deep, merciless — until the tremors become little shakes, until she’s gasping and clawing at my shoulders and her head tips back like she’s trying to remember how to breathe.
“Look at me,” I order, my voice a low rasp.
Her eyes flutter open. Dark. Glassy. Waiting.
“This is what you wanted,” I whisper. “This is what you came back to. Not a hero. Not a saviour. Me.”
I ease my grip on her throat, stroke my thumb along the spot where her pulse is frantic. My forehead rests against hers, our breath mingling, bodies still locked together, hearts pounding out of rhythm.
“I’ve got you,” I murmur, and it’s half a promise, half a threat. “Nobody else touches you. Nobody else even thinks about it. You’re safe here. Even when you’re not.”
She swallows hard. Her fingers, still trembling, slide up into my hair again, not pulling this time but holding. Like she’s testing whether the monster she’s been warned about will let himself be held.
And for a heartbeat, I let her.
For a heartbeat, it feels like the boy behind the wall is alive and she’s humming again and we’re both still salvageable.
Then the monitor in the corner flickers.
Once. Twice.
Then goes black.
Her nails dig into my scalp. She’s looking over my shoulder now, eyes wide, lips parted, like she’s seen a ghost.
“What is that?” she whispers.
I turn my head. The static clears. A new feed appears on the screen.
The chapel.
Same angle as before.
But now, instead of empty pews, a single figure stands in the aisle. Hood up. Head down. Both hands clasping something small and white.
I go still.
It’s not a recording.
It’s live.
“Damien…” Raven’s voice cracks. “That’s?—”
I cut her off with a low growl. “Stay here.”
