I am open. Known.
My body is the body of a Demon Lord—impossibly strong, sculpted by fire and war, marred by battles long past.
I do not hide what I am.
And she does not look away.
She steps into the water first.
I follow.
The steam wraps around us, and then she reaches for me.
That single touch—her fingers on my forearm—is my undoing.
There is no thought.
No reason. No rules.
Only this.
Only her.
And the terrible, breathtaking want that fills every cell of my being.
I gather her close.
Our bodies slide together, slick with heat and water.
I grip her hips. Her back. Her thighs.
I lift her until she’s wrapped around me, arms tight around my neck, mouth hovering near mine.
Please, Shula, let me have you. Let me keep you.
Inside my mind, I beg her, plead with her.
But I don’t dare to speak aloud.
And then she says it.
Her voice is a whisper against my lips.
A benediction. A promise.
An answer.
“You can have me, Thorne,” she says, breath trembling. “I—I think I was made for you.”
My heart stops.
Then starts again like a meteor crashing to earth.
“Shula,” I rasp. “You undo me.”
And I press her to the stone, and kiss her like a dying man granted one last taste of flame.
I keep her suspended against the shower wall—it’s warm and comfortable, my magic molding it to her frame.
