After rinsing my mouth, I turned off the bathroom light and walked barefoot into the bedroom. The house was silent around me, not just quiet but heavy and expectant. Outside, a car passed by, and its headlights briefly illuminated the curtains.
Suddenly, the air shifted. It was a subtle change—a shift in pressure, a whisper of movement that didn’t belong. It was the kind of thing you might miss if you weren’t paying attention, if your senses weren’t already heightened by weeks of waiting and wondering. My body registered it before my mind did; every nerve was on alert, and my skin prickled with awareness.
I wasn’t alone.
My heart pounded violently inside my chest, beating so loudly I was convinced he could hear it from across the room. Yet, I didn’t move. I didn’t turn around or try to run. I didn’t even flinch. Instead, beneath the rush of fear, a different feeling stirred—one that teetered dangerously close to hope. It was a hope I’d worked hard to bury over the past weeks, but no matter how I tried, I’d never been able to extinguish it completely.
I recognized that presence instantly.
There was no mistaking the weight of his gaze on my skin, the intensity with which he observed me—a scrutiny that felt as though he was studying, cataloguing, and consuming me all at once. I’d experienced it too often in the past to ever confuse it with anything else.
He stepped closer, his body heat radiating against my back. The space between us seemed to breathe—expanding and contracting with the weight of all the time we’d spent apart. It felt as if every ounce of longing, anger, and unresolved tensionwas compressed into the narrow distance that separated us in that moment, making the very air shimmer with anticipation.
Slowly, deliberately, his hand rose and slid around my throat from behind, his fingers wrapping firmly but gently.
There was no threat in his touch. It was not forceful or aggressive. Instead, it was possessive—an unmistakable gesture of claiming. His thumb pressed lightly against the pulse in my neck, feeling the frantic rhythm beneath my skin, the physical proof of what his nearness did to me.
A sigh escaped me as my eyes fluttered closed and my head tipped back against his hand. Relief washed over me in a wave so powerful it almost hurt, dissolving the tension I’d unknowingly carried for weeks. For a moment, all of the worry and waiting vanished, replaced by the undeniable certainty of his presence.
He couldn’t stay away.
He had tried—God knows we both had. But now, with him behind me and me standing still, the truth was inescapable. The pull between us was as inexorable as gravity, drawing us back together no matter how much we fought it.
I began to speak, his name almost escaping my lips—a name I’d uttered countless times in whispers, screams, and sobs. Before I could finish, his other hand moved up, weaving his fingers through my hair and forcing my head back even further. With my throat fully exposed to him, his mouth covered mine, silencing the words I was about to say—whether they were explanations, accusations, or pleas.
The kiss that followed was harsh and unyielding, filled with a ferocity that bordered on violence. It was not gentle or hesitant; it carried the flavors of desperation, fury, and a need so intense it felt punishing. This was not a gentle reunion, but a confrontation—a reckoning that demanded everything and left no room for denial.
I tried to turn in his arms, but his grip tightened—on my throat, in my hair—holding me in place with an iron control that made my pulse skip erratically. His body pressed against mine from behind, and I could feel every inch of him. The hard planes of muscle that spoke of countless hours of training. The barely leashed violence that radiated from him in waves, making the air between us crackle with tension. His erection straining against his jeans, hard and insistent against the small of my back.
His hand slid from my throat down the front of his shirt, still warm from his body, still carrying his scent as he made a sound low in his chest that vibrated through me. It was possessive and primal, a growl that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside him, from that dark place he usually kept locked away.
He spun me around with shocking speed, slamming me back against the wall hard enough that the impact drove the breath from my lungs in a sharp gasp. The rough texture of the plaster bit into my shoulders through the thin fabric of the shirt. His eyes were wild in the darkness, catching what little light filtered through the window.
Feral. Hungry. Unhinged.
This wasn’t the professor who lectured with measured precision and careful words. This wasn’t even the fighter who moved with calculated brutality in the ring.
He was something else entirely. He was a man who’d been caged too long, denied himself too long, finally broken free of whatever restraints he’d imposed on himself. The careful control he wore like armor had shattered, and what remained was raw and dangerous and absolutely intoxicating. His hands gripped my hips hard enough to bruise, fingers digging into my flesh with bruising intensity, and I welcomed it.
I welcomed the pain because it meant he was real; he was here; he was mine for however long this moment lasted. Becausepain meant this wasn’t another dream, another fantasy I’d torture myself with in the lonely hours before dawn.
His mouth crashed down on mine again, claiming me with a desperation that bordered on violence, and this time I was ready. I kissed him back with equal ferocity, my hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer even though there was no space left between us. Our bodies were pressed so tightly together I could feel his heartbeat thundering against my chest, matching the frantic rhythm of my own.
He tasted like whiskey and rage and something darker, something that spoke of the violence he’d committed tonight, the blood on his hands that he hadn’t quite scrubbed away, the weight of the crown he now wore, however unwillingly. There was copper and smoke on his tongue, bitter and intoxicating. But underneath all of that, beneath the darkness and the danger, he tasted like Rowen.
My Rowen.
His hands moved to the hem of his shirt, and he yanked it up and over my head in one swift motion. The cool air hit my bare skin, making me gasp, but the sound was swallowed by his mouth. His kiss deepened, tongue sliding against mine with an urgency that made my knees weak.
I wasn’t wearing anything underneath except my panties.
He pulled back just enough to look at me, his eyes dark and hungry as they raked over my exposed body. The intensity of his gaze made me feel both vulnerable and powerful at once. Then his mouth was on my neck, teeth grazing my pulse point before his lips traveled lower, leaving a trail of heat across my collarbone.
His hands found my breasts, rough and demanding, thumbs brushing over nipples that were already hard. I arched into his touch, a moan escaping that he seemed to drink in like a man dying of thirst. He lowered his head, taking one nipple into hismouth, sucking hard enough to make me cry out. The sensation shot straight between my legs. He grabbed my wrists, pinning them above my head with one hand while the other slid down my body, over my ribs, my stomach, lower. His fingers traced the curve of my hip, teasing, making me squirm beneath him.
I tried to move my hands, but his grip tightened, holding me in place. The restraint only made me want him more as his fingers found the waistband of my underwear and he tore them away, the fabric giving with a sharp rip that sent a thrill of dark excitement through me. The sound echoed in the quiet room, primal and raw. He looked down at what he’d done, a satisfied smirk crossing his face before his expression turned predatory again.
His fingers slid between my legs, finding me already wet. He groaned against my neck, his breath hot on my skin. “You’re so ready for me,” he murmured, his voice rough with desire.
