I moan, helpless against the onslaught of pleasure.
His rhythm builds. Faster. Rougher. One hand slides over my belly, pinning me down while the other snakes between my legs, rubbing my clit in tight circles.
“Come again,” he orders.
And I do.
My body wracks with it—pussy clenching, vision blurring, voice breaking on his name.
He roars behind me. I feel him swell, pulse, and then he’s coming—deep inside, heat flooding me. He holds me down, body shaking as he empties every last drop.
When he pulls out, I collapse.
He gathers me in his arms and sits with me on the ruined couch, kissing my temple, my cheek, my neck.
“You’re mine,” he says again. “Not as a brand. As a promise.”
I curl against him.
And for once, the Maze is quiet.
CHAPTER 18
GYON
Idon’t know where the walls went. The corridors bent themselves backward until we were no longer in a maze, but a room built just for this moment. The hum receded into silence. The lights softened into a low violet glow. Everything outside us blurs.
Her face is inches from mine—eyes bright, lips parted, breath trembling. I lean in. Her skin tastes faintly of ozone and exhaustion. There’s something in the air—metal and salt and desire—so potent my senses scream.
“Gyon,” she breathes.
I brush her hair away, fingertips dragging down her cheek. She smells like fight and broken code, like a universe I want to learn. The pulse at her throat leaps under my palm.
She presses her fingers against my chest, over muscle and bone. Her nails dig in just enough to leave impressions.
“Don’t,” she murmurs. “Don’t pull away again.”
I hesitate—not because I want distance, but because my blood is roaring. I lean in and kiss her. Slow. Deep. My tongue presses against hers, tasting salt and hope.
She responds like a flame starved of air. Her arms wind around me. Her nails trail across my shoulder. She opens to me with everything she has.
I want to be gentle for a moment—trace every curve of her body, understand the perfect lines—but my blood sings a claim too loud. My claws flex. I cradle the nape of her neck and sweep her into me. Her chest rises against mine, slipping, shifting.
Her voice breaks free. “I didn’t think you were real.”
“Always real,” I whisper against her lips. I trace across her collarbone, catching a soft gasp when I press near a bruise.
Her fingers slip under my shirt, dragging along ribs, along flesh. She’s fierce. Hungry. She doesn’t just want me—she chooses me. That word slices through everything: her trust, her pain, her surrender.
At some point my claws cut her gently. A thin line of blood weaves across her skin. She freezes.
But she doesn’t pull away. She presses into the cut, letting me stay. “It’s okay,” she whispers. “I want this. All of it.”
I draw back for a moment, eyes flicking to hers. “You don’t have to accept the damage.”
She pushes forward instead, kisses me harder, more urgent. “I will,” she whispers. “I want everything.”
I fold her against me. I press marks on her shoulders. My touch is not light. It’s claiming, but it’s worship, too. She moans my name. We curve around each other—this broken room, this shifting maze—and we build something fragile out of shards.
