Coming so hard I blacked out.
And now I'm here.
Trapped inside a cocoon made of gargoyle wings.
Except—wait.
Not trapped.
The realization hits me like a physical thing. This isn't restraint. This isbonding behavior. This is exactly what he warned me about in Chapter 8A when he explained the fated-mate biological drive—the possessive, protective instinct that makes him need to keep me close, to wrap himself around me, to ensure I can't leave.
My breath catches.
And instead of panic, I feel something shift inside my chest. Recognition. Understanding.
This is what he meant when he said the bond would make him "extremely possessive in ways that will initially terrify you." This is the ancient gargoyle biology overriding his conscious mind, demanding that his mate stayhere, staysafe, stayhis.
I could fight it. I could wiggle free, demand space, establish boundaries.
But I don't want to.
Because now that I understand what thisis—not control, but devotion—it doesn't feel like a cage. It feels like being chosen. Like being so important to someone that their entire body is wrapped around the simple fact of keeping me safe.
My throat tightens.
I press my cheek against his chest and let myself relax into the weight of his wings.I take a breath.
The air is warm. Humid. It smells like volcanic oil, sweat, and something distinctlyhim—earthy, mineral, with a faint metallic tang that shouldn't be attractive but absolutely is.
I shift slightly, trying to get my bearings.
The surface beneath my cheek is his chest. Definitely his chest. I can feel the faint ridges of his ribs, the steady rise and fall of his breathing.
My legs are tangled in the plush furs we collapsed onto last night. My thighs are still sticky with the remnants of... everything.
And the weight pressing down on me?
Wings.
His wings are wrapped entirely around my body, the massive leathery membrane cocooning me against his torso like I'm some kind of precious cargo.
I try to wiggle free.
The wings tighten.
Not painfully. Just... firmly.
Like a seatbelt that refuses to unbuckle.
"Okay," I mutter into his chest. "This is fine. This is totally fine. I'm just trapped inside a mythological cryptid's wing-cocoon on a clinic floor at—" I crane my neck slightly, trying to see the digital clock on the wall. "—six forty-seven in the morning. Completely normal. Very professional."
The chest beneath my cheek rumbles.
