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I pull the torn sides apart and my hands slide in—warm on her hips, steady at her ribs—holding her like she’s the only real thing left in the center of this settlement. The charred boards bite into my back. The hooks above sway and whisper. The Hollowborn lean at the edge of the circle, still and starving.

Let them watch.

Let them learn what worship looks like when it doesn’t rot you from the inside out.

Selah’s palm presses to my chest, right over scar tissue that remembers chains, and her fingers curl like she’s anchoring me here on purpose. She leans down, mouth at my ear, and her voice is low enough it feels like a blade laid flat.

“Give me what’s left, savage saint,” she breathes, her hips moving against mine with a slow, deliberate pressure that almost ruins me.

“Whatever’s left of me is here.” The words come out wrecked, but my hands make them true as I haul her closer until the last clean inch of space between us disappears.

The perimeter shifts. A soft rustle. A synchronized lean.

I feel it like pressure in the air.

Selah turns her head slightly, just enough to let them see her profile—calm, controlled, mercilessly human.

Then she looks back at me, and I understand exactly what she’s showing them: watch us, learn from it, choke on whatever you thought this was supposed to become.

The altar becomes nothing but wood under my back and heat above me. The hooks still sway overhead, and the wind still worries at the wire, but none of it reaches me the way it used to. All I hear is her breath, mine answering it, and the brutal, undeniable proof that I’m still here.

Just like a prayer—except no one here is begging God to make us clean.

XLIX

Who We Choose To Be

The cool air bites at my skin, raising gooseflesh beneath Malek’s molten stare—like his gaze is the only fire left in this dead place, and it’s hungry.

The tremor running through me has nothing to do with the cool air.

It’s him.

It’s the man beneath me, stretched on a charred altar like he was made for sacrifice and sin, like the world broke and left him here as an offering—and I climbed on top like a prayer that learned how to curse.

My nipples tighten, aching, and want pools low in my belly, thick and hot, lava slow. Malek’s body shakes under mine, restrained not by rope or chain, but by the way he’s trying not to lose himself too fast. His hands clamp around my thighs, rough and possessive, almost painful—anchoring me to him like he’s terrified I’ll disappear if he loosens his grip.

I drag my fingers over the scars on his face, mapping the ruin like it’s scripture, like it’s mine to read.

Then I hook my thumb under his swollen bottom lip and pull it down, just enough to make him breathe.

“Are you just going to stare?” My voice is a blade dragged across gravel. I pinch my nipple hard enough to make my back arch, then drag my palm up his chest, nails biting into his skin before my fingers wrap around his throat—firm, possessive, the way his pulse hammers against my thumb. His breath hitches, and I grin, slow and sharp.

“Or,” I breathe, grinding down until the head of his cock notches against me, hot and insistent, “do you want to watch me ride you until my thighs shake and I’m coming all over this thick cock?”

His eyes flash—copper, feral; silver, shattered—tracking the place where my cotton panties are soaked through, clinging, nearly transparent. I rotate my hips again, just enough to make my name fall out of his mouth like a broken hymn.

While I moan his.

With his gaze pinned to me, I slip a finger under the waistband and tug the fabric aside, exposing myself fully—no softness, no shame. Just need.

“Tell me, Malek Vane,” I whisper, tilting my head like a challenge, like a vow. “Does the sight measure up to the taste of me?”

He nods, breath hitching, mouth tightening like he’s trying not to beg.

My fingers tighten at his throat, not enough to hurt, just enough to make his pulse answer me. His eyes drag back to mine.

“Words, Malek.”