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He shakes his head against my shoulder, wrapping his arms tighter around my neck, and I know I can’t push him. Not when he’s vulnerable like this.

We stay like this for a moment, collecting our breath until Bellamy lifts his head and starts moving in slow, agonizing rolls.

His eyes are red-rimmed, but god does he still look fucking pretty taking what he wants from me. He leans back, bracing a hand on my thigh while the other hangs on to the back of my neck and he rides me slow. He looks fucking incredible like this, like he belongs under Roman sun with golden laurels tucked into the waves of his hair. I collapse back, enjoying the slow process of taking and being taken in return.

I’ve had a lot of sex in my lifetime, but nothing quite as soul-stretching and mind-bending as this. And it’s all on him.

“You’re so fucking beautiful, I hope you know that. I love you so much,” I babble, my tongue loosening with every slow and steady meeting of our bodies.

“You’re mine,” he gasps, his hole clenching around me as he gets closer. “You’ve always been mine.”

Collecting his hands from where they’re splayed across my chest, I tug him down on top of me. I plant my feet on the floor, taking over but keeping the languid rhythm he set until he’s burying his face into my neck and digging his fingers into my flesh. His knees tighten at my sides, and the fragile thread of my restraint snaps.

I pound up into him until the only word he can chant is my name, until I can barely breathe and his walls are clenching me tight. He cries out, sticky warmth blooming in the narrow valley between my body and his, my second orgasm following closely.

I grab a fistful of his hair and twist his face to mine, kissing him through it like he’s my source of oxygen, the only thing keeping me alive. I give one last half-thrust before melting into the floor, breathing heavily in sync with him.

Time slips as I regain control over my body, stretching my legs out. I turn my head back into him, kissing the shell of his pierced ear, my fingers fumbling through his gold waves to push them out of his sweaty, tear-soaked face.

Something has changed. Obviously, it has, because he’s in my arms and it almost feels like the world is set to rights again.

So why is he looking at me like he’s trying to memorize the color of my eyes?

Chapter Forty-Nine

Sunday

Three days.

That’s all I get.

Three days of feeling like half a human before the parasite starts feeding from me again. That low rumble in the back of my head, that gnawing at my insides like I’m ravenous, but no matter what I eat, it’s not enough. It’s never enough.

The dreams have returned, along with fresh bruises and scrapes. Whatever protections Bellamy has laced through his place must be waning—or maybe it’s just me. Sometimes I get stuck in the dreams for far too long.

Like now, as I wander through this endlessly black room. There’s no wall, no end in sight. Just black, wet, obsidian floor that turns my bare feet cold. Sometimes I hear horrible screeching noises, or the sound of Bellamy pleading. Sometimes it gives me back the memories I’ve lost—the ones of me cutting my own flesh, of wrapping my hands around that lovely throat.

Every time, I feel sick to my stomach.

I want this to end.

I need this to end.

But I don’t know how.

I continue to wander the limitless black room, trying to find my way back to waking before the grotesque visions start. My steps begin to slow as I hear quiet, hushed tones.

No, not hushed…veiled.

I look below my feet, finding this obsidian world upside down beneath two figures. One is decidedly feminine, the other hulking over her. I strain my ears to hear their voices, crouching down and pressing my hands into the inch-deep water.

“…He won’t survive it. What’s the point in taking him if you are just going to condemn him?” The woman’s voice is startlingly familiar, her British accent crisp around the consonants, her distress evident in every word.

A seed of recognition unfurls in my gut, not just for her, but for the other…thing. It’s something I’ve seen in glimpses mostly forgotten, but the feeling of familiarity has the hairs on my arms standing up.

“The deal was written before you came into the picture, Delphine. He was ours long before he was yours.”

The lungful of air I’ve just taken lodges in my throat. That voice that I’ve learned to detest. The one that’s infected my being.