"You think anyone else would touch you like this?" His voice is pure gravel. "You think that pale-blooded bastard could ever fill you up this deep? Could ever make you come so hard you forget your own name?"
He drives particularly deep, hitting a spot that makes me scream.
"No," I gasp. "Only you."
"Fucking right." He snarls the words, his hips pistoning faster now, driving me mercilessly toward another peak. "This tight little cunt was made for my cock. Fits me like I was carved for it. Like you were born just to take me."
His words should shock me—should send embarrassment heating my cheeks—but they only make me clench tighter around him, my body responding to his crude declarations like they're the sweetest poetry.
He leans down again, his lips against my ear. "I'm going to breed you so full, flower. Going to pump you full of me until it spills out of you, until you're dripping with my come for days. Marking you. Claiming you."
I sob, pleasure coiling impossibly tight. He's going to ruin me, wreck me, and I want it more than I've ever wanted anything.
"Please," I beg, not even sure what I'm asking for anymore.
"That's it," he growls, his rhythm faltering. "Take it. Take all of me."
His release hits like a storm, hot and endless, flooding me with his essence. I shatter around him, my vision whiting out as pleasure ignites every nerve ending.
We collapse together, a tangle of sweat-slick limbs breathing hard.
Something is different. Something feels… different. Like it will never return to the way things used to be.
36
AZRATHIEL
The sunset spills across Ilyra's skin like molten copper, painting her in shades I've never seen before—warm amber where the light catches her shoulder, deep bronze along the curve of her hip. She lies beside me on the ruined silk of what should have been Bram's wedding dress, and the irony tastes sweeter than any victory I've claimed in the courts.
My fingers trace the delicate line of her collarbone, following the path the light takes across her throat. Her pulse flutters beneath my touch, steady and strong. Alive. Mine.
Something fundamental has shifted inside me—not just the obvious physical satisfaction, though that burns through me. This goes deeper. The careful walls I've maintained for centuries feel cracked, letting in sensations I've forgotten how to name.
A breeze rolls across the hillside, carrying the scent of evening grass and distant rain. Ilyra shivers, gooseflesh rising along her arms, and I pull her closer without conscious thought. She melts against me, her body fitting against mine like we were designed for this exact configuration.
She takes a deep breath, her ribs expanding against my chest, then releases it in a long sigh that seems to carry more weight than air should hold.
"What are you thinking about, flower?"
The question emerges rougher than I intended, threaded with an anxiety I refuse to examine. The idea of losing her—of having to collect on our contract, of walking away—sits in my chest like a shard of obsidian, sharp and cold.
She shifts slightly, turning so she can meet my gaze. Those dark eyes hold depths I'm still learning to navigate, and right now they're shadowed with something that makes my jaw tighten.
"My father." Her voice is quiet, thoughtful. "His death. How sudden it was."
I keep my expression neutral, though every muscle in my body coils with tension. "What about it?"
"You suggested it might have been murder." She traces a pattern on my chest with one finger, not quite meeting my eyes. "I keep thinking about that. About whether it's really true. Do you think Vaelra did it? Killed him so he couldn't stop her from selling me to Bram?"
The question hangs between us like a blade waiting to fall. I study her face, noting the way her breathing has grown shallow, the tension gathering in her shoulders.
"What do you think?"
She closes her eyes. "I think she was desperate. I think she saw Bram as the only way to secure Mariselle's future, and my father would never have allowed it." Her laugh is bitter. "He was stubborn about protecting me, even when it wasn't practical."
The careful dance we've been performing around this truth suddenly feels exhausting. I could lie—should lie, perhaps. Let her maintain whatever illusions about her stepmother she needs to function.
But she deserves better than comfortable deceptions.