I teased him for it. Rolled once, twice, letting the movement linger, then bent low and rose with purpose, pressing back into him as I did. My breath caught, a rush of heat spilling through me at the feel of his body taut behind mine. I turned, only to find his gaze molten. Heat flared low in me, sharp as flame.
He didn’t break my gaze as he tugged me from the floor, leading me toward our table at the shadowed edge of the tavern.
The music dwindled soon after. Laughter softened, tankards were drained, and the tavern thinned to only a few lingering voices. Malachi and I shared one last drink at the table, his hand steady over mine as if he’d decided I wasn’t allowed to slip away. The ale warmed me, heavier than I realized, and I wondered if I’d regret how much I’d had in the morning. But in that moment, it made everything soft: the light, his voice, the way the world leaned in instead of away.
When we finally rose, the air outside was cool enough to sting my cheeks. Lanterns swayed in the branches, painting the walkways in drifting gold. We didn’t speak. At some point, his hand found mine—rough palm, long fingers, calluses that felt steadier than the bridges beneath our feet.
I should’ve thought of Aeryn. Of Synnex. Of the path still clawing ahead. But all I could think of was how easy it felt, lettingsomeone else hold the weight for once. How impossible and selfish and necessary it was to just let myself be here.
By the time we reached his lodgings, my heart was beating too fast for the quiet. He opened the door, let me step inside first. The fire was low, casting the walls in amber. He closed it softly behind us.
The space breathed. For a long moment, neither of us moved.
Then he stepped closer. His hand came up, slow and deliberate, brushing a curl from my cheek.
He tilted my chin, gaze steady. His mouth found mine again—gentle, asking, patient. My fingers fisted in his shirt before I could stop them.
The kiss deepened. His body bent to mine, folding into the space I took up. I felt the question in him.
I broke the kiss and pulled his shirt over his head.
“Do you want this?” he whispered against my lips. His forehead rested against mine.
My throat tightened. “I want this. I want to choose.”
Something in him broke. He kissed me again, deeper this time, his hands framing my face like I was both fragile and unmovable. His lips moved along my jaw, the line of my throat, as though he meant to learn me one breath at a time. When I trembled, he steadied me. When I faltered, he waited.
I’d never done this before. He must have known. But he didn’t rush me, didn’t press. He watched me as though the answer to something he’d sought for centuries might live in the curve of my shoulder or the sound of my breath.
He sat me at the edge of the bed, dropping to his knees to unlace my boots. He slipped them off one at a time. His hands lingered a moment at my ankles before trailing upward, steady against my calves, pausing at my thighs.
When his fingers reached the waistband of mypants, he glanced up, gold eyes burning. I nodded, the smallest motion. Permission.
He didn’t rush. He unfastened them with deliberate care, sliding the leather down slowly, tracing the path of his touch as he drew them from me. Then his hands rose again, slipping beneath the hem of my tunic. He lifted it over my head, steady and unhurried. The fabric fell away, leaving me bare to his gaze.
He leaned in between my legs, his hands braced at my hips as though anchoring me in place. His mouth traced a slow, deliberate path up my stomach, warm breath teasing my skin until he reached the scar that cut its way between the swell of my breasts. He kissed it softly.
Then his mouth moved higher, capturing one breast with careful hunger, his tongue circling before he drew it into his mouth. A shiver rolled through me, my hands instinctively grasping at the back of his neck. His teeth grazed lightly, sending sparks down my spine, and I gasped.
Malachi groaned low in his throat at the sound, his grip tightening on my waist. He worshipped me in pieces—each kiss, each flick of his tongue pulling me further from fear and toward something I had never allowed myself to want.
His hands settled at my hips, wordlessly telling me I didn’t need to do anything at all. Heat followed his touch along my ribs until he found the place under my heart; his palm rested there, anchoring me in the moment.
My body trembled—small, involuntary. Every wall I thought I still held cracked. His touch gentled, circling slow and devout over my skin.
My heartbeat pressed into his palm. He bent. A kiss to my brow where the scar began. Another to my cheek, where the scar curved cruelly. Then my mouth.
He kissed down the column of my throat and lower still,between the rise of my breasts, where the scar split me in two. He traced the scar with his mouth to the curve by my navel, and what had shamed me rose beautiful again in his hands.
He gripped my thighs, easing them open with a hush that made me feel beautiful and singular. His gaze lifted once, catching mine in question.
“Yes,” I whispered.
Then he lowered his head between my legs, easing them over his shoulders with a hunger that dragged me closer still. His breath mapped kisses along the insides of my thighs, and when his mouth found the heat of me, the path behind me closed. Each pass of his tongue was slow, coaxing—a steady unmaking. My hands clenched in the furs, hips lifting in a wordless plea.
He held me steady, his hands braced at the backs of my thighs, keeping me open. I wanted more. Not just his mouth, not just his hands. The thought struck sharp and reckless.
The memory of his teeth ghosting my skin came rushing back, vivid as flame.