“You keep saying this like it’s fate.”
“No,” he murmurs, “I say it as a warning.”
“Then fucking protect me.”
His eyes flare. Then he moves. Faster than the breath I was attempting to take. He kisses me like it’s a war he plans to win. One hand in my hair, the other pressing fire into my hip. The moment his mouth crashes against mine, I forget how to breathe.
This isn’t soft. This isn’t sweet. This is possession, laid bare.
His tongue parts my lips, demanding. His teeth catch my bottom lip, not enough to hurt, just enough to saymine. His hand fists my hair, guiding my mouth like a weapon. And I let him. I want to. My fingers drag over the buttons of his shirt, ripping more than unfastening. I want skin…heat…power. I want the pulse of him under my hands like proof that this isn’t some fever dream stitched together by madness. He groans into my mouth when I slide my hands over his chest, smooth, solid, hot. Like stone warmed by fire. He pushes me against the bookshelf. The ledgers rattle. A scroll crashes to the floor. His thigh slots between mine, lifting me just enough “You shouldn’t tempt me,” he growls against my throat.
“Too late.” I rake my nails down his back, and he snaps. His hands are under my shirt, yanking it over my head.His mouth follows, down my neck, over the curve of my shoulder, between my breasts. He sucks a bruise into my skin like he’s marking territory.
No pause. No hesitation. Every move says want. Every touch says need.
“You feel it, don’t you?” he whispers, lips dragging down my stomach. “The way this is supposed to be.”
“You think this is fate?” I breathe.
“No,” he growls. “This is fucking war.” He drops to his knees in front of me like a man built for worship…and ruin. His fingers curl into my waistband, tugging pants and panties in one smooth motion, he doesn’t look away. Doesn’t give me the time to be shy or coy. Just stares. At me. Flushed, breathless, already shaking. “Perfect,” he murmurs, and then his mouth is on me. His tongue is hot, slow, and deliberate. He licks like he’s learning me, committing every gasp to memory. His hands grip my thighs, thumbs teasing along the edges of my heat, mouth dragging slick and ruthless between my legs. I moan, loud and raw, fingers sinking into his hair, hips rolling against his face. He groans like I’m the meal he’s been starving for.
“Riven…”
“Don’t say my name like that,” he growls, mouth still working me. “Not unless you want me to come right here, tasting you,”
FUCK.
He stands in a fluid motion, lifting me into his arms like I weigh nothing. Carries me to the leather chaise near the fire and lays me out like something priceless. Like something already his. He strips the rest of his clothes off. Slow, powerful, cock already hard, leaking, and goddamn gorgeous. When he presses the tip against my entrance, he pauses, just enough for his eyes to lock on mine. “Last chance.”
“You already own me,” I whisper. He sinks into me with a groan that shudders through both of us. Thick. Deep. Perfect. I cry out from the feeling of him as he fills every inch, like I was shaped for him. He starts to move in long, punishing strokes, each one pushing me closer to the edge. I claw at his back, mouth open, no words left. Every thrust feels like he’s claiming me, ensuring no one after him will ever compare.silk Like he knows noone will ever come close. “Say it,” he pants against my neck. “Say you’re mine.”
“I’m yours.”
“Say it again.”
“I’m yours.”
His thrusts get harder. Faster. And when I come, it’s a detonation. Legs shaking. Back arched. Vision white-hot and blinding. He follows with a snarl and a growl of my name, spilling deep inside me, hips jerking, teeth clenched. We collapse together, panting.
Skin on skin. Heart on fire.
War won.
12
Echoes and Ash
There’s a weight to the darkness, a silence that feels unnatural. Even the clink of glasses and low thrum of music feels…off. Like the soundtrack to something waiting to go wrong.
I roll my shoulders, fingers curled around a bar towel, trying to pretend it’s just another shift. Just another night, another string of orders, but something’s buzzing under my skin. A hum I can’t shake.
I flip a bottle, catch it without thought, line up three glasses, and pour. Routine. Clean. Muscle memory. “Hey, Red.” Richie, one of the regulars, raises his glass at the far end of the bar. “You’re looking less haunted tonight.”
“New moisturizer,” I deadpan. He chuckles.
“You missed a hell of a brawl the other night. The place wasn’t right without you.”
“Yeah,” I mutter, drying my hands. “Hate when I miss the violence.” I don’t remember that night. The night before last is just gone. Like it was ripped out of my brain and stitched shut with shadows. I reach under the bar for a fresh shaker…and that’s when it hits me.
