Because that’s all he’s getting. I push him down against the bed, his back flat against the mattress, and he lets me.
His arms stay at his sides, knuckles white where he fists the sheets, body tensed beneath me like a weapon waiting to be wielded. His cock is already hard, thick and leaking and so ready it’s obscene, but I don’t touch it yet.
Instead, I undress him. I peel the layers off slowly. Shirt first, dragging it up over his chest, fingers catching on scars and muscle. Then pants. Then briefs. Until he’s laid out in front of me, gorgeous and brutal and mine.
I strip next. My jacket, my shirt, my bra. I leave the pants on for a moment. Just to watch the way his eyes drag over me like he’s memorizing every inch…although he still doesn’t touch.
I slip my pants down slowly, revealing the wet dark patch clinging between my thighs. His breath punches out of him in a sharp exhale. “You gonna lie there like a good boy?” I murmur, sliding back into his lap.
His jaw clenches. “If that’s what you want.”
I tilt my head, eyes sharp. “No. I want you to suffer for it.” I rock against him once—just once—letting the heat of me smear across the length of him. His hips twitch, but he catches himself. He doesn't thrust. He doesn’t grab me. He just groans.
That sound breaks something in me. I reach between us and guide the head of his cock to my entrance, and then I stop. Hovering. Slick and pulsing and so close we’re practically shaking. His voice is a rasp. “Lux”
“I take what’s mine,” I whisper.
And I sink down. The stretch is devastating.
I’m wet, dripping and open and aching for it, but he’s still so fucking thick it steals the breath from my lungs. I drag him in inch by inch, savoring the pressure, the fullness, the claim of it. By the time I bottom out, he’s panting.
I grind once, a cruel, slow twist of my hips, and his eyes flutter closed, mouth parting with a sound that might be a prayer, or a curse. Maybe both. I plant my hands on his chest and start to move.
No rhythm at first. Just chaos. Instinct. Rocking, grinding, riding him with the desperation of a woman trying to fuck herself back into control. His cock drags along every hypersensitive nerve, and I moan, loud and unfiltered.
He watches me like I’m the last thing he’ll ever see. I rake my nails down his chest. Lean forward. Bite his neck, his shoulder, the hard plane of his collarbone. I mark him. I own him. And still he doesn’t take control.
Because he knows. Knows I need this. Knows this isn’t just about pleasure. It’s about power.
The pace builds. I bounce harder now, thighs slapping against his, my cunt making slick, obscene sounds as I ride him raw. Sweat drips down my spine. My mark pulses on my hand like a brand made of lightning.
I feel him twitch inside me, feel the tension in his thighs, the way his breath hitches like he’s seconds away. “No,” I pant. “Not until I come.”
He groans, grinding his hips up once, but doesn’t finish. “Fuck, Lux…please…”
“Wait.” I slam down harder, angle my hips, and cry out as the pressure builds, coiling low, sharp, brutal. I chase it like a knife in the dark. Let it tear through me.
When I come, it’s a fucking storm. I scream. My whole body locks down. I shake so hard it feels like the bed might splinter beneath us. And only then do I give him permission. “Come inside me,” I whisper, teeth still bared. “Mark me. Be mine.”
He shatters. With a broken, vicious growl, he thrusts up once, twice, and spills inside me in hot, pulsing waves. His body goes rigid, muscles flexing under my palms, and for a long, brutal second, we stay locked together like we’re the only two things that exist.
I collapse on top of him. Sweat-soaked. Shaking. His heart pounds beneath my cheek. His arms finally come around me, pulling me tight. And I feel it in the quiet. The shift. The choice that was just made. Not a bond like theirs. Not something dictated by prophecy. Something else. Something older. Something worse.
I don’t sleep because something inside won’t let me. The sheets are damp with sweat, sex, and memory. Riven lies on his back, one arm curled under the pillow, the other slung across where my body used to be, the imprint of me still warm in the bed.
He looks younger when he sleeps. Quieter. The chaos buried. Like the monster in him has curled in on itself for a few stolen hours of peace. I can’t follow him into that kind of silence. Because mine is too loud.
The mark on my palm doesn’t pulse the way it did before. It vibrates. Deep and low, like the hum of machinery under ancient stone, the sound you only notice when everything else stops.
There’s something alive inside me now, and it’s waiting. I slide out of bed slowly, careful not to wake him. Riven stirs but doesn’t open his eyes. His brows twitch,just once, a subtle crease like he senses I’m leaving and doesn’t like it. He doesn’t reach for me, and I don’t look back.
I wrap a thin sheet around my body and step barefoot into the hall. The floor is cold stone. The air cooler than it should be. I move through the darkened corridor like a ghost, the walls pressing in tighter than before. The house feels different now, aware. Like it’s listening through the glass cases, through the bones of the structure, through the dust caught in the edges of the light.
Something has shifted. Not just in me. Everywhere.
I pass the war cases. The relics behind the glass flicker faintly, like they’re trying to warn me. The weapons look sharper. Bloodier. The armor darker. The symbols on the walls, the ones I thought were decorative, almost seem to move when I blink.
Like the house is rearranging itself around me. Testing me. Preparing me. I could turn back. Climb back into bed and curl into Riven’s warmth. Pretend I’m just tired. Pretend it was just a dream. But I don’t.
