Page 137

The words hit sharp and low, making my breath catch even though I know better. Because he’s right. I’ve let myself become this—open, wanton, a siphon for every sin stitched into me.

My magic hums under my skin, restless and aching. It’s not just lust anymore; it’s older, darker, heavier. Caspian’s bond still sits warm and hungry in my chest, but it’s Ambrose’s hands, his voice, the weight of his gaze that tips me over the edge.

And I start to spill. Slowly, deliberately. Magic trickles from me like silk poured down his throat, a thread at first, enough to make his shoulders tighten.

He dips lower, mouth hovering over my stomach, breath skating across my skin without touching. His hand slides up, spreading wide over my sternum, pinning me down—not harsh, not cruel, just enough to hold me still. A reminder that I’m his tonight.

“You’re leaking,” he murmurs, thumb tapping once against my chest like he’s checking the pulse he knows he’s unraveling. “You’re not subtle, little sin.”

I arch toward him, barely moving, magic licking at the pulse in his wrist. “Then stop pretending you don’t want it.”

He smiles—razor-sharp, humorless—and then he moves.

Without warning, without mercy, his hand slides down, and his fingers sink inside me in one smooth, brutal stroke. No teasing. No easing me into it. He fucks me open with his hand, deliberate, possessive, his thumb pressing against my clit in a rhythm meant to dismantle, not seduce.

I gasp, hips twitching beneath him, but he keeps me pinned, palm steady against my chest like he owns me.

“Stay still,” he breathes, voice rough now, dark. “You wanted to give yourself to me. So give.”

I obey. I stop chasing. I stop arching. I let him use me how he wants, every thrust of his fingers brutal and unrelenting.

But my magic doesn’t obey.

It keeps spilling, winding around him in pulses of heat and craving, threading through his skin, through the pulse beneath his wrist, until I feel the moment it hits him.

It’s subtle—the flicker in his eyes, the flex of his jaw, the breath he holds too long before letting it out sharp.

“Don’t,” he warns, voice scraping low, brittle around the edges.

But I do. I pour more into him, a flood now, a pulse that hums and burns, laced with want and hunger, the craving he refuses to name.

His rhythm falters for half a second—just a flicker, but I feel it. His fingers curl harder, deeper, dragging a sound from my throat that’s almost a sob.

“You wanted to be filled,” he growls, the edge of his voice fraying now, unraveling under the weight of what I’m giving him. “So take it.”

And I do.

The orgasm rips through me sharp and fast, hips jerking despite his weight, body clenching around his fingers, magic slamming out of me like a wave meant to drown.

He tries to hold it back—he tries—but I feel him falter. His breath catches in his throat, sharp and wrecked, and he bows over me like he’s trying not to drown in everything I just poured into him.

And I smile, breathless and wild, even as I’m still shaking beneath him.

Because he told me to wait like a good girl.

And I made him fall apart first.

He moves without ceremony, rough and unrelenting, pulling his fingers from me and gripping my thighs hard enough to bruise. His hands slide under, flipping me like I weigh nothing, shoving me onto my stomach, hips dragged back to the edge of the bed.

His voice is a rasp now, low and vicious. “You want to pour your magic into me, little sin? You want to flood me until I choke on it?”

I barely have time to nod, face pressed to the mattress, heart hammering, body still trembling from the last orgasm.

He doesn’t wait.

I feel the drag of his cock against me—thick, heavy, already wet with the mess he made of me. And then he’s slamming inside, one brutal thrust that knocks the breath from my lungs, his grip bruising at my hips to keep me exactly where he wants me.

I cry out—sharp, wrecked—but it’s not pain. Gods, it’s not pain.