Page 50 of Claimed In Darkness

50

NAIRA

I can’t run anymore.

Not from him.

Zephiran has me pinned. He’s here.

He has never stopped chasing after me even after I stabbed him.

And because some deep, wretched part of me never wanted him to stop.

His hands are rough, unforgiving. One at my wrist, the other pressed against my throat.

It wasn’t enough to hurt. Just enough to make sure I know—he has me now.

That I am not slipping away this time.

That if I want to leave—I will have to kill him.

I don’t want to.

Despite everything, despite this war, despite the blood still drying on my skin, despite the fact that he is my enemy now?—

I still feel safe in his hands.

Why can he just let me go? I hate him for making me stay.

For making me remember.

For making me feel things.

His eyes isn’t full of rage.

It isn’t grief.

It isn’t even victory.

Something I can’t fight.

Something that makes my gut twist, my throat tighten, my pulse?—

Too erratic.

Too alive.

He is looking at me like he still wants me.

Like he still believes in me.

Zephiran still thinks I can come back from this.

He’s wrong.

He has to be.

If he isn’t?—

Then everything I did was for nothing.

"Still chasing me, Zephiran?" I try to laugh but it comes out broken.

He doesn’t smile.

His grip on me tightens, dragging me closer, his breath hot against my cheek.

"You were never meant to run from me."

My body betrays me and my pulse stutters, a sharp inhale too quick, too deep.

He hears it.

He feels it.

I surrden first. I move.

Fast.

Desperate.

Hungry.

My mouth finds his, not in surrender, but in defiance.

Not because I want to come back to him.

No, I don’t intend to be his again.

But because I want him to hurt the way I am hurting.

I want him to feel this fire the way I do.

If I am burning—I am dragging him into the flames with me.

His hands tighten and I let him take me. Against the wall. Against the ruins of everything we used to be.

Teeth and breath and too much fucking history.

It is the only thing that has ever made sense.

He’s making me want him again, and I detest him for it.

For making me weak when I should be strong.

For making me crave him the way I used to.

For making me feel like I never stopped.

He pulls away first, just slightly, just enough.

His forehead against mine, his breath still uneven, his hands still gripping me like he wants to break me apart, like he wants to put me back together.

His voice is hoarse, wrecked, a whisper of something I can’t handle.

"Tell me you don’t still want me, and I’ll let you go."

He still thinks I have a choice.

He still thinks this war is something I can walk away from.

He still thinks we are something that can end.

But we are not.

We never were.

I swallow hard.

My voice is barely a whisper. "You should have let me die."

His grip tightens.

His expression shifts.

His lips press into a thin, hard line, and I know?—

He is done waiting.

Because am not getting away again.

I am still his.

I never stopped being his.