Page 33 of Heresy (The Lost Gospels #1)

TWENTY-FIVE

A RIDE WITH THE DEVIL

VERA

H e doesn't speak when I finish wrapping his hand.

The silence in the small, sterile kitchen is a heavy, living thing, filled with the ghosts of the last twenty-four hours.

His gaze is fixed on my hands, on the bandage I've just secured.

The raw fury, the cold control, the broken despair—it's all gone.

In its place is a stillness, a weariness so profound it seems to radiate from him in waves.

I expect him to pull away, to snarl a dismissal, to put the walls back up and restore the familiar, brutal dynamic of captor and captive. It's what he does. He shatters, and then he rebuilds his armor, colder and harder than before.

But he doesn't.

Instead, his uninjured hand comes up, slow and hesitant.

It's not a grab; it's not a claim. His calloused fingers gently, almost uncertainly, brush against my cheek. The touch is a shock, a spark of warmth against my cold skin. It’s the first touch he's ever given me that isn't about violence or possession.

My entire body freezes, every instinct screaming at me to flinch away, to retreat. But I don't. I am held captive not by his strength, but by the raw, unguarded vulnerability in his eyes. For the first time, I don't see a king or a monster. I see a man. A man who is utterly and completely lost.

He leans in, his movements slow, giving me every opportunity to pull back. His mouth finds mine, and the kiss is nothing like before. There is no rage, no punishment, no demand. It is hesitant. It is searching. It tastes of whiskey and grief and a question he doesn't know how to ask.

It is, impossibly, tender.

My mind is a warring chaos of no and don't and this is a trap . But my body, which has been a battlefield for days, responds to the truce. A deep, shuddering sigh escapes my lips, and I lean into him, a small, involuntary surrender.

This is not forgiveness. It is not desire. It is a shared, desperate need for a moment of quiet in the heart of a war. A brief, fragile sanctuary.

He deepens the kiss, his arm sliding around my waist, pulling me against him.

He lifts me as if I weigh nothing, and I wrap my legs around his waist, my body acting on an instinct older than fear.

He carries me from the kitchen, through the quiet, sleeping safe house, and into a small, spartan bedroom.

He lays me gently on the bed, the mattress soft beneath my aching body.

He pulls back, his eyes searching mine in the dim, quiet room, a silent question in his gaze.

We are not captor and captive. We are two survivors, two collections of scars and ghosts, meeting in the quiet aftermath of a battle.

He moves with a slow, deliberate reverence, his hands mapping the planes of my body as if learning a new language.

He undresses me slowly, his touch hesitant but sure.

My torn shirt is peeled away, revealing the angry, purple brand on my shoulder.

His fingers trace the edges of the bite mark, his expression unreadable, before his lips follow the same path.

He kisses the wound, not with the possessive fire of the man who made it, but with a strange, aching tenderness that makes my breath catch in my throat.

This is a different kind of assault, a gentle invasion that disarms me more effectively than any violence could. My mind, my fortress, is in chaos. It screams that this is a trick, a manipulation. But my body, the traitor, yearns for this truce.

His mouth leaves my shoulder and travels lower, a slow, deliberate exploration.

He kisses my neck, the hollow of my throat, the space between my ribs, his lips and the rough scrape of his stubble sending shivers through me.

My hands, which should be pushing him away, find themselves tangled in his hair.

He moves between my legs, and this time, there is no punishing force, no brutal claiming.

He enters me with an impossible, agonizing slowness, a deliberate, reverent pressure that is both an intimacy and an invasion.

I gasp, my back arching off the bed, my body clenching around him.

He holds still, letting me adjust, his forehead resting against mine, our ragged breaths mingling in the small space between us.

He begins to move, a slow, deep, hypnotic rhythm that is the complete opposite of the frantic, punishing pace of our other encounters. This is not about his release. This is about mine.

His hand, calloused and sure, finds the sensitive flesh between my legs.

His thumb moves in a slow, perfect circle, a knowledgeable touch that sends a jolt of pure, electric pleasure through me, so intense it borders on pain.

My mind screams in protest, fighting against this surrender, but it’s a losing battle.

The tension coils in my gut, tighter and tighter, a desperate, rising tide.

"Let go, Vera," he whispers against my lips, the words a plea, not a command. "For just a second. Let go."

And I do.

The release is a shattering, splintering thing. A wave of pure, white-hot sensation that makes a raw cry tear from my throat. My entire body convulses, breaking apart in his arms. He holds me through it, his rhythm steady, his touch unwavering until the last tremor fades.

Only then, when I am a trembling, boneless wreck in his arms, does he allow himself his own release. I feel him shudder, a deep, guttural groan rumbling in his chest as he empties himself into me, a final, quiet surrender in the heart of a war.

The last tremor of his release fades, and the world rushes back in. The room is quiet, the only sounds our harsh, ragged breaths mingling in the dim light. I lie beneath him, my body boneless and trembling, every nerve ending humming with a strange, aching energy.

I wait for the rejection.

It’s the only part of the pattern I know. After the storm, the cold front moves in. I brace myself for him to pull away, for the dismissive shove, for the cruel, cutting words designed to remind me of my place. I wait for him to rebuild the wall between us, to put the king back on his throne.

But he doesn't move.

Instead, he collapses against me, his full weight a heavy, grounding presence. His breathing is a hot, damp puff against my neck. His arms, which had been caging me, now wrap around me, holding me to him. It’s not a possessive grip; it’s something else, something I don’t have a name for.

My mind is screaming. This is wrong. This is a trick.

The silence stretches, and my own internal storm rages.

I should push him away. I should fight. I should say something.

But I do nothing. I am paralyzed by the sheer, shocking intimacy of the moment.

My body, the traitor, sinks into the mattress beneath his weight, accepting the strange, unwelcome comfort of his embrace.

After a long moment, he shifts, rolling onto his side and pulling me with him, my back pressed against his chest. One of his heavy arms stays draped over my waist, a possessive but not punishing weight. His breathing slowly evens out, deepening into the slow, steady rhythm of sleep.

He is asleep. He is unarmed. He is vulnerable. And he is holding me.

I lie there in the darkness, a prisoner in my captor's embrace, every instinct I have honed over a lifetime of survival completely and utterly useless. He has not rejected me. He has not dismissed me. He has done something far worse.

He has kept me.

And as I stare into the shadows of the strange room, I realize I am more trapped now, in this quiet, tangled intimacy, than I ever was in the cold, concrete cage.