Page 169 of The Devil May Care

“I like these,” he follows each of the points like he’s drawing them on himself.

“My tattoo?” His other hand slides up the skin of my stomach, dipping under the bands of fabric I use to bind my chest. “I have others.” The paw prints along my arm, the sunflower on my shoulder, the special semi-colon tucked into my elbow. “I didn’t know you noticed them.”

“I wanted to ask about them. About how you earned them. Branded them into your skin without flame.”

It takes me a moment to understand what he means.

“You thought they were an Embermark?” He presses his lips over my shoulder, kissing my tattoo even through my tunic.

“Of a sort.” The hand tracing my ink drops from my skin before wrapping around mine. He draws my fingers up to trace the deep red lines along his chest. His throat. And when his mouth finds mine again, there’s nothing careful about it. It’s heat and hunger and the ache of two people who’ve waited too long and don’t want to waste another second. But even with the urgency, there’s a reverence to the way he moves; like this is holy. LikeIam holy. And maybe I am. Maybe we both are. Just for tonight. Just for this.

“Will you bite me?” I ask suddenly and instantly regret it. “Shit, sorry, that came out wrong—”

He leans forward slowly, the corner of his mouth brushing mine in a smile.

“I’m not a vampire,sâl,” he murmurs, lips grazing my cheek. “But if you’re asking whether I’d mark you,” His teeth drag gently across my neck. Not hard, just a scrape, a tease. “I already have.”

I make a sound, something helpless and too warm, and tug him closer. We kiss again, deeper now, bodies shifting, hearts pounding. His tail curls around my thigh like it’s staking its claim. I gasp against his mouth.

“Hey.”

“What?”

“Your tail.” Not that I mind.

“I told you. It has opinions.”

I snort, and he kisses the sound right out of me. There’s still so much heat between us, so much we haven’t explored, but we’re taking our time. Hands wander. Clothes shift as he turns us and pushes me down onto the soft mattress of his bed. My shirt is somewhere behind me. His teeth graze my shoulder as his claws cut through my bindings. We keep getting lost in each other and laughing about it, only to fall back together with soft, desperate sighs.

We’re learning each other in layers. Teaching with sighs and touch and heat. The way my skin responds to his claws when they barely scratch. The way he pauses to watch my expression, like it matters more than anything. The way he touches me like I’m something sacred, something he didn’t know he was allowed to have until now. I thought this would feel surreal, but it doesn’t.

It feels real in a way nothing else has, not since I crash-landed in Crimson. Not since I was pulled into a world that doesn’t want me. A world that keeps trying to make me forget who I am. Maybe not even in the decade and a half before that. Caziel’s fingers trace the side of my ribs like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he presses too hard. His mouth is on my neck again, not biting, just breathing; like he’s relearning what it means to want gently. I arch into him, my hands buried in his dark hair, and I can feel the tremor in his shoulders when I say his name.

“Caz.”

A low sound rumbles in his throat. He pulls back enough to look at me. And I mean really look at me. His eyes, those deep onyx pools thatsee far too much, search my face like he’s bracing for me to change my mind. Like he’s still expecting me to break. I don’t. I won’t. I’m here. I’m choosing this. Choosing him. I lift my hand and brush my fingers over the curve of one horn. It’s smoother than I expected; cooler than his skin but still heated. Polished smooth like stone. His breath stutters at the contact.

“Sensitive?”

“A little,” he admits, voice hoarse.

I smile. “Good.” His tail wraps tighter around my thigh in response. “You really don’t control that thing, do you?”

“Not even a little.”

He leans in again, and this time the kiss starts soft but doesn’t stay there. It deepens, darkens—turns into something lush and open-mouthed, something hungry. His hands slide down my back, then up under the curve of my spine, pressing me closer. I feel everything—the ridges of his mark against my skin, the heat of him, the slow rock of his hips as we shift again on the bed.

His clothes are mostly still on. Mine are mostly not. I kind of love that. It’s like we’re in no rush, even though I know we are. There’s desperation in how we cling to each other, but there’s also care. Like neither of us is willing to be the first to shatter this moment. He kisses the underside of my jaw, then lower. His mouth trails heat down the center of my chest. I gasp when his fangs graze the slope of one breast—teasing, playful, reverent.

“Still want the bite?” he murmurs, tongue flicking warm over skin.

I nod, breath catching. “Please.”

He hums, and then he sinks his canines into my skin, sucking hard on my flesh and blood beads at the wound. I gasp, but it’s not painful. Just enough sensation to make my nerves catch fire, just enough to feel claimed. He pulls back to look at me, expression unreadable.

“You are trembling.”

“I’m not scared,” I whisper.