Page 8

The knock I give her door isn’t light—it’s deliberate. Sharp, three times, like I’m keeping myself from clawing through the wood. I could’ve just opened it; there isn’t a door in this house that could stop me. But this isn’t that. This is me asking.

Because I know the second I cross this line, I won’t come back the same.

When the door creaks open, she’s there, small and curious and utterly dangerous to me in a way she’ll never understand. Her hair’s a mess, and she looks at me like I’m the one who’s about to make trouble. She has no idea.

“Caspian?” Her voice is soft, the kind she uses when she knows something’s wrong but can’t name it yet.

I lean against the frame, swallowing down the ache building under my ribs. My throat’s dry, my skin feels too tight, and everything inside me is humming, vibrating with the weight of what I’ve let fester.

“I need your help,” I tell her, voice rougher than I intend. I drag a hand through my hair, forcing myself to meet her eyes. “It’s… not something I can ask anyone else.”

She frowns, stepping back to let me in without question, like I haven’t spent months trying to pretend everything was fine. Like she doesn’t already know I’m a goddamn mess. “What’s wrong?”

I step inside, pacing the length of her room once because I can’t stand still, the power under my skin too sharp, too loud. It’s been clawing at me for weeks now, and I’ve been holding it in like a cracked bottle, hoping I wouldn’t shatter.

“I’m leaking,” I say flatly, turning to face her. “You know how it works. We’re not supposed to hold our power for too long without using it.”

She nods slowly, still not understanding, and I hate how much I want her to. How much I want her to see the way I’ve been drowning in it.

“I can’t use mine,” I add, quieter now. “Not since Branwen. Every time I even try to… it turns my stomach. Makes me sick.”

I see the realization flicker across her face, but she still doesn’t quite get it.

“My power isn’t like the others’,” I murmur, dragging my fingers over the back of my neck. “I don’t build things, or throw punches, or craft stupid coins like Silas. I am Lust, . It’s what I am.”

Her throat works as she swallows, eyes narrowing slightly. “So what do you need from me?”

My smile is faint and sharp, almost cruel, because there’s no easy way to say it. No delicate, polite, safe way.

“I need you to take it.”

She blinks, her lips parting, confusion blooming across her face.

“All of it,” I go on. “Every bit I’ve kept bottled up for months. I need somewhere to put it, or it’s going to rip me apart.”

Her gaze flicks nervously over me now, but I don’t move toward her. I keep my distance, voice measured, deliberate.

“I won’t touch you,” I add. “Not unless you ask me to. But you’re the vessel, . You’re the only one who can take it.”

Her breath catches, but she doesn’t speak, so I keep going, laying it out for her piece by piece, brutal in my honesty.

“You’re going to feel everything I’ve been holding back,” I murmur, my voice scraping low. “Every ounce of want, every bit of arousal I’ve forced into the dark, every raw, desperate thing I’ve kept from you. It’s going to hit you all at once.”

Her lips part like she’s going to argue, to tell me this is too much, too intimate, too dangerous—but she doesn’t.

Instead, she just says, “How bad is it?”

I meet her eyes, and I don’t lie. “You’ll come so hard you’ll forget your own name.”

Her breath hitches.

I shrug, pretending like I’m unaffected when everything inside me is on fire. “You can say no. I’ll figure something else out.”

Her throat works around a swallow as she looks up at me from her bed, her knees tucked, her hands fidgeting in her lap like she’s trying to figure out if she should be nervous or intrigued.

“What do you need me to do?” she asks, voice softer now, rasped at the edges.

My mouth curves at the question, because she has no idea how dangerous that question is—not because of what I’ll do, but because of what she’ll feel. Because the moment I start, I won’t stop until there’s nothing left inside me but ash.

“Lie down,” I tell her quietly, my voice pitched low, like it’s just for her.

She hesitates, but only for a breath, before moving, her limbs languid, her body folding back against the pillow like she’s already surrendering to me. It’s that effortless trust that guts me every time.

I kneel beside the bed instead of standing over her, because this isn’t about power—it’s about need. Mine. Her eyes track me warily, curiously, as I settle on my knees like a supplicant. I glance at her bare thigh, at the curve of her leg folded over the other, and then back at her.

“Can I touch you?” I ask, deliberately careful, because the hunger scraping under my ribs is barely leashed. “Just here—” I nod toward her thigh. “It’ll help me anchor it.”

She licks her lips, and it’s so soft, so unthinking, I almost curse aloud.

“Okay,” she breathes, her voice catching, her pulse fluttering visibly in her throat.

I slide my hand over her knee, fingers curling gently around the line of her leg, and the second my palm touches her skin, the bond flares bright in my chest. My power aches toward her like a starving thing, and I exhale sharply, focusing hard not to let it pour too fast.

“Breathe,” I murmur, almost to myself.

Then I let go—slow, deliberate, pouring the first thread of it into her.

She gasps, her back arching just barely, her fingers curling into the sheets like the spark has already burned too sweet.

It’s a slow, excruciating thing. Like bleeding light into her veins, like every ounce of hunger I’ve ever buried under charm and snark is crawling out of me and into her skin. I watch her eyes flutter closed, her lips parting, her breath hitching as the pulse of my power slithers deeper.

And gods, she’s beautiful like this—strung up on nothing but the sheer weight of what I’ve denied myself, her body softening under the force of it, her thighs shifting unconsciously beneath my hand.

I drag my thumb over her skin in a lazy circle, grounding myself there, pouring more of myself into her, until she’s trembling, her breath coming sharp and quick.

“Caspian,” she whispers like it’s a curse and a prayer.

I lift my gaze to her face, voice low, rasped. “Good, sweetheart. Let me give it to you.”

I push more, steadily, and her hips shift helplessly, a choked sound slipping from her throat like she can’t bear how much she wants it. I can feel it—how her pulse is racing, how her body is unraveling under the press of every desperate, obscene thing I’ve ever wanted and buried.

The sound she makes isn’t soft. It’s sharp, broken open, the kind of sound that hits somewhere behind my ribs like a punch, and her legs jerk beneath my hand like she’s just touched flame.

I know the exact second her body hits that first edge and goes under—I can feel it ripple down her bones, crack through her bond like lightning striking water. She shudders hard, her hands twisting in the sheets, her breath torn from her lungs, and the pulse of it hums down my spine like a live wire.

But I don’t stop.

I can’t.

This isn’t mercy. It’s necessity.

I drag more of my power out of me, pouring it into her like wine, like venom, like everything I’ve been holding too tightly, too long. It curls inside her, and I watch her fall apart under it, her body arching again as another wave takes her—a second climax tearing through her too soon, too much.

Her eyes flutter open, glassy and wild, her mouth falling open on a soundless gasp as her body fights to keep up, and I murmur something I don’t mean to, something low and filthy that makes her moan like it hurts and feels good at once.

“Good girl,” I breathe, my voice gone rough, thumb tracing lazy circles on her thigh even as her hips twitch helplessly. “You’re taking me so well.”

She shakes her head, but it’s not no—it’s too much, too fast, and she doesn’t know how to breathe through it. Her fingers reach for me blindly, catching the edge of my shirt, trying to ground herself as I keep feeding her everything I’ve bottled up, every wicked thing I never let myself want until now.

Another surge rolls through her, and she cries out, her thighs pressing together instinctively, but I drag my palm up, soothing her like she’s something fragile even as I keep pushing her past it.

“I know,” I murmur, voice a thread of silk wrapping around her throat. “I know it’s too much, sweetheart. That’s the point.”

Her body jerks again as another climax crashes over her, her breath breaking on a sobbed sound, and I feel it in my chest, in my bones, in the bond singing between us like it’s on fire.

I lean in then, pressing my forehead to her knee, breathing her in like I’m starving.

Because I am.

I give her another pulse of it, slower this time, letting her ride the wave instead of drowning in it, and her entire body melts against the bed like she’s unraveling molecule by molecule beneath my hands.

“Almost done,” I murmur, voice thick, though we both know I’m lying.

I’ve got more to give her. I’ll pour every goddamned drop into her until there’s nothing left but ruin.

For both of us.

She’s wrecked beneath me. Lying there, sweat-slicked and breathless, trembling under every thread of power I’ve poured into her like I’m bleeding myself dry. But the worst part—the thing that undoes me—is that she’s still reaching for more. Her body arcs into my touch like it’s instinct, like she was made for this, for me, for the kind of need I’ve kept locked in my throat for months.

And I can’t stop.

It starts subtle—the way my fingers trail higher, from her thigh to the hollow dip above her knee, then drag slow, reverent circles over the inside of her leg, grounding myself in her skin because I’m unraveling.

She’s panting my name now, soft and wrecked, and I swear to every fucking god in this Hollow, I’d drown in the sound if she asked.

I glance up, and her eyes meet mine—glass-bright, unfocused, but wanting. Needing.

The restraint I’ve been holding cracks in my chest, and before I can talk myself out of it, I’m leaning over her, one hand braced beside her head, the other dragging slow, deliberate down her stomach to cup her over the thin fabric of her sleep shorts.

She gasps like I’ve branded her.

“Caspian,” she breathes, but it’s not a protest—it’s an invocation.

My thumb drags over her, slow and sure, and her hips jerk into my palm, chasing the contact, and something dark and sharp twists low in me. I want her like this—out of her mind, drowning in me, and I want to ruin her a little more.

I murmur against her ear, voice low and wrecked, “You’ve got no idea how good you look like this, sweetheart. Wrung out. Mine.”

She shivers at that word, her body arching, and I slip my hand under the waistband, skin on skin now, slick and so fucking warm. She’s already close again. I can feel it in the way she trembles under me, how her thighs try to squeeze together around my wrist like she can stop what’s already inevitable.

I don’t give her space to come down. I want her undone. Shattered.

My mouth trails down the line of her throat, teeth scraping lightly over her pulse point, and I press my fingers inside her at the same time, slow, stretching, deliberate. Her back bows off the bed, her hands flying to my shoulders, fingers digging in like I’m the only thing keeping her tethered to this plane.

“Stay with me,” I murmur, dragging my mouth down to her neck, kissing over her skin like she’s something sacred. “I’ve got you.”

And I do. Every inch of her.

She comes apart again with a strangled sound, thighs trembling, breath catching, and I don’t let up, grinding my palm against her, coaxing another climax from her like I’m starving for it. Because I am. Because it’s not enough. It will never be enough.

Her hand tangles in my hair, pulling me up, and her mouth crashes into mine, desperate and messy, and I lose whatever scrap of self-restraint I had left.

I kiss her like she’s air, like she’s everything I shouldn’t want but can’t stop devouring. And when she drags me closer, when her thighs part, silently inviting me to finish what I’ve started—I already know I’m going to.

Because I’d burn for her.

And I’d let her watch me do it.

Her leg shudders beneath my palm like a livewire, heat pooling in my veins as I watch her body tremble under the weight of my power. It coils out of me without mercy now, the restraint I’d started with unraveling thread by thread, until I can’t tell where I end and she begins. The Hollow around us, the cracked bones of this place, the shadows that watch us from the edges—they don’t exist. Nothing exists but her. The way she moans my name like she’s cursing me, like I’m wrecking her from the inside out.

I should stop here. I should pull back, let her catch her breath, but she’s pulling me under with every sharp exhale and I’m already too far gone.

Her thighs twitch, hips pressing upward without shame, without pretense, and it’s a prayer and a plea in one. I slide my hand higher, my thumb grazing her inner thigh with a drag slow enough to kill us both, and her eyes flutter open, wrecked and glazed like she’s drowning in me.

"You're taking it so well," I murmur, voice rough, breathless, reverent. "Greedy little thing."

She bites her bottom lip like that might ground her, like she isn’t already undone, like her pulse isn’t singing to me through every bond threaded between us. Her skin is flushed, slick, trembling, and I can feel her unraveling again as I let the next wave roll out of me—slow, precise, punishing.

I shouldn’t touch her like this. Not like this. But I want to—gods, I want to—and when her fingers fist the sheets like she’s trying to hold herself together, I slide my hand up her stomach, splaying it wide over her ribs, her heart fluttering against my palm like a caged thing.

"More?" I ask, because I already know the answer, because I want to hear her say it.

She nods, wrecked, eyes wide and pleading.

And then I stop holding back.

The force of me pours into her all at once—sharp, endless, raw like teeth scraping down her spine—and she splinters apart beneath me, legs trembling, voice breaking on a cry that shatters something in me. I lean over her without thinking, mouth at her throat, her skin salt-sweet and soft and mine. The bond pulls tighter, humming under my tongue as I drag it over her pulse point, and her fingers find my shirt, yanking me down like she’ll drown if I’m not anchored to her.

I slide my knee between her thighs, pressing her open, grinding her down, still pouring every last thread of want, need, hunger into her. Her body bucks and shakes, and I feel her fall apart again—this time with a sound torn from somewhere deep, her nails biting into my back.

I catch her mouth in a kiss that’s filthy, messy, desperate. There’s no distance left between us now, no restraint. I kiss her until she can’t breathe, until we’re both gasping, and then I murmur against her lips, rough and raw and wrecked:

"Let me have you, . Let me ruin you properly."

Her thighs lock around my hips like a vice, her body already pliant and wrecked beneath me, but the look in her eyes—gods, it’s worse than her moans, worse than her shaking limbs. She’s looking at me like she wants me to consume her. Like she’ll let me. Like she wants nothing left of herself except what I give back to her.

My fingers slide beneath her thigh, gripping, lifting, positioning her, and her breath catches when I grind against her, my body already hard and aching from every noise she's made. My restraint cracks at the edges. I’ve starved for her, kept myself tucked away, broken and bleeding after Branwen—but ? She’s the only thing that’s ever made me feel alive.

I dip my head, dragging my mouth over her throat, tasting the salt-slick of her skin, her pulse thundering wildly. She shudders beneath me when I kiss lower, across her collarbone, slow, deliberate, like she’s the last sweet thing I’ll ever taste.

And when I press inside her—slow, brutal, careful—it feels like the world stops spinning. She gasps, her fingers digging into my arms, nails sharp, dragging me deeper. My power hums beneath my skin, slipping into hers like liquid heat, like a current neither of us can resist. She’s wet, warm, already spent but still wanting. Always wanting.

"You feel it, don't you?" I murmur against her ear, voice like gravel, like sin. "How full you are. How much I want you."

Her breath hitches on a moan, her hips rolling to meet me without shame, without hesitation. "Yes."

That one word is my undoing.

I start to move, slow at first, just to feel the way she clenches around me, but the second her thighs tighten again, I lose whatever fragile restraint I had left. I fuck her like I’m starving, like I’ve bled for her and would again, driving into her hard enough that the bed creaks beneath us.

Her back arches, her mouth falling open around a sound she can’t bite back, and I catch her lips again, swallowing every broken noise. My power keeps spilling out of me, feeding her, winding around her nerves until she’s shaking, until her legs quake around me.

"You're so good for me," I rasp, driving deeper, rougher, hands gripping her hips like she’ll disappear if I let go. "You’re mine, ."

Her hands tangle in my hair, dragging me closer. "Yours."

That word wrecks me.

I feel her pulse under my tongue, her body spiraling again—her third, fourth, maybe fifth climax—I’ve lost count because every time I push into her, it drags her back under. I can feel it through the bond, the way she’s coming undone, the way she’s losing herself entirely to me.

And I love it.

My mouth trails lower, biting her throat, kissing her lips between ragged breaths. "You’ll feel me for days," I promise, voice rough silk. "You’ll still ache tomorrow."

whines under me, her hips bucking, her body liquid and trembling and so goddamn perfect.

I thrust harder, chasing my own unraveling now, her body slick and tight around me, her nails biting into my skin like she wants to leave scars.

When I finally let go, it feels like falling.

It feels like her.

I bury my face in her throat, breathing her in like she’s air and I’ve been drowning, still moving, drawing every last drop of pleasure out of both of us until we’re nothing but wreckage and want and need.

And when I finally still, when her hands soften in my hair, her legs loose around my waist, I don’t move away. I stay there, buried in her, her breath warm against my ear, her body molded perfectly to mine.

"Better?" she asks after a beat, voice a hoarse little tease.

I laugh against her throat, the sound raw and shaken. "Much."

I don’t move. I stay inside her, my body heavy over hers, her fingers still tangled in my hair like she’s afraid if she lets go, I’ll vanish. And I would’ve—before. Before this. Before her. I would’ve slipped away because that’s what I do. Lust burns fast and dies quicker, leaves nothing but wreckage in its wake. That’s what I used to be.

But not with her.

I drag my mouth down the slope of her throat, my lips finding the fluttering pulse at the base of it, and I stay there, breathing her in like a man starved.

And then I do it—something I’ve never let myself do.

I stop holding the bond back.

It splits open inside me, that thin cord I’ve kept cinched tight around my ribs, that thread I’ve kept strangled because I couldn’t handle how it felt—how much I felt. I let it go. I want her to drown in me.

She gasps under me, her nails tightening against my scalp, her legs flexing around my waist like she can feel it hit her all at once—the full weight of what I’ve been holding back. The want. The ruinous, hungry, desperate love I’ve been carrying in my chest like a sickness.

I press my forehead to hers, breathing her name like it hurts me to say it. "."

Her eyes snap open, wild, wide, stunned. "What are you doing?" Her voice cracks on it, like she can feel the weight of it, the depth of me spilling into her.

My thumb drags over her cheekbone, soft, reverent. "You know what I’m doing."

Her throat works as she swallows, and I feel it—her heart slamming against mine, her breath shaking beneath me. The bond hums between us now like something alive, something no one else can touch.

"I’ve wanted you like this since the moment I touched you," I say, voice rough and low. "But this—this isn’t want. This is everything."