Page 51

Chapter

Thirty-Three

WRATH

T he kitchen was warm and golden, the kind of warmth that came from roasted garlic, real butter, and something simmering low and slow on the stove.

I stepped in barefoot, drawn more by the scent than intention.

Something told me I wasn’t supposed to be here.

Maybe it was instinct, maybe it was the way the air thickened slightly the moment I crossed the threshold.

Gluttony stood at the stove, large and still, like a sculpture of war carved from restraint. He didn’t look up when I entered, but I felt the shift. He knew I was there. Every molecule in the room knew I was there.

“Smells incredible,” I said quietly, not wanting to startle him.

Still, he didn’t look at me.

“Braised lamb. Rosemary. Garlic. White wine reduction. You need protein. You burned too hot, too fast back at the cabin.”

I stepped closer, the hem of my oversized sweater brushing my knees. “You’ve been watching me?”

“I’ve been responsible for keeping you alive,” he replied, his voice flat. “Subtle difference.”

I let the jab slide, mostly because I knew it was armor.

“You could’ve fooled me with all the brooding silence and disappearing acts.”

That earned me a look over his shoulder. Just a flicker, but there was heat behind it. Not anger. Hunger.

“You’re not subtle,” he said at last. “But you are...effective.”

“Wow,” I deadpanned. “Put that on a Valentine’s card.”

Gluttony finally turned, a spoon in one hand, sauce clinging to the curve of it. “What do you want, Wrath?”

“To talk. And maybe steal a taste.” I nodded at the pan.

He considered me for a long moment, then held out the spoon, still warm and dripping with the savory, golden reduction.

I didn’t take it with my hand.

Instead, I leaned in, never breaking eye contact, and tasted directly from it.

Gluttony went utterly still.

The sauce was divine—silky and fragrant, heat layered under warmth—but the real satisfaction was the flash of something primal in his gaze.

“You’re playing with fire,” he said, his voice low.

“Maybe,” I murmured. “But you cook with it.”

The silence between us stretched, taut and charged. Then, quietly, he set the spoon down, wiped his hands, and turned fully to face me.

“You think you know what you’re doing,” he said. “But you’re still learning what we are. What I am.”

“And what’s that?” I challenged. “Because so far all I’ve seen is a man who feeds everyone but himself.”

That hit something. A nerve. His jaw ticked, but he didn’t speak.

“You keep your distance,” I continued. “You retreat when things get close. But I don’t believe it’s because you don’t care. I think it’s because you care too much. You feel too much.”

Gluttony stepped toward me slowly, each footfall deliberate. “I warned you in the beginning,” he said, his voice dark honey. “I am not gentle. I do not share. I consume. I control. And when I care, it becomes need.” He paused. “I also learned my lesson when it comes to trusting my heart.”

He snarled the last word at me, but I didn’t move back. “We all fuck up. Doesn’t mean we stop, does it?”

“Stop what?” he asked nastily.

“Loving.”

The air between us cracked. For a heartbeat, I thought he might retreat again, armor slamming back into place.

“Or fucking up. Your choice, really,” I said and instead of retreating, he crowded me back until the edge of the counter pressed against my spine, caging me in with his body.

“You want me to trust you,” he said, close enough that I could feel the heat of his breath. “But trust is earned.”

“So earn it back,” I whispered. “With me.”

His hand came up, not rough but commanding, fingers curling beneath my chin and lifting it so I had to meet his eyes.

“You’re shaking.”

“You’re not the only one who’s afraid of wanting too much.”

His mouth crushed mine with the hunger of a man who’d been starving in silence, who’d fed everyone else and left himself empty.

I moaned, letting myself be taken, giving just as much back.

His hands were fire, large and unrelenting, gripping my waist, lifting me onto the counter like I weighed nothing.

His mouth returned to mine, rough and possessive, and I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, anchoring myself to him. The kiss deepened, heat coiling low in my stomach. His hands moved with purpose, sliding under the hem of my sweater, mapping skin like territory he meant to conquer.

The stove beeped.

Neither of us moved.

Then he broke the kiss with a curse, forehead pressed to mine. “If I don’t pull away now, I won’t stop.”

I cupped his cheek, thumb tracing the sharp line of his jaw. “Then don’t stop. But do it because you choose to let yourself want. Not because you’re afraid.”

His eyes burned into mine, torn between restraint and longing. Finally, he stepped back, breathing hard.

“Tend to the food,” he muttered.

“Why?” I asked, still breathless.

“Because if I don’t,” he said, “I won’t stop at a kiss. And I want you to be sure when you let me consume you...you’re ready for it.”

I swallowed hard, the promise in his voice making my knees weak.

“And you need to eat. I would be lacking in my duties if I put my needs ahead of yours,” he added.

Something warm infused my chest. It was nice to have someone to look after you, and care for you.

I should’ve left it go at that; he told me to, after all. He’d given me an out; a warning. And yet—I stayed. Because under all that command and control, I saw it.

Hunger.

Not just for food or flesh—but for closeness, for something real. Something that couldn’t be cooked or conjured or devoured in a single sitting.

And if Gluttony thought I’d be afraid of that, he didn’t know me very well yet.

So I stayed perched on the counter, my legs swinging slowly back and forth like I wasn’t vibrating inside from the taste of his mouth. As he worked on the food I took out the bottle, uncorked it, and drank the entire thing in one go.

Holy fuck.

“You’re still here,” he said, voice rougher than before, not quite a question as he turned around and saw me. Still there.

My hands shook as raw need coursed through my veins.

Perhaps drinking raw lust and sex magick had been a bad idea.

“I’ve been told I’m quite stubborn. Not unlike someone else I know.”

He stilled, a beat passing as though weighing his next move. He hadn’t seen me down the bottle, but he knew something was off. Heavy magick swirled in the air.

Then Gluttony set the glass aside and placed his hands flat on either side of me, pinning me between his arms. Not touching yet. Just there. Heavy. Intent.

“You don’t know what you’re inviting,” he said slowly.

I tilted my head, eyes not leaving his. “I think I do. I’m inviting you. All of you. Stop pretending that doesn’t matter.”

Something cracked behind his eyes.

Then his hand curled around the back of my neck—not roughly, but with purpose—and his mouth found mine again.

It was different this time.

Slower.

Darker.

His tongue slid past my lips in a lazy sweep that promised indulgence, not just urgency. The kind of kiss that tasted like wine and decadence and late nights you never forget.

He drank the liquified lust that lingered on my lips.

“You taste like trouble,” he murmured, kissing the corner of my mouth, then lower—along my jaw, my throat, the hollow beneath my ear.

“You taste like cinnamon and control issues,” I gasped, threading my fingers into his hair.

His laugh was dark and low, but it died in his throat when I wrapped my legs around his hips and pulled him flush against me.

His hands moved instinctively to my thighs, fingers digging in. “Wrath…”

“Don’t stop now,” I whispered. “Not when you finally started touching me like you mean it.”

His control snapped.

Gluttony kissed me harder, messier now, his hands exploring in rough sweeps—my back, my waist, the curve of my hips. His fingers found skin beneath my sweater and lingered, thumbs stroking lazy, possessive circles like he was mapping me by memory.

“Do you know what I do with things I claim?” he growled against my neck.

I shivered. “Feed them?”

His teeth grazed the shell of my ear. “Ruin them.”

I didn’t flinch.

Instead, I pulled his shirt free from his waistband and slid my hands underneath—across heated skin and corded muscle. “Then ruin me, Gluttony.”

A sound escaped him—part groan, part growl—and the next thing I knew, I was lifted off the counter, his mouth never leaving mine. He set me down on the kitchen island like I was a dish he planned to devour, pushing my knees apart with a firm grip.

“I should stop,” he muttered.

“You won’t,” I said, breathless.

He leaned in, lips brushing mine, slow and sinful. “No. I won’t.”

His hands roamed up my thighs, underneath the sweater, trailing fire behind them. He didn’t rush—not Gluttony. He savored.

I was trembling by the time his hands reached my ribs, my breath catching as his thumbs skimmed just beneath the curve of my breasts. My sweater was bunched at my waist, but he didn’t pull it off.

He was waiting.

For permission.

For surrender.

“Gluttony,” I whispered, threading my fingers through his hair, anchoring him close. “This is me saying yes.”

His mouth crashed into mine again, and that was it—the dam broke.

Hands, mouths, breath, the sharp scent of rosemary and heat and him. Somewhere in the back of my mind I registered the sound of a pot boiling over and hitting the burner—but neither of us cared.

All that mattered was the press of his body, the heat between us, and the knowledge that, for tonight, Gluttony wouldn’t just feed others.

He’d take something for himself.

And I was more than ready to be taken.

Magick weaved around us, similar to when Lust and the others had been with me but more controlled.

My back hit the refrigerator, and I laughed at the thought of immortal beings having something as mundane as a fridge.

“Am I funny?” he whispered into my ear, easily holding me up with just one hand.

Fuck, vampyre strength.