Three days since that kiss in his study. Three days of my body burning from the inside out, skin too tight, pulse jumping every time he enters a room.
The tension is everywhere, suffocating. Training sessions where his chest presses against my back, adjusting my stance, and I can feel every breath he takes. His hands on my hips, positioning me, and it takes everything not to press back into him. Yesterday he had me pinned during a defensive move, our faces inches apart, both breathing hard. For a moment, neither of us moved. Then he released me like I'd electrocuted him and called the session over.
Dinners are their own torture. Twenty people at the table but I only feel him. Our hands brush reaching for wine and we both freeze. Last night, passing the salt turned into this whole thing—his fingers grazing mine, lingering for half a second too long, his jaw tightening before he pulled away. I spent the rest of the meal pressing my thighs together under the table, trying not to think about those hands on my body.
The hallways are worse. This morning we collided at a corner, his hands catching my waist to steady me. He backed me against the wall, caged me with his arms, leaned in close enough that I could smell his cologne, see the dark flecks in his blue eyes. My lips parted, ready, waiting. Then something shuttered in his expression and he walked away, leaving me there shaking with want and fury.
I take scalding showers that don't help. Touch myself thinking about him and hate myself for the weakness. Dream about him—his weight on me, his mouth everywhere—and wake up aching, empty, desperate for something I can't name.
This is killing me. Actually killing me. Death by sexual frustration should be my cause of death.
Tonight he comes home different. Blood on his white shirt—not his, never his—and that darkness crawling all over him. The monster is riding him hard, I can see it in the rigid line of his shoulders, the way his hands shake slightly as he pours bourbon.
"Rough night?" My voice comes out breathy, affected by just his presence.
"Handled a situation." He won't look at me, just drinks like drowning. "The Valdez lieutenant. He touched one of our girls. Made her cry."
The possessive way he says 'our girls' makes my stomach flip. These are the women who work our clubs, under our protection. Someone hurt them, so Cassian hurt him back. Probably killed him, judging by the blood.
I cross to him, take the glass from his shaking hands. Our fingers touch and electricity shoots through me.
"You're more than this," I say softly.
He laughs, bitter and broken. "This is all I am. Violence and blood. All I know how to be."
"That's not true." I touch his face, force him to look at me, and God, his eyes are molten chocolate, pupils blown wide. "I've seen you play piano like your soul depends on it. Seen you defend me against anyone who even looks at me wrong. You're not just violence."
He catches my wrist, grip almost painful but making heat pool low in my belly. "You don't know what you're asking. I don't know how to be gentle anymore. Don't remember how to touch without taking."
"Then take me," I challenge, the words ripping out desperate and raw.
Something snaps in his control. The change is instant—one second he's across from me, the next he's got me pinned against the wall, hands bracketing my face. His body cages mine and I can feel all of him, including how hard he is against my stomach.
"I've spent years becoming a monster to survive." His voice is ragged against my mouth, and I can taste bourbon on his breath. "But you... you make me want to be human again. Make me remember what it felt like before the blood."
His voice breaks, and I see the fear in his eyes. Real, bone-deep terror.
"I'm terrified I'll hurt you. That the curse is real and I'll destroy you like they all destroyed what they loved."
I'm done with talking, done with fear, done with everything except the need burning through me. I pull his head down and kiss him with everything I have—all my frustration, my want, my desperate need for him. For a heartbeat he's frozen, then he explodes. His tongue claims mine, hands tangling in my hair hard enough to hurt in the best way.
"I'm not fragile," I gasp when we break for air. "Stop treating me like glass."
He groans against my mouth, then lifts me effortlessly. My legs wrap around his waist automatically, and I can feel him properly now, thick and hard against where I need him. We're moving, stumbling, kissing desperately as he carries me to our bedroom.
He sets me down gently despite his shaking, and the care in that gesture makes my chest ache.
"This is the point of no return," he warns, hands framing my face with desperate reverence. "After this, you're mine completely. No divorce, no escape, no mercy."
I start unbuttoning his bloodstained shirt, revealing ink and scars that make my mouth water. "I've been yours since the garden, you've said that yourself." The shirt falls and my hands map his chest. "So stop talking and prove it already."
His control shatters completely. He undresses me with hands that shake, looking at me like I'm the first good thing he's seen in years. When I'm bare before him, he just stares, breathing hard.
"Christ," he breathes. "Look at you."
His fingers ghost over my skin, barely touching, and I understand suddenly—no one's been gentle with him. He's forgotten how.
"Touch me," I guide his hand to my breast, arching into his palm. "I want you to."
The sound he makes—half groan, half prayer—floods me with heat. His mouth follows his hands, tasting everywhere, and when I trace his scars with my tongue, kissing each one, he nearly breaks.
"No one's touched me without fear in years," he confesses against my throat.
"I'm not afraid of you." I pull him up to kiss him deep. "I'm afraid of how empty I feel without you."
When he settles between my thighs, we both stop breathing. The first touch of him against my entrance makes me arch off the bed.
"Please," I breathe, and he slides home in one long thrust.
We both gasp—the stretch, the fullness, the overwhelming rightness of it. Like puzzle pieces clicking into place. Like coming home. He tries to go slow, to be gentle, but I'm having none of it.
"Don't hold back," I breathe against his ear, nails raking his back. "I need all of you. Even the monster."
His control breaks. He drives into me with desperate hunger, each thrust hitting something deep that makes me see stars. The headboard slams against the wall, and I'm so wet I can hear it, obscene and perfect. When his thumb finds my clit, I shatter completely, my orgasm violent and overwhelming. He follows immediately, my name a broken prayer on his lips.
After, we lie tangled and trembling, sweat cooling on our skin. Both of us shaking from the intensity of what just happened. This wasn't just sex—this was a claiming, a bonding, something that can't be undone.
"No regrets?" he asks, vulnerable in the darkness.
"Only that we waited three days."
He pulls me closer, and I feel him hardening again already. "We have all night to make up for it."
His smile is dark with promise as he rolls me beneath him again. "I told you, princess. No mercy."
And God help me, I don't want any.