Soulofapatrick

𝔸𝕓𝕠𝕦𝕥 𝕄𝕖

- I’m 23 

- I’m a slytherpuff 

- ISFP 

- My favourite colour is grey

𝕄𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕝𝕚𝕤𝕥:

KEY:

🌶️ = NSFW

🥹 = SFW

😡 = angsty

Teen Wolf Masterlist

Stray Kids Masterlist

ACOTAR Masterlist 

Fourth Wing Masterlist 

RWRB Masterlist

One Piece Masterlist

The Shadowhunters Masterlist

The Inheritance Games Masterlist

The Summer I Turned Pretty Masterlist

Criminal Minds Masterlist

9-1-1/Lone Star Masterlist

Twilight Masterlist

The Last of Us Masterlist

The Hunger Games Masterlist

Marvel Masterlist

Vampire Diaries Universe Masterlist

Harry Potter Universe Masterlist

Daddy Kink - This man is all about control. As a leader of stray kids and in the bedroom. He don’t think he’d be into it as sometimes the boys call him dad but as soon as that word left your lips you found yourself spread across the nearest surface, his face between your legs. 

Blindfolds - you would think he’d put the on you but he prefers to be the one wearing them. Being spread on the bed at your mercy. He can come from your touch alone when blindfolded, his other senses going into overdrive. 

Cockwarming - he’s in the studio a lot or working on his laptop. He does sometimes struggle to balance his work life and his home life so he does both. He’ll sit you on his lap, face buried in the crook of his neck and tells you not to move as he just finishes up a song and he’ll reward you. 

Body worship - chan can give and take control. He finds the balance in worshiping your body. Guiding your chin with two fingers, gripping your waist, holding the back of your neck — every touch is a reminder that you belong to him and everybody else only gets what he allows.

Brat Tamer - Minho lets you mouth off jsut long enough to think you’re getting away with it, then shuts you down with a single look. He doesn’t raise his voice — he waits you out, folds his arms and tilts his head. He gets off on watching his brat lose composure under him, the moment your attitude turns into obedience 

Physical Control - he doesn’t need ribbon or handcuffs, this man prefers skin on skin restraint — your wrists pinned above your head with one of his strong ones, your jaw captured between his fingers, your movement dictated by the pressure of his palm against your throat or the back of your neck. 

Overstimulation - he knows your body almost too well. Knows exactly how to play you right to the edge of bliss and keep you there. Lino has no problem holding you down with a had on your hip or throat as he drives you past your limit. He calmly watches as the tears spill over your cheeks while you’re babbling breathless pleas that aren’t your safe word

Fingering - skilled is an understatement. Lee Know can get you shaking with his fingers alone — curled just right, slow when he wants you needy, brutal when he wants you begging. He’ll pin your wrists above your head and tease you open with just two fingers watching your face the entire time like it’s his personal entertainment. 

Size kink - he lives for the contrast. Your smaller hands disappearing around his chest or biceps, the way you have to stretch around him — it feeds something deep and primal in him. He love how big he feels compared to you, how easily he can lift you, how you always have to adjust to him after the first push. The little gasp you make every time he pins your wrists with one hand? That’s his favourite sound in the world. 

Thigh riding - he knows what he’s doing when he flexes his thighs beneath you — the muscles tightening, the perfect friction dragging right where you’re desperate for it. He’ll grip your waist and make you ride it, guiding you through every slow grind until you’re clutching his broad shoulder, breath hitching. And when you try to hide your face in his neck? He’ll murmur “look at me” because watching you unravel on his thigh alone is half the pleasure 

Edging - Binnie’s patience is endless when it comes to denying you release. He loves to watch you tremble, clutching at him and trying to chase the high he keeps ripping away at the last second. If you try to pout or beg too early, he’ll just lean in, lips brushing your ear and whisper “not yet Jagi.” He wants you wrecked — ruined by anticipation til the orgasm hits so hard you see stars 

Manhandling - for as strong and dominating as he can be, Binnie adores the feeling of being flipped, grabbed and shoved against the wall, of his body being used for your own pleasure. He melts for rough handling — the kind that makes him feel wanted, claimed, taken. 

Biting/marking - hyunjin doesn’t just like marking — he curates them. He’ll sink his teeth into your shoulder, throat, hip, anywhere he knows clothes won’t always cover, because he wants the world to see what’s his. And when you mark him? He glows with it — not shy, not hiding — he shows them off. A hickey on his collarbone means “someone wanted me badly” and he thrives on the reminder 

Breeding kink - he is obsession-level fixated on the act of filling you up. The closeness, the skin on skin, the way your bodies lock together like they were made for each other — it hits something raw and possessive in him. It’s less about ownership and more about consuming you with want. He likes the pace slow and deep,  almost reverent — like he’s etching himself into you from the inside 

Cunnilingus - he worships you with his mouth. Hyunjin has no shame about spending as long as it takes between your thighs, hands hooked under your thighs to hold you open for him — not just to pleasure you, but to experience you. He gets drunk on reactions: your legs shaking, fingers clenching his hair almost painfully, breathy whimpers you can’t swallow down. He doesn’t stop when you come — he stops when you can’t speak

Somnophilia - Hyunjin is addicted to softness — to the hush of half-conscious moans, to sleepy hands pulling him closer before the mind catches up. He lives for the moment your eyes flutter open, hazy and needy, recognising him before anything else. It’s intimacy and trust in its rawest form — not rushed, not rough, just that sleepy, molten kind of surrender you only give someone you trust completely. 

Praise Kink - Hannie thrives on approval — it doesn’t just turn him on, it grounds him. He feeds on being told he’s good, pretty and doing well — his whole body reacts to it, like every word hits straight down his spine. And when he’s the one giving praise? He turns poetic, soft voice, breathy admiration, telling you how perfect you look underneath him, how beautiful you sound — like worship disguised as encouragement. 

Body worship - he treats your body like a landscape he’s studying by heart. Very kiss is devotional, very touch a confession he’s not brave enough to say out loud, he’ll spend forever kissing your thighs , tummy, chest — anywhere he can mar you feel seen. For him, worship isn’t about sex — it’s about reverence. 

Marking - he doesn’t bruise like Minho or bite like Hyunjin - Han stains. Lips, tongue, gentle suction until your skin blooms with colour. He leaves hickeys in places that feel intimate, not flaunted — the underside of your jaw, your ribs, the dip of your shoulder. Marks, to him, are memory tokens — little “I was here”s written on your skin in violet ink

Vocal kink - Han is addicted to noise - yours and his. He don’t believe in staying quiet — he wants the room filled with sound, wants to hear desperation, breathlessness, pleasure spilling out without restraint. He gets messy-loud when he’s close — whiny, gasping, half-crying praise tangled with your name — and he wants you that way too. Volume is vulnerability, and he lives for it. 

Rough sex - Felix doesn’t slip int roughness - he snaps into it. There’s no warning, no slow escalation — just the moment he stops holding back and you feel all that pent up ahh get hit you all at once. He goes desperate first — grabbing, whining against your skin, rutting into you like he hasn’t touched you in days — and then, when he feels you give in, he goes possessive. He pins you down hard enough to leave fingerprints the next morning, voice breaking as he growls your name. There is no tenderness until after you’ve both come undone — and then he melts into soft, shaken aftercare like he’s clinging to the world by your touch alone. 

Semi-public - Felix doesn’t want to be seen, but he wants the possibility. A hand between your legs in a dark corridor, your nails digging into his back in a dressing room, a barely-hidden gasp behind a closed door — it sends adrenaline rushing through him. It’s not about spectacle, it’s about being wanted so badly you can’t wait for you two to get home 

Hand kink - he is obsessed with your hands. Around his throat, on his hips, tugging at his hair — but most of all wrapped around him. He breaks eye contact with everything except that visual. The sight of your fingers stroking him, gripping him, milking every reaction out of him — it strips him of every last coherent thought. You don’t need to dominate him — just hold him like you want him and he’s gone

Missionary/intimate lovemaking - Felix saves softness for when you’re both breathless and ruined, when his voice shaws and he can barely form words. This is the part he craves just as much as the rawness, forehead pressed to yours, slow thrusts, lips brushing, breathing the same air like you’re stitched together. The tenderness isn’t foreplay — it’s the aftermath, the grounding, the I need you closer or I’ll float away part. Softness is his reward — for surviving the storm. 

Biting/marking - Seungmin is possessive of you — he likes to claim you. Neck, shoulder, inner arm — every mark is a reminder you’re his. He loves the reactions you give, the little shiver or gasp when his teeth press just enough, but he’s just as turned on when you mark him back, seeing the proof of your need on his skin. Possession is tactile for him, and every hickey is a conversation he doesn’t need words for

Breeding - there’s something so intoxicating to Seungmin about full, deep closeness. The idea of filling you, of leaving a part of him being, ignites a hunger that’s almost territorial. He wants every moment to feel like you were made for him, every thrust measured yet consuming, leaving you both breathless and trembling. It’s not just about control — it’s connection and he will stay there until he’s softened. Making sure you’re fucked full of all of him

Somnophilia - the vulnerability and trust drives him wild. Starting off with you asleep, pliant and wanting — and yet trusting. Whether he’s trailing kisses across your body while you drift, or positioning you where he wants, the power dynamic is delicious. He lives the hush of your breath, the flutter of eyes and walls around him, knowing you can’t resist him even if you wanted to

Brat taming - Seungmin thrives on defiance— not chaos, not rebellion for its own sake, but throttle spark of attitude you can’t quite hide. He doesn’t break you with loud commands or force; he does it with patience, precision and just enough pressure. The moment your smirk falters and your thighs squeeze together? That’s what he lives for. 

Face fucking - He doesn’t hold back. He loves the power exchange in forcing you to take him fully, watching every gasp and shiver as you try to keep control. The desperate look in your eyes, the tilt of your head, the way you moan around him when he pulls your hair — it drives him feral. It’s rough, demanding, and he never lets up until he’s releasing down your throat, watching you choke on him

Cunnilingus - hes obsessed with giving as much as taking. He’s infatuated with the taste, your reactions and having control from below. Fingers tangled in his hair and lips and tongue worshiping every inch of you, reading until you’re shaking and whining for realise — Jeongin thrives on your surrender. The slower he goes, the more frantic your body becomes, and that’s exactly what he wants 

Anal - Jeongin is experimental and unapologetically daring. He enjoys pushing boundaries, testing limits, and the taboo thrill of intimacy in all forms. It’s not just penetration — it’s control, dominance and complete ownership in one act. He loves the contrast of roughness and precision, the way you react when he’s utterly in command

 Cockwarming - even when he’s the one in control, he wants closeness. Siting you on his lap, letting you feel every pulse, every twitch, every shudder against him — he loves being held, melted into him and reminded that you’re his when he’s not moving. It’s possessive, intimate and completely consuming.  

Stray Kids Masterlist TAG LIST - updated 12th Oct 2024

Y/N's POV

The rooftop is quieter than usual tonight. That rare kind of quiet, like the world’s holding its breath.

Below, the compound has finally gone still. Doors shut. Lights dimmed. Even the restlessness that usually hums in the halls has settled—whether into sleep or the practiced art of pretending. Up here, it’s different. Removed. The noise of the city floats upward like steam off pavement, distant and gentle. From this height, it doesn’t feel real. Just a faint, steady thrum: the hush of late-night traffic, the bark of a dog down some unseen alley, the occasional rattle of a streetlight in the breeze.

It’s a kind of stillness I crave when my thoughts are too loud.

I draw my knees into my chest, hoodie sleeves pushed over my hands, and breathe in steam from the chipped ceramic mug I brought with me. The tea is still warm—cinnamon, faintly sweet, comforting in its familiarity. It tastes like safety. Like a held breath finally released.

Above me, the sky does its best to shine despite the stubborn glow of the city. A handful of stars press through the light haze like timid children peeking through curtains, tentative but brave. They're imperfect—blurred by smog, softened by cloud—but they’re there. They’re trying.

Kind of like me.

I don't know when the rooftop became my sanctuary. Maybe it was always going to be. Something about the open sky, the absence of expectation, the way no one demands anything from me up here. Or maybe—maybe—it’s because some part of me always hopes he’ll come looking.

And, like clockwork, the roof door creaks open.

I don’t turn. I don’t need to.

His presence rolls in like a tide—quiet, assured, utterly familiar. I know the weight of his footsteps, the particular rhythm of his approach: steady but cautious, like he's never quite sure he’s welcome even when he’s needed.

“Hey,” Bucky says softly, almost apologetically. “Figured I’d find you up here.”

I smile into my tea. “Figured you would.”

The concrete shifts under his weight as he settles beside me. No hesitation. No awkwardness. We’ve done this before—enough times that our movements feel choreographed by something older than muscle memory. I glance at him sidelong. That navy sweater again—the one I secretly love, sleeves shoved carelessly to his elbows. His hair is tied back in a loose knot, a few rebellious strands escaping to frame his jaw.

He smells like leather and something woodsy, like pine warmed by sunlight, and—somehow—mint. It’s ridiculous how grounding that scent has become.

He doesn’t speak right away. Doesn’t need to. The silence between us has never been empty. It breathes. Lives. And in it, something unspoken hums beneath the surface.

“You okay?” he asks eventually, voice gentled even further by the dark.

I nod, still watching the lights scatter across the horizon. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous,” he murmurs, nudging my knee with his.

I huff a laugh. “You’re one to talk.”

He grins, and for a while, we just… sit. Let the night wrap around us. Let the world shrink to the space between our shoulders. There’s a version of Bucky that only exists after dark, when the air is soft and expectations are low. When his armor slips, and the man underneath breathes easier. He belongs to the quiet.

Maybe I do, too.

“I’ve been thinking about something,” I say, voice barely a whisper.

His body stills almost imperceptibly. Then he turns, giving me his full attention like he always does when I speak—as if the rest of the world doesn’t exist, as if I’m the only thing that does.

“Yeah?”

My fingers tighten around the mug. My heart stumbles.

“It’s dumb. Or—no, just hard to say.”

Without a word, he reaches over and takes the mug from my hands, setting it aside. Then, with infinite gentleness, he slides his real hand into mine—warm, rough, grounding—and cradles it like something precious.

“Nothing you say is dumb. Not to me,” he murmurs, and the rawness in his voice punches straight through me.

“I’m scared,” I admit. “That if I say it, everything changes. That I lose this. Lose you.”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away. His thumb strokes the back of my hand, slow and steady, his touch a lifeline.

“You won’t lose me.”

I glance up. His eyes—those ocean-hued, storm-churned eyes—are open in a way I rarely see. Not just vulnerable. Hopeful.

“I love you,” I say, and it trembles out of me like a secret too heavy to carry alone. “I think I have for a long time. I just didn’t know if I was allowed to.”

His brow creases, stunned disbelief flickering through his expression. “Why wouldn’t you be?”

“Because you’ve been through hell. You deserve peace. A clean slate. And I’m just…” I trail off, voice brittle. “I’m just me.”

Bucky lets out a laugh—quiet, broken, incredulous—and it shatters the silence like sunlight through frost.

“You think peace doesn’t include you?”

“I hoped it might,” I say softly. “But I didn’t know for sure.”

He shifts closer, his metal hand rising to cup my face with the same careful reverence he uses when cleaning his knife or reading an old book. “You are my peace,” he says, and the words feel like prayer. “You’re why I sleep through the night now. Why I laugh. Hell, I sing along to the radio because of you.”

That breaks something in me, and I laugh through the sting in my eyes. “You sing?”

He leans in, conspiratorial. “Don’t spread it around. Got a reputation.”

We’re grinning, both of us, soft and foolish and utterly undone. It feels like something breaking open and mending all at once. And when I reach for him—hands fisting in the worn cotton of his sweater—it feels like gravity has finally pulled us home.

His forehead touches mine. His breath hitches. Mine catches in response.

And then—finally—he kisses me.

It’s unhurried. Tender. A quiet unraveling.

His lips are warm, sure, reverent. Like he’s memorizing the feel of me, the shape of the moment. The kiss deepens, not out of urgency, but need—something quiet and steady that’s been building for longer than either of us dared admit. His metal hand cups my cheek, cool and grounding. His real hand anchors mine in his lap.

And I burn.

I slide my fingers into his hair, feel the soft tug of it between my hands, and he exhales—this low, rough sound that sparks heat in my stomach and turns my bones to smoke. His other hand curls around my waist, not to claim, but to hold. To keep.

“I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” he murmurs, lips brushing mine.

“Then do it again,” I whisper, breathless, eyes half-lidded.

And he does.

This time the kiss is fuller. Deeper. His tongue brushes mine and I melt, feeling everything all at once. Every inch of him. Every heartbeat. Every whispered vow that never made it past the lips before now.

When we part again, it's only because we have to breathe. He rests his forehead against mine, both of us shaking.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says hoarsely. “I don’t think you even realize.”

“I could say the same to you.”

His smile is soft. Vulnerable. “You make me feel human again.”

“You are,” I say, pressing my palm against his chest where his heart drums wildly. “You always have been. You just forgot for a while.”

He kisses me again, slower now. Deliberate. His hand slips beneath my hoodie, fingertips tracing delicate circles against my skin. He isn’t rushing. He’s learning. Revering. And every touch feels like a promise.

That this is real. That I am seen. That we are not broken anymore.

Bucky pulls back just enough to meet my gaze, his voice low and honest.

“This doesn’t have to be perfect.”

I nod. “No. Just honest.”

He exhales, and it sounds like relief. Like redemption.

“Then let me be honest,” he says.

And when he kisses me again—arms around me, the city quiet, the stars trying their best above us—I know, without a doubt…

This is only the beginning.

Y/N’s POV

Will’s weight settles over me, solid and warm, and all I can do is lie there and feel.

My back is pressed into the mattress of his bed in Cabin 7, sheets tangled beneath us, his thigh slotted between mine. He smells like sunlight and healing herbs and the faint remnants of summer rain—the kind that sneaks in through the window during a lazy afternoon. His golden hair is mussed where I ran my fingers through it, strands falling in front of his ridiculously pretty eyes.

He has this look in them, this knowing smirk paired with so much softness it makes my chest ache.

“You do realise how fucking gorgeous you are like this, right?” he says, his voice low and rough against my throat. “Laid out. Breathless. Mine.”

I shiver.

To everyone else, I’m sharp edges and don’t-fuck-with-me energy. I train hard, talk less, keep people at arm’s length with a stare that could level a god. I’ve always had to be that guy—the one who doesn't break, who doesn't bend.

But Will doesn’t just make me bend. He melts me.

“Will…” I murmur, and it’s meant to be a warning, a weak protest, but it comes out like a plea.

He grins against my skin. “What? You gonna growl at me, tough guy?”

I want to. I should. But instead, my hands find his shoulders, nails biting into sun-warmed skin, and I drag him closer until our hips meet and he groans, low and needy. I kiss him like I need him to breathe—because maybe I do. He tastes like mint and honey, and every slow roll of his tongue against mine makes my thoughts blur out into static.

His fingers drag slowly, agonisingly slowly, down my chest, over old scars and muscle, and I can feel how much he adores every inch of me. Not just how I look, but how I give in to him. How I soften beneath him when no one else gets to see me like this.

“You’re so good for me,” he murmurs against my collarbone, licking a stripe along it just to hear me gasp. “All that strength, and you hand it over like a gift.”

“It’s not fair,” I whisper, already breathless. “You shouldn’t be this good at driving me insane.”

Will pulls back just enough to look at me, brushing a thumb across my cheek. His smile is reverent. “You’re so beautiful when you let yourself fall apart.”

I want to say something back, something like you’re the only one I’d ever let see me like this, but then he’s tugging at the waistband of my pants, sliding them down with practiced ease, and the words dissolve in my throat.

I’m already half-hard beneath him, and when his hand wraps around me, slow and sure, I curse—loudly.

“Language,” Will teases, grinning, but there’s heat in his eyes now. Heat and hunger.

I can’t help the way my hips buck into his touch, desperate for more. He leans down and kisses me again, deep and consuming, as he strokes me slow—too slow. My hands fly to his back, trying to ground myself, but he’s everywhere—his mouth, his hands, his warmth pressing me into the mattress like I belong there.

And gods, I do. I belong right here, under him.

“I want you,” I whisper, voice cracking. “Please, Will. I need you.”

That gets him.

His smile falters into something tender and serious. He kisses my forehead, my nose, my cheek, then whispers against my lips, “You have me. Always.”

He shifts just long enough to grab the little bottle from his nightstand—he always keeps it there for nights like this—and warms the lube between his fingers.

His hips press me down into the bed like he owns me. Maybe he does.

The sheets are damp with sweat, twisted beneath my back. My thighs are trembling on either side of his waist, open wide, shaking from anticipation, from nerves, from the weight of his stare. Will’s looking at me like I’m something holy. Like he’s about to worship me.

“Relax for me,” he murmurs against my skin, voice soft, but charged—like a current crawling beneath the surface of my skin. “Let go.”

I try, but my body is strung tight. I’m stretched out beneath him, exposed in a way I never let anyone see me. My chest rising and falling too fast. My fingers clutching the sheets like they might ground me.

Then he touches me—his hand slick, warm, slow. His fingers slide between my thighs, teasing, circling, before slipping inside me with a practiced ease that still makes me gasp, every time.

My breath catches in my throat.

The stretch burns, but it’s good—so good it makes my toes curl and my lips part on a moan I can’t hold back. He works me open with such aching patience, curling his fingers just right until my hips lift off the bed without permission.

“That’s it,” he whispers, kissing the corner of my mouth. “You’re doing so well for me.”

Gods, I want to be good for him. I want to give him everything.

By the time he’s slicked himself up, lined himself against me, and pushes in—slow, deliberate, inch by inch—I’m panting, trembling, staring up at him like he’s the only thing tethering me to the world.

The initial stretch makes my back arch off the bed. It’s a burn, a deep one, dragging a raw noise from my throat that doesn’t sound like me. It’s too vulnerable. Too honest. But Will doesn’t look away—not for a second.

“Eyes on me,” he murmurs, brushing my cheek. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

When he’s fully seated inside me, his hips flush to mine, I feel full in a way that borders on overwhelming. Like he’s everywhere—inside me, around me, under my skin.

He gives me a moment, just holding me, kissing my jaw, my throat, my lips. His thumb rubs slow circles into my hip.

And then he moves.

The first thrust knocks the air out of my lungs.

My fingers dig into his back as he pulls out halfway and sinks back in, deep and slow. It’s intense. Every movement drags across that spot inside me that makes stars explode behind my eyes. I gasp, clutching at him, nails leaving red crescents on his golden skin.

“Will—fuck—” My voice breaks, high and desperate. I don’t sound like myself. I sound wrecked.

His pace quickens, hips snapping forward with more force, more hunger, but still somehow loving. Always loving. Every thrust sends a wave of heat through me, makes me feel like I’m unraveling at the seams. The room narrows until all I know is the stretch, the pressure, the deep throb of pleasure blooming in my gut.

“You feel so good,” he growls into my ear, voice hoarse. “You were made for me. Gods, you feel perfect.”

I don’t know what I say in return—maybe his name, maybe some half-formed plea—but I know I’m trembling beneath him, legs locking around his waist to keep him close, closer. My cock is pressed between us, leaking, aching, dragging across his stomach with every thrust.

“Please,” I whisper, not even sure what I’m begging for. “Don’t stop. Don’t ever—”

“I won’t.” He kisses me hard, deep, his hand sliding down to wrap around me. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m right here, baby.”

When his hand closes around me, it’s too much.

The rhythm of his hips, the friction of his body against mine, the pressure of his hand—it slams into me all at once like a tidal wave, crashing through my core. My orgasm rips through me with a full-body shudder. My vision whites out, my mouth falling open in a broken cry. I come hard between us, over his hand, his stomach, my own chest.

Will fucks me through it, groaning against my skin as I pulse and twitch beneath him, body wracked with aftershocks.

Then I feel it—his hips stuttering, his breath hitching.

He thrusts deep, grinding against me with one final push before spilling inside, heat flooding me in a way that feels so intimate it nearly breaks me. He moans my name—ragged and raw—before collapsing onto me, panting into my neck.

I hold him.

Arms wrapped around his back, legs tangled, our skin slick and hot and shaking. I don’t want to move. I don’t think I can.

“Will…” I whisper, heart still racing, voice barely there.

He lifts his head and looks at me—his expression dazed, flushed, and so full of love it makes my throat ache.

“I’ve got you,” he says softly, brushing sweat-damp hair from my forehead. “Always.”

And I believe him.

Because under all the armour, beneath all the toughness I wear like a second skin—with him, I don’t have to pretend.

With him, I can fall apart.

And he’ll always be there to hold the pieces.

The silence that follows is thick with heat and heartbeats, broken only by the sound of our breathing—shallow, uneven, coming down from something so overwhelming it still echoes in my bones.

Will’s weight is heavy on top of me, but not in a way that’s uncomfortable. It’s grounding. Comforting. His skin is sticky against mine, flushed with exertion, but neither of us moves. I don’t want him to. I don’t want to lose the feeling of his body on mine, in mine, around mine.

I feel safe. I don’t say it out loud. I don’t need to.

His fingers drift lazily along my side, tracing idle, featherlight shapes. Stars, probably. Maybe suns. Whatever they are, they feel like love.

“You okay?” he murmurs softly, lips brushing my temple.

I nod. Swallow hard. “Yeah… more than okay.”

He lifts his head enough to look at me properly. His blue eyes—bright, soft, a little sleepy—search my face like he’s still memorising it, even after all this time.

I know I probably look a mess. My cheeks are flushed, my lips swollen, my hair sticking up in all the wrong directions, and my eyes probably still glassy. But Will looks at me like I’m beautiful. Like I’m his.

“You melted,” he says, grinning.

I groan and hide my face in his shoulder. “Don’t start.”

“Oh, I will start,” he teases, arms tightening around me. “You go around camp all tough and scary, giving people the death glare, and then five minutes with me and you’re whimpering and clinging to me like—”

“I will hex you.”

“You won’t,” he says smugly, and presses a kiss to my forehead. “Because you secretly love it when I talk like this.”

He’s not wrong. And I hate that he knows it.

I sigh, exasperated but smiling, because I really can’t help it when he’s like this—warm and smug and unbearably good. His fingers are already back to drawing gentle lines on my skin, coaxing the tension from my muscles with each pass.

“Let me clean you up?” he whispers after a while, brushing his nose against my jaw. “Then I’ll get you water. Maybe one of my shirts?”

Gods. I love when he does that. When he takes care of me like I’m something precious. Not just a child of Ares who is meant to be rough around the edges, mean and callous. 

I nod, voice too soft to say yes out loud, and he presses one last kiss to my lips before pulling back—slowly, carefully, whispering quiet apologies at every flinch, every shiver. He helps me sit up, legs still trembling a little, and tugs his shirt off the hook beside the bed before gently slipping it over my head.

It smells like him. Cedarwood, lemon, and something clean and sun-warmed. I melt again, just a little.

“You okay to stay here tonight?” he asks while wiping me down with a warm cloth, his hands so gentle it nearly undoes me.

“I don’t want to be anywhere else.”

He smiles at that. That smile—sunlight and softness and something that feels like home. Then he pulls me back into bed, into his arms, into the tangle of sheets and the heat we’ve left behind. My head fits perfectly on his chest, my body tucked against his, his heartbeat thudding under my ear.

And when he presses a kiss to my hair and whispers, “I love seeing this side of you. The soft part you only give to me,” I don’t flinch. I don’t run.

I just let him hold me, and I let myself be held.

Because with Will, I don’t have to be the tough guy. I don’t have to guard my heart, or armour my softness. I can melt.

And he’ll catch me every single time.

Y/N’s POV

The sound of the bedroom door opening and closing barely registers through the haze of sleep, a soft creak and the quietest click as it latches shut. I’m still wrapped in dreams, somewhere between wakefulness and slumber, but the shift in the air—his presence—grounds me, tethers me to the warm reality of our room.

Cassian moves quietly, his footsteps near soundless despite his size, the rustle of clothing barely more than a whisper. I don’t open my eyes, too lost in the heaviness of sleep, but I know his routine by heart. The tug of leather unbuckling, the soft thud of boots being set aside, the brush of fabric as he peels off layers. There’s a reverence to the way he moves, careful and unhurried, as if he doesn’t want to disturb me.

The mattress dips beneath his weight, and I exhale, instinctively shifting into the warmth he brings. Then—his hands, large and warm, splay gently across my lower back, steadying himself as he climbs over me.

A slow, lingering kiss presses against the nape of my neck, a breath of warmth that sends a ripple down my spine. Another follows, softer this time, just below my hairline. Then another. Each press of his lips is unhurried, reverent, as if he’s memorising the taste of my skin, the way my body reacts even in sleep.

He trails lower, his mouth grazing the curve of my shoulder, the dip of my spine, moving with aching slowness. I sigh, barely conscious, but my body responds instinctively, tilting into his touch, welcoming him even in the depths of sleep.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he murmurs against my skin, his voice hushed, rough with the remnants of his own exhaustion.

But I don’t mind. Not when he’s kissing me like this.

I just hum in response, too drowsy to form words, too content to do anything but sink deeper into the warmth of his touch. Cassian chuckles softly, the sound a low, indulgent rumble against my skin, and I feel the way he smiles against the curve of my spine.

His lips trail lower, unhurried and purposeful, each kiss searing into my skin, leaving a slow, smouldering heat in their wake. When he nudges my right leg up, guiding it into a slight bend, I let him, shifting easily beneath him. The movement pulls a quiet sigh from me, my body stretching languidly, subtly opening for him as his mouth continues its descent.

The faintest scrape of his teeth against the small of my back has something twisting low in my stomach—heat curling, unfurling, growing with each featherlight touch. Sleep still clings to my edges, but arousal weaves itself through the haze, tugging me further into wakefulness.

Cassian must feel the way my breathing changes, must hear the way my sighs grow softer, deeper, because his hands settle more firmly against my hips, his thumbs stroking slow, teasing circles over bare skin.

I murmur something unintelligible, lost in the warmth of him, and he huffs a quiet laugh before pressing another lingering kiss just above the dip of my spine.

“I thought you were asleep,” he teases, voice rough, amused, dark with something else entirely.

Cassian’s lips ghost over the base of my spine, his breath warm against my skin. I barely register the way his fingers trace slow, idle patterns over my hip, teasing, unhurried. But when his hand drifts lower, skimming between my thighs, a soft gasp escapes me.

He hums in response, the sound deep and knowing, as though he’s pleased by how easily my body reacts to him—even half-asleep, even with just the faintest brush of his fingers where I need him most.

His touch is light at first, almost maddening, tracing the heat pooling between my thighs with featherlight strokes. A slow, lazy exploration that has warmth licking at my skin, my breath hitching in quiet anticipation.

“Shh, sweetheart,” he murmurs against my back, pressing a lingering kiss between my shoulder blades. “Just relax. Go back to sleep.”

As if I could.

I make a soft, frustrated noise, shifting against his touch, but Cassian only chuckles, the sound a low, wicked vibration against my skin. His fingers continue their slow torment, brushing, teasing, never quite giving me enough, even as he soothes me with gentle kisses along my spine, as if his touch isn’t setting me alight.

I whimper softly, my fingers curling into the sheets, and he presses another sweet kiss to my shoulder, his free hand smoothing down my side, grounding me.

“Just let me take care of you,” he breathes, his voice all heat and tenderness as his fingers finally—finally—press more firmly where I need him most.

A sigh shudders from my lips, pleasure thrumming low in my stomach. Cassian hums again, satisfied, and keeps whispering soft, sweet nothings against my skin as he coaxes me to let go, to melt beneath him, to lose myself completely in his touch.

Cassian’s fingers move in slow, teasing strokes, barely there yet utterly devastating, dragging me further from sleep with each lazy pass over my most sensitive spot. A shiver dances down my spine, but I stay quiet, letting him touch me, letting him do as he pleases.

His lips press a kiss to my shoulder, then another, the heat of his breath a stark contrast to the cool air of the room. One of his hands stays firm on my hip, keeping me steady, while the other moves between my thighs with unhurried precision, his fingers slick with evidence of how easily he unravels me—even like this, half-drifting, caught between sleep and pleasure.

“So soft,” he murmurs, his voice deep, sleep-rough, full of something dark and reverent. His fingers dip lower, slipping through my wetness, parting me with excruciating patience. “So perfect for me.”

I hum in response, my body melting further into the mattress, into him. The sound is barely more than a sigh, but Cassian hears it, feels it, and his fingers press deeper in answer, sliding through my heat before circling exactly where I need him most.

A soft gasp slips from my lips, my breath catching as pleasure blooms slow and lazy in my belly, a golden warmth that spreads through my limbs, making me feel weightless. Cassian huffs a quiet, pleased sound, his lips curving into a smirk against my skin.

“That’s it,” he praises, his voice nothing but honey and heat. He trails another kiss down my spine, his lips brushing over every dip and ridge like he’s memorising me, savouring me. “Just relax, love. Let me take care of you.”

As if I could do anything else.

His pace remains steady, almost torturously slow, his fingers moving in slow circles, pressing, stroking, dragging me further under. The pleasure isn’t urgent—not yet. It’s steady, a delicious pulse of sensation ebbing and flowing through me like waves against the shore.

My eyelids flutter, my breathing deep and slow, my body pliant beneath him. Even as my arousal builds, sleep still lingers at the edges of my mind, pulling me under in soft, rolling waves. I’m caught between the two, floating, barely tethered to consciousness as Cassian works me open with infinite patience.

“Shh,” he soothes, pressing his lips against the nape of my neck, his voice a low whisper. “Go back to sleep, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

I whimper softly, shifting, my body instinctively tilting toward his touch, seeking more. He chuckles, his breath warm against my skin, his fingers pressing just a little firmer in response. Not enough. Not yet.

“So needy,” he muses, but there’s no teasing in his tone—only quiet adoration, indulgence, like he loves seeing me like this, warm and sleepy and utterly at his mercy.

My fingers twitch against the sheets, another soft sigh slipping past my lips, and then—gods—his fingers curl, pressing exactly where I need him, the pressure just right, just enough to make my toes curl and my thighs twitch.

Cassian groans softly, his lips pressing more firmly against my skin as if he can feel the way I react to him, the way my body responds so easily to his touch. “There we go,” he murmurs, his voice rough, full of something dark and pleased. His fingers stroke deeper, working me open with slow, deliberate movements, coaxing me closer, building me higher. “Just let go for me, love. Let me feel you.”

Sleep tugs at me, warmth curling deep in my stomach, my limbs heavy and weightless all at once. I let out another soft whimper, my body surrendering completely, melting into his touch, into the safety of him.

And Cassian—gods, Cassian—just keeps whispering to me, his voice a lullaby of praise and devotion as he guides me toward the edge, as he holds me in that perfect place between pleasure and sleep, between dreaming and waking, between him and me and nothing else at all.

Cassian’s fingers linger between my thighs, slick with proof of how easily he undoes me, how much I want him even half-asleep, even like this. He strokes me once more, slow and deliberate, as if committing my reaction to memory, as if savouring the way my body trembles beneath his touch.

Then, suddenly, he’s gone.

I let out a quiet, breathy whimper, shifting instinctively, searching for him, for that perfect pressure he’d been building so carefully. But before I can fully rouse from my haze, before I can beg for him, Cassian’s lips press to the small of my back, soft and warm, his breath ghosting over my skin.

“Shh, sweetheart,” he soothes, his voice a molten rasp in the quiet dark. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And then—he moves.

Slowly. Purposefully.

His mouth trails lower, pressing kisses into every dip and curve, his tongue flicking out to taste the heat of my skin. His hands, large and steady, smooth over my thighs, coaxing them apart, keeping me open for him. And gods—he doesn’t rush.

It’s maddening.

Cassian lets me feel every second of his descent, his lips dragging lower, his tongue sweeping in slow, lazy strokes over the sensitive skin of my inner thighs. He presses open-mouthed kisses there, lips and tongue working in tandem, teeth grazing just enough to make me whimper, to make my fingers twitch against the sheets.

“So responsive,” he murmurs, his voice thick with hunger, with need. He noses along the inside of my thigh, inhaling deeply before pressing his mouth where I need him most.

I gasp, my back arching slightly, my entire body alight at the first stroke of his tongue. He groans at the taste of me, low and rough, the sound reverberating through my core as he licks into me, slow and deep.

His tongue moves with purpose, lapping up every drop of me like he’s starved for it, like he’s been waiting for this all damn day. His grip on my thighs tightens, fingers flexing, holding me open for him as he works his mouth over me, flicking, teasing, circling before pressing flat, dragging his tongue through my slick heat in a long, agonising stroke.

I keen softly, my breathing uneven, my body caught between pleasure and the last lingering tendrils of sleep. But Cassian is relentless.

He eats at me like he’s savouring something sacred, like this—this—is his favourite way to worship me. His tongue dips inside, curling just right, sending a fresh wave of heat pooling in my stomach. I shudder, a broken moan slipping from my lips, and Cassian hums in response, the vibration of it sending another shock of pleasure through me.

“That’s it,” he rasps against me, pressing a lingering, open-mouthed kiss to my center before dragging his tongue back up to circle that sensitive bundle of nerves. “Gods, you taste so fucking sweet.”

His voice is raw with hunger, with need, but there’s something else there, too—something reverent, something aching. Like this is more than just desire, more than lust. Like he needs this just as much as I do.

His hands slide beneath my hips, pulling me impossibly closer as his tongue works me over, alternating between deep, languid strokes and quick flicks that have my toes curling, my thighs trembling. My body is melting into the sheets, into him, pleasure coiling tight, winding higher with every calculated movement.

My whimpering breaths fill the space between us, my fingers gripping the blankets, and Cassian—gods, Cassian—just keeps going, keeps kissing, keeps licking, keeps worshipping me like he never wants to stop.

“Let go for me, sweetheart,” he murmurs against my slick skin, his voice dark and dripping with need. His tongue flicks again, slow and precise, before he wraps his lips around me and sucks, and I—

I shatter.

My body tenses, a strangled moan slipping from my lips as pleasure crashes over me, liquid fire in my veins. Cassian groans against me, drinking in every sound, every tremor, his grip firm as he holds me down, as he works me through it, never relenting, never stopping.

Not until I’m utterly wrecked beneath him.

Not until I’m boneless, floating, my body still twitching with aftershocks as he presses one last lingering kiss against me.

Not until he’s had his fill.

Through the thick, blissful haze of my pleasure, I hear it—the quiet rustle of fabric, the subtle shift of weight behind me. I don’t need to open my eyes to know what he’s doing.

Cassian is stripping.

I can feel it in the way the air shifts, in the way his warmth grows closer, in the way my body reacts even in the lingering fog of sleep. My skin prickles with anticipation, my breath catching slightly as I hear the soft sound of his boxers hitting the floor.

And then—his body is against mine.

Heat and muscle and strength, pressing into me, covering me, making me feel small in the best way. His chest is searing against my back, the slow, deliberate drag of his hand down my spine setting me aflame all over again.

His fingers trail lower, smoothing over the curve of my hip before sliding between my thighs. He groans when he feels how wet I still am, how ready.

“Gods, you’re soaked for me,” he murmurs, voice rough, thick with need. He presses a slow, lingering kiss to the back of my neck, his tongue flicking out to taste my skin before he moves lower, his lips dragging down my shoulder, over my spine.

And then I feel him.

The heavy, aching heat of him nudging against me, teasing through my slickness, gliding through my folds in slow, deliberate strokes that make me shiver, make my hips tilt instinctively toward him.

“Cassian,” I whisper, my voice barely there, but he hears it.

He groans softly, the sound low and desperate, vibrating against my skin. His fingers flex on my hip, grounding himself, holding himself back, even as he rolls his hips again, dragging the tip of himself right where I need him before pulling away.

I whimper, frustration mixing with the thick, molten heat already pooling in my stomach. I try to shift, try to take what I want, but his hand presses firm against my hip, keeping me still.

“Patience, sweetheart,” he rasps, but his voice is strained, like he’s barely holding himself together. His other hand slides beneath me, palm splaying over my stomach, holding me flush against him. “I just wanna feel you a little longer—just like this.”

Another slow, teasing glide. Another shuddering exhale.

“Fuck,” he groans, pressing his forehead to my back. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

Then, finally—finally—he gives in.

A sharp inhale catches in my throat as he pushes inside, slow and unyielding, stretching me, filling me in a way that has my toes curling, my breath stuttering.

Cassian curses under his breath, his grip tightening, his fingers digging into my hip as he sinks deeper, inch by inch, until he’s fully seated inside me. His chest heaves against my back, his head dropping to my shoulder as he exhales a ragged breath.

“Fuck, you feel good,” he groans, his voice almost pained, like he’s barely holding himself together. His lips press hot, open-mouthed kisses to my shoulder, his hips rolling just the slightest bit, just enough to make me whimper.

I feel stretched, filled, utterly consumed by him, and I can’t do anything but melt into the sheets, let him take control, let him have me however he wants.

Cassian shifts, his hand slipping lower, tilting my hips just enough before he pulls back, almost all the way, the slow drag of him making me tremble. And then—he thrusts forward again, deep and slow, his mouth dragging down my spine as he starts to move.

Cassian’s lips linger on mine for a moment longer, a slow, lingering kiss that deepens with each passing second. The taste of him, warm and intoxicating, mingles with the heat of our shared breath, and I feel every inch of him against me. But then, without breaking the kiss, he pulls back slightly, his lips brushing against my lower lip with a quiet, contented sigh.

He shifts behind me, and I feel his weight shift as he draws himself to his knees, the shift in position altering the angle between us. The sudden movement has me gasping, a small sound escaping me as his hands guide me, pulling me upright.

His hand, the one that had rested so lovingly at my throat, tightens gently, but only enough to make my pulse flutter beneath his fingertips. Slowly, carefully, he pulls me into a seated position against his chest, my back flush against his warmth, and I gasp at the contact, at the way his chest presses against my spine.

There’s something even more intimate about this, about how he holds me close, how his body envelops mine. The way the heat from his chest radiates into my back, the way his body moves in rhythm with mine now, slower, more deliberate.

His free hand trails over my body, gliding across the curve of my waist, down to my hips, his fingers brushing over the smooth skin of my thighs, sending shivers racing through me. He doesn’t rush—every stroke is a touch of reverence, as if he’s savouring the feel of me beneath his hands, feeling the way my body responds to his every movement.

The heat between us intensifies, and with a quiet, low groan, his fingers finally find their way between my legs, brushing over the delicate flesh where we’re joined. The touch is slow, deliberate, as if he’s teasing, testing the depths of my desire.

I can feel him shift behind me, the motion of his body deepening as he moves within me, pulling at me just enough to make me gasp, just enough to make my body writhe beneath his touch.

“Sweetheart,” he breathes against my ear, the sound of his voice a low, possessive hum. “You feel so good. So perfect.”

My hands scramble for purchase, gripping the sheets beneath me as the heat between us builds, the slow, steady thrusts punctuated by the soft, tender pressure of his fingers between my legs. The way he moves, controlled and gentle yet full of hunger, fills me with a quiet, desperate need.

His lips find my ear, trailing soft, biting kisses along the shell, his teeth grazing my skin just enough to send a thrill racing through me. “I’m not letting go of you,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse, almost desperate. “Not now. Not ever.”

I shudder at his words, at the overwhelming sense of connection, of intimacy as he keeps moving—slow, deep, drawing me higher and higher with each stroke. His hand tightens around my throat again, not in a way that suffocates, but in a way that pulls me closer, urging me to trust him, to surrender completely to him.

The movement of his body behind me, the way he fills me, the way his fingers press deeper between my legs, sets a new wave of warmth flooding through me. The slow, steady rhythm begins to unravel something deep inside, something primal, and I feel myself spiralling toward him, helpless to stop it.

Each shift, each movement, each careful caress only drives me further into him, into this moment, until all I can do is fall apart beneath his touch.

I gasp for air, still trembling in his arms, as the aftershocks of my release ripple through me. My body is weak, the world spinning in a haze of pleasure, and I’m completely consumed by the warmth of him holding me.

Cassian’s movements slow, but he doesn’t stop. His breath comes in heavy pants, hot against my skin, and I feel his hips press against me, his rhythm shifting slightly as he pushes deeper. The friction of him inside me still sends waves of lingering heat through my body. He grunts softly, his grip tightening around my waist as he pulls me closer, deepening his thrusts just enough to draw me back to the edge.

“Sweetheart,” he whispers against my neck, his voice thick with a mix of tenderness and restraint. “Fuck, you feel so good.”

The way his words slip from his lips, husky and desperate, sends a thrill through me all over again. I can feel his pulse racing beneath my skin, the urgency in his movements increasing as he nears his own peak. He’s so deep inside me, and I can feel every inch of him as he moves with purpose, with barely controlled desire. His hand slips from my waist to my hip, guiding me in rhythm with him, encouraging me to meet him halfway.

A few more deep thrusts, slow and measured, and then his body freezes. His breath hitches in my ear, his hand tightening around me as he spills into me with a deep, drawn-out groan. The sensation of him coming inside me is enough to send a shiver down my spine, and I can’t help but feel him, his entire body trembling with the force of his release.

He holds himself still inside me for a long moment, his body shuddering against mine, before he presses a soft kiss to my shoulder, his breath hot and uneven.

“God,” he murmurs, his voice strained, “I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of you.”

His chest is heaving against my back as he continues to hold me close, still buried inside me, as if he never wants to leave. The warmth of him, the afterglow of everything we just shared, fills me, and I melt into him, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath my cheek.

His hand slides up my arm, resting gently on my neck, and he pulls me even closer, wrapping his body around mine as if he’s trying to make me a permanent part of him. His lips brush against my ear softly, sweetly, murmuring again, “I love you so much.”

I hum contentedly, the fatigue from both the physical and emotional toll of everything weighing on me, but his gentle movements keep me grounded. He starts to ease us down onto our sides, carefully keeping himself inside me as he shifts us into a more comfortable position.

He pulls me flush against his chest, his fingers brushing through my hair as he whispers tender praises, soothing me with each soft, loving word. “You’re perfect,” he breathes, kissing my neck as his body relaxes, holding me in the quiet aftermath. “I never want to let you go.”

I sink into him, feeling completely safe and cherished, as the tension from earlier slips away, leaving only warmth and the gentle rhythm of his breath.

Cassian’s whispers, soft confessions of love, wash over me like a lullaby, and I let myself drift back to sleep, wrapped in his arms, knowing that I am his—completely and irrevocably.

ACOTAR Masterlist TAG LIST - updated 12th Oct 2024

TAGS:

Y/N's POV

The low hum of the TV fills the room, some old Western I put on to tease Jasper playing in the background. Muted gunfire crackles through the speakers, but my mind registers none of it. The only sound I hear—the only thing I feel—is the weight of Jasper’s gaze on me. 

It’s subtle at first, a quiet pull, the kind of thing that creeps in slowly, like a shift in the air before a storm. But once I notice it, it’s impossible to ignore. Heat rises along the back of my neck, a slow and deliberate kind of warmth that spreads through me like liquid fire. My pulse flutters, reacting to something unspoken, something thick and heavy that lingers between us in the stillness of his bedroom. 

I try my hardest to focus on the screen, but my body betrays me. My breath comes in quicker now, my skin tingling with an awareness I can’t shake and there’s the beginning of that familiar ache between my legs that Jasper still runs from. I will it to go, not wanting whatever is happening to stop. 

And then I make the mistake of turning my head. 

Jasper is waiting.

His golden eyes are darker than usual, soldering beneath the dim light, his expression unreadable yet impossibly intense. He’s stretched out behind me, propped against the pillows, his body relaxed but his presence anything but. His lips parting slightly, just enough for me to catch the faintest inhale, like he’s breathing just for the sake of drinking in the scent of my anticipation. 

Something in my tightens and I clench my thighs together, 

Before I can react, his fingers are on me—just the lightest of touches, grazing along my jaw, his knuckles trailing down to the delicate line of my throat. A shiver runs through me, my breath catching as he hooks a single finger beneath my chin. 

I barely have a second to think before he tilts my head towards him and claims my most with his own. 

The kiss is slow at first, teasing, his lips brushing against mine like a whisper of a promise. But then I sigh into him—melt into him—and something shifts. Jasper exhales sharply, like he’d have been holding his breath if he needed to, and then his mouth crashes into mine with a hunger that steal the air from my lungs. 

His icy hands are on me now—one tangling in my hair, the other pressing against my hip, anchoring me to him. The weight of his body shifts as he leans over me, deepening the kiss, his tongue sweeping along my lower lip before sipping past my parted mouth. 

A low, helpless sound escapes me, and Jasper groans in response—a deep, rumbling noise that vibrates against my skin, making my pulse stutter. His grip tightens, his fingers flexing against my waist as he shifts his weight, rolling me beneath him in one fluid motion.

I gasp, my back pressing into the mattress, but he doesn’t give me a second to recover. His mouth is everywhere—tracing the curve of my jaw, down the slope of my neck, pausing at my pulse point.

He stills.

I can feel the hesitation in his body, the war waging just beneath the surface. His lips hover, barely a breath away from my skin, and for the briefest moment, I wonder if he’s about to pull back. A soft whimper catching my throat. 

But then his mouth presses there, at that delicate, vulnerable place, and he lingers.

A slow, measured kiss. Then another.

His lips linger against my throat, a slow drag of cool breath across overheated skin, and a soft whimper catches in my throat.

Jasper stills again.

For a heartbeat, I think he’s going to pull away completely, retreat into the self-imposed restraint that’s kept us hovering at the edge of this moment for far too long. But instead, he only shifts back slightly, just enough to see my face.

His golden eyes are molten now, darkened by something that has nothing to do with thirst and everything to do with the way I feel beneath him. His expression is unreadable, but his body betrays him—the faintest tremor in his hands where they grip my waist, the shallow rise and fall of his chest as he takes another steadying breath.

I reach up slowly, running my fingers through his golden curls, feeling the softness of them as they slip between my fingers. His eyes flutter closed for a moment, like he’s savouring the touch, and when they open again, there’s something raw in his gaze.

I let my hands drift lower, tracing the firm lines of his shoulders, feeling the strength coiled just beneath his skin. His muscles shift under my fingertips, tensing when my fingers ghost over the first button of his shirt.

I hesitate—just for a second, waiting, giving him the chance to stop me.

He doesn’t.

Instead, Jasper exhales softly, the faintest nod of permission, and I push the button through its hole.

Then another.

And another.

I take my time, revelling in the slow reveal of smooth, pale skin beneath my fingertips. He’s all hard lines and sculpted perfection, like something carved from marble—impossibly smooth, yet impossibly strong. My hands glide over the firm ridges of his chest, the faintest indentations of old scars marring the otherwise flawless expanse.

Jasper shudders at my touch.

Not from cold. Not from hesitation.

From want.

A thrill rushes through me at the realisation, heat coiling low in my stomach. My hands splay across his bare torso, feeling every ripple of his muscles beneath my touch as I slide them lower, over the defined lines of his abdomen, the sharp dip of his hips.

I shift beneath him, my leg hooking over his thigh, pulling him down against me.

Jasper gasps.

The sound is quiet, almost involuntary, but I feel it—the sharp inhale against my lips, the way his entire body tenses the moment my hips press flush against his.

He drops his forehead to mine, his breath coming faster now, uneven. Shaken.

"You have no idea," he murmurs, voice rough, strained, "how long I've wanted this."

My fingers tighten in his hair, pulling just enough to make his breath hitch. I tilt my chin, letting my lips brush against his in the lightest of teasing touches before whispering—

"Then stop holding back."

And just like that, Jasper breaks.

He crashes into me, his mouth searing, desperate, any last remnants of restraint burning away in the fire we’ve ignited between us. 

Jasper's hands work with deliberate care, his fingers trailing down the fabric of my shirt as he tugs it over my head. I shiver as the cool air meets my bare skin, and he stills.

For a long, breathless moment, he just looks.

His golden eyes darken, his jaw tightening as a quiet, reverent groan escapes him. "Damn." The word is rough, almost guttural, and I barely have time to register the raw appreciation in his gaze before his hands return—featherlight at first, tracing the curve of my waist, the swell of my ribs, before he grips me with something closer to desperation.

His mouth is on me again, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along my collarbone, down the center of my chest, worshiping every inch of bare skin he can reach. My head falls back against the pillows, my fingers tangling in his curls, tugging just enough to make him growl.

The sound sends a sharp thrill straight through me.

Then I feel it—his hands at the waistband of my jeans, fingers slipping beneath the fabric, teasing, waiting.

A shiver of anticipation rolls down my spine as I reach between us, my fingers seeking the metal button of his jeans.

I fumble.

A quiet, frustrated whimper leaves my lips when I struggle with the button, my hands trembling too much to work the damn thing free. Jasper lets out a breathy chuckle against my skin, the vibrations sending a delicious shudder through me.

"Need some help, darlin'?" His voice is thick with amusement, but there’s something else beneath it, something dangerous.

I shake my head, determined, my fingers working the button again, and finally, finally, it gives.

Jasper exhales sharply as I push the denim open, my hand skimming lower, feeling the hard planes of his abdomen beneath my palm. His entire body tenses, like he's barely holding himself together, and when I drag my nails lightly down his stomach, his breath hitches.

Jasper moves faster than I can process, his body shifting, pressing me deeper into the mattress as his mouth crashes against mine. There’s nothing hesitant about him anymore—only hunger, only the weight of his hands gripping my hips, his body caging me beneath him, every inch of him solid, unyielding.

The last of our clothing disappears in a blur of movement—denim sliding down my legs, his jeans hitting the floor with a quiet thud, leaving us bare, nothing between us but heat and want and the raw, electric tension that has been building for far too long.

And then I feel him.

Hard, heavy, pressing hot against the softness of my thigh. A strangled sound escapes my throat at the sheer intensity of it—the anticipation, the promise of what’s coming. My fingers grip his biceps, tracing the sculpted lines of muscle beneath skin that feels impossibly smooth, impossibly perfect. He shudders under my touch, his control fraying at the edges.

Jasper hovers over me, breath uneven, his golden eyes now dark—nearly black—with unrestrained want. His forehead rests against mine, his body trembling, but it’s not from fear. It’s something deeper, something almost reverent.

"Tell me to stop," he breathes, the words choked with barely controlled restraint. "Please."

I meet his eyes, seeing the plea in them. But I don’t want him to stop. I don’t want anything to stop. I pull him closer, guiding his hips so that his hardness presses into me, and I gasp at the feeling, the coolness of his body against mine only adding to the heat of our connection. I feel his breath catch as he shifts, his golden eyes dark with something untameable, something desperate.

"I don't want you to stop," I manage, my voice a whisper of need.

Jasper’s eyes flicker with something deep, something ancient, as he slides into me. Slowly, deliberately, his cool body easing into mine, stretching me in the most exquisite way. I bite my lip, stifling a gasp, and he immediately shifts, his hand coming up to cradle my face as he looks into my eyes, searching for any sign of discomfort, any hesitation.

His lips kiss my forehead gently, his hands soothing circles on my wrists as he fills me completely, the overwhelming sensation of him both foreign and familiar all at once. I breathe out slowly, letting my body adjust to the fullness of him. He doesn’t move yet, doesn’t rush. His eyes never leave mine, and in the silence that settles between us, I feel him. All of him. His control slipping as the deep bond between us builds, as he becomes attuned to every single beat of my heart, every flutter of my breath, reading my emotions with an intimacy that only he can.

And when he moves, when he pulls back slightly before thrusting into me again, I gasp—each movement deliberate, slow, measured, and full of reverence. He’s in no rush, and neither am I. Each stroke, each shift, is a promise. A promise of safety, of trust, of connection. He moves in a rhythm that makes me feel cherished and desired in ways that I never thought possible.

I feel my body move with his, and there’s a gentle push-pull between us, as if we are dancing—each movement perfectly timed, each touch an extension of something deeper. The bed beneath us groans, and I laugh softly against his lips. His grip tightens, his muscles flexing under the strain, and with a soft crack, the bed gives way beneath us, collapsing onto the floor.

Jasper pulls back slightly, and for the briefest moment, he looks panicked, searching for anywhere I’m hurt but instead I’m tangling a hand into those delicious curls and tugging his lips back to mine, needing him to move again and being oh so close. The duel action of yanking his hair and slamming my lips to him has him letting out a growl that has me wrapping my legs around the vampire’s waist. 

“Jazz,”  I whine against his lips and his blunt nails dig into my waist, so hard I know I’ll handprint bruises for at least a week and that thought alone has me throwing my head back in a silent scream of bliss. Jasper slams into me hard, forcing my body up what’s left of me the bed more, his whole body shaking as he tries to keep control. He’s so close, I can feel him pulsing inside me so I squeeze myself and let all my emotions flow from me. 

It has Jasper burying his face in my neck, fangs brushing my jugular as he lets out a growl, slamming himself inside me one last time before his hips jerk, his come filling me fuller than I ever thought possible. All I can do is lay there as his hips jerk in overstimulation and he slowly lets himself fall on top of me, my hands brushing through those soft curls as I try to catch my breath. 

We don’t move for a while, only when Jasper can begin to sense the ache in my bones beginning and he’s slowly easing himself onto his elbows, head lowered as he looks between us, watching as he eases himself from me, watching as my lips flutter with the sudden emptiness. “Fuck doll, you have no idea what you do to me.” 

Jasper rises from what’s left of the bed, leaving me to lay there and watch as he moves around his room looking for things before he tells me to sit tight and with his vampire speed he’s gone, the sound of the bath running next door before he’s back. 

Jasper rises slowly from the wreckage of the bed, the sound of wood creaking softly under his weight as he stands. I stay where I am, tangled in the sheets, propped up on one elbow as I watch him move around the room with an effortless grace, his golden eyes scanning the room like he's searching for something—though I know it’s just his way of regaining control. The rush of adrenaline and intensity is starting to settle, leaving behind a pleasant weight of fatigue, the ache of muscles that never quite had a chance to relax.

He pauses, his gaze flicking over to me as if making sure I'm still okay. Then, with a soft sigh, he moves toward the door, his voice barely above a whisper. "Sit tight. I'll be back in a second."

Before I can respond, he's gone, the sound of his feet barely registering as he disappears with a flash of vampire speed. The air in the room seems to thicken, and for a moment, I just lay there, the softness of the ruined bed beneath me and the warmth of his absence surrounding me like a comforting cloak. I hear the distant sound of running water from the bathroom next door, and I can’t help but smile softly, knowing exactly what he’s preparing for. I’m grateful for him, for his thoughtfulness.

Moments later, Jasper reappears, the door creaking open softly as he steps inside, his presence filling the space as he carries a small towel in his hand. His eyes meet mine immediately, flickering with tenderness. He moves toward the remnants of the bed, sitting down with a fluid motion beside me. The air feels thick with the aftermath of everything we’ve just shared—the unspoken emotions, the tenderness that still lingers between us like an invisible thread that binds us even closer.

"Let me help you up," he says softly, his voice full of care as he reaches out, his cool fingers grazing my skin as he helps me sit up. I wince slightly, feeling the residual ache of our intense connection settling into my body, but it’s a good kind of pain—one that reminds me of everything we just shared. I lean into him, feeling the warmth of his body as he wraps his arm around my shoulders, supporting me as I rest against him.

The bed is barely intact, but I feel safe with him, held close in the quiet aftermath of everything. His cold skin against mine is oddly comforting, and I close my eyes, letting the quiet settle around us.

"Are you alright?" Jasper murmurs, his voice low, full of concern as his hand gently strokes the back of my neck, his fingers soft against my skin. His touch is soothing, and I find myself relaxing into him, the slight ache in my body still there but fading slowly under his care.

"I’m fine," I whisper back, my voice heavy with a weariness that I can’t quite shake off. "Just... a little tired, that’s all."

He nods softly, pressing a tender kiss to the top of my head before pulling me closer. I rest my head against his shoulder, feeling his cool, steady presence surrounding me, grounding me in this space between us. There’s something so calming in his stillness, in the way he holds me with such reverence, as if I’m something precious, something he can’t bear to lose.

"I love you," he says after a beat, his voice soft but filled with conviction. His hand traces small circles on my shoulder as he continues, "I love the way you make me feel—like I’m human again, even if I’m not. I love the way you laugh, the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention. The way you trust me…"

I shift slightly, looking up at him as he speaks, feeling a flutter of emotion in my chest. His eyes meet mine, and for a moment, the world outside of us fades. There’s only him, only the truth of his words sinking into me like a promise.

"I love the way you make me want to be better," he continues, his voice almost a whisper. "You make me want to be the man I always wished I could be. You make me feel like I'm worthy of this—worthy of you."

His words are soft, but they hit me in a way that feels like a deep exhale, like the release of something I didn’t realise I was holding onto. He’s always been good at hiding his emotions, but in this moment, there’s nothing left for him to hide. His love for me is as clear as the stars in the sky, and it makes me feel small and cherished at the same time.

"Jasper…" My voice is barely a breath, my words fading against his skin as I sigh softly, feeling the weight of his love wash over me.

"I love you more than you know," he murmurs, pressing another gentle kiss to my forehead. "More than I ever thought possible."

The silence that follows is filled with the warmth of his presence, the rhythmic sound of the bath running next door, and the steady beat of his breath—though it’s not his heartbeat that reassures me, it’s the steady pulse of his love, the promise in every word he’s spoken. I close my eyes, the exhaustion from everything we’ve shared pulling me deeper into his embrace.

"Rest now," he whispers, his voice a lullaby. "We’ll take the bath together in a minute, but for now… just stay with me."

I nod, allowing myself to sink further into him, the weight of sleep beginning to settle in, the fatigue of our night finally catching up to me. His arms tighten around me, holding me close as I rest my head on his shoulder, my breath evening out in the calm of the moment.

The gentle hum of the water running next door, combined with the softness of his touch, lulls me into a peaceful sleep. The last thing I remember before drifting off is the feel of Jasper's cool skin against mine, the sound of his voice telling me how much he loves me, and the overwhelming sense of being utterly, completely safe.

And in his arms, I know I’m exactly where I belong.

Y/N's POV

The ballroom hums with life.

Golden faelights drift above us, casting a soft, flickering glow over the polished marble floors. Laughter and music twine through the air, mingling with the heady scent of spiced wine and night-blooming jasmine. Silk skirts swirl like waves, crystal goblets clink in delicate cheers, and beyond the arched windows, the stars burn bright against the velvety dark.

It’s dazzling, almost surreal—the kind of moment plucked straight from a story.

At the center of it all, Rhysand spins Feyre in his arms, moving with a practiced ease that only mates seem to master. Feyre’s laughter rings out—light, breathless—her head thrown back in pure delight as Rhys grins down at her, utterly smug.

I take a slow sip of my wine, suppressing the urge to roll my eyes.

"Look at them," Cassian groans beside me, arms crossed over his chest. "Absolutely disgusting."

"They’re happy," Azriel murmurs, though the ghost of a smirk tugs at his lips.

Cassian scoffs. "Happy, sure. But must they be so theatrical about it? The twirling? The longing gazes?" He sighs, exaggerated and forlorn. "If only someone would sweep Az off his feet like that."

Azriel’s golden eyes snap to him, shadows curling at the edges of his frame in silent warning. "Don’t."

The words have barely left his mouth before an idea strikes me—ridiculous, reckless, wonderful.

A slow, wicked grin spreads across my lips as I set my goblet down. "Actually," I say, my voice deceptively casual, "that’s not a bad idea."

Azriel turns to me, brows drawing together slightly. "What—"

I don’t let him finish.

Before he can react, I step forward, duck slightly, and sweep him clean off his feet.

A sharp inhale—the only sound he makes before his entire body locks up. His muscles go taut, wings flaring the barest fraction in pure, undiluted shock. I cradle him effortlessly in my arms, reveling in the way his weight settles against me.

For a moment, silence.

Then Cassian howls with laughter, so loud and raucous that several nearby dancers pause to glance over. "Oh—oh my gods—" He doubles over, hands on his knees, gasping for breath.

Azriel, to his credit, doesn’t fight me. Doesn’t lash out. But his fingers tighten against my sleeves, his jaw tensing like he’s barely holding himself together.

"Put me down," he growls, but his voice—gods, his voice—comes out hoarse. Low, almost breathless.

Something sparks deep in my chest.

I grin, holding him tighter as I spin us in a slow, sweeping circle. "What’s wrong, Az? Afraid I’ll drop you?"

His golden eyes burn, frustration flashing across his face. Or is it something else?

"Careful," Cassian teases, still wheezing with laughter. "He might like it."

The words are meant as a joke, but the moment they leave Cassian’s mouth, realization slams into me.

Azriel’s face isn’t just flushed from embarrassment. His pupils—blown wide. His lips—parted slightly. His breath—short, uneven. His shadows—writhing, twitching, as if trying to conceal him. Conceal the faint, unmistakable shift in his scent.

Oh.

Oh.

My stomach flips.

Azriel—the infamous, unshakable Shadowsinger—is turned on right now. By this. By me.

Heat licks at my spine, slow and simmering.

My grin turns sharper, more deliberate. Predatory. "You’re awfully quiet, Shadowsinger," I murmur, shifting my hold just slightly—just enough to press my fingers into the firm planes of his back. "I thought you wanted me to put you down?"

A slow swallow. A barely perceptible clench of his jaw. And for the first time ever, I see him at a complete and utter loss for words.

Cassian is still laughing, oblivious to the sudden, charged tension crackling between us. "You broke him," he chokes out. "You actually broke Azriel."

I finally—finally—set him down, but I don’t step away.

Neither does he.

We’re close. Too close. Close enough that I can see the faint pink dusting his sharp cheekbones, the way his lashes lower slightly as his gaze flickers—just for a second—to my lips.

His hands are still on me, fingers pressing hard against my arms, grounding himself.

I can feel it—the unsteady rhythm of his breath, the hammering of his heart against his ribs.

His voice, when he finally speaks, is low. Rough. Barely more than a rasp.

"Not even close."

And just like that, the ball has suddenly become a lot more interesting.

Azriel doesn’t move.

Neither do I.

The ball continues around us, an elegant blur of silk and starlight. Laughter rings through the hall, the music swelling in perfect harmony with the glow of the chandeliers. Feyre and Rhys remain entwined at the center of it all, lost in their own world. But mine—our world—has shrunk to this moment. To him.

Azriel's fingers are still curled around the fabric of my jacket, his grip firm, grounding. But beneath that steady hold, there’s tension—coiled, restrained, a storm gathering on the horizon. His body is taut, every breath controlled, every shift calculated. Yet his golden eyes betray him. They are locked onto mine, sharp and searching, as if trying to decipher something I’m not saying aloud.

Cassian, still reveling in his own amusement, claps Azriel on the shoulder. “Well, that was the best thing I’ve ever seen.” He turns to me, grinning like I’ve just handed him a cask of the finest Illyrian whiskey. “And you! That was art, truly. You should’ve seen his face—” He dissolves into laughter again, practically wheezing. “Who knew our dear Shadowsinger liked being swept off his feet?”

Azriel’s grip tightens—barely, but I feel it.

His jaw ticks.

And for the briefest second, I think he might lunge at Cassian just to silence him. But instead, his gaze flickers back to mine, his expression smoothing into something unreadable. A mask. A carefully curated shield.

But I saw it.

The way his pupils dilated when I lifted him into my arms. The way his breath hitched, just slightly. The way his shadows curled and twisted, unsettled, reacting to me.

And I see it now—the way his gaze flickers, just for a fraction of a second, to my hands.

Cassian, oblivious to the weight of the moment, waves a hand between us. “You two gonna stand there and smolder at each other all night, or should I grab another bottle of wine so we can really get the confessions rolling?”

Azriel exhales sharply through his nose—a sound that might be a laugh, if it weren’t so quiet, so restrained. “No one’s making you stay, Cass.”

Cassian gapes at him, scandalized. “Are you kidding me?” He turns to me, eyes wide. “He’s defending you.”

I smirk. “Sounds like you’re jealous.”

Cassian scoffs so violently I think he might choke. “Jealous? Of that?” He gestures to Azriel, who merely lifts a brow, unreadable as ever. “Not in a thousand years.”

Azriel shifts—just enough that only I can hear when he murmurs, “I think he’s upset that I didn’t let him spin me first.”

A startled laugh bursts from my lips, loud and genuine, and Azriel’s gaze sharpens on my mouth like I’ve just handed him a secret.

Cassian groans, rubbing a hand down his face. “You know what? No. I refuse to be here for this.” He mutters something about needing an entire bottle of liquor before stalking off into the crowd.

Azriel doesn’t move.

Neither do I.

And yet, the air between us shifts—crackles—like the moment before a storm, thick with something unspoken.

His eyes—dark gold, molten, intense—stay locked onto mine, studying me with quiet curiosity, with heat, with something I can’t quite name. A slow pull begins in my chest, a gravitational force drawing me closer, daring me to test the boundaries of whatever this is.

The silence stretches between us, filled only by the distant echo of the ball, the rustle of skirts against marble, the low hum of conversation.

Then, finally, he speaks.

“You’re stronger than I thought.”

His voice is low, rough. A confession.

I tilt my head, letting a slow, knowing smile curl at my lips. “Disappointed?”

Azriel’s lips twitch—a flicker of amusement, but beneath it, something else. Something darker.

He steps closer. Just enough that I feel the warmth of him, the whisper of his shadows curling between us. Just enough that his wings shift, like he’s considering something.

“Not even close,” he murmurs.

And gods, I have never wanted anything more than I want to close that last inch between us.

His words settle over me like a brand, sinking beneath my skin, ink on parchment.

Not even close.

My breath hitches, my heart pounding in my chest as he watches me—truly watches me. The golden light from the chandeliers catches in his eyes, turning them molten, smoldering. His shadows coil around him, restless, shifting as if they can sense it too—the thickening air, the unspoken tension stretching between us like a taut wire ready to snap.

I could step back. Laugh it off. Pretend my pulse isn’t thundering in my veins, pretend his voice—low, dark, and laced with something dangerous—hasn’t set a slow-burning fire beneath my skin.

But I don’t.

Instead, I hold his gaze, steady and unflinching. “That so?” My voice is smooth, teasing, but there’s something beneath it—something sharper, something that dares him to come closer.

Azriel’s lips twitch, but the amusement there is a thin veil, stretched over something far more potent. “You sound surprised.”

“I’m not.” And I mean it.

Because it’s not surprise that coils in my stomach, twisting hot and insistent. It’s the way his chest brushes mine, the barest graze, yet enough to send my breath stuttering. It’s the way his wings shift behind him, his fingers twitching at his sides, like he’s waging a silent war within himself. Like he’s resisting the urge to reach for me.

Like he wants.

And gods help me, I want too.

I don’t think. I move.

One second, we’re standing on the edge of the dance floor, the world spinning around us in a blur of movement and music. The next, I’m gripping the front of his leathers, pulling him closer—closer—until there is nothing left between us but breath and heat and the razor-sharp edge of something inevitable.

His breath falters.

Just for a second. Just long enough for me to feel it—the hesitation, the war between restraint and need.

Then he moves.

His hand finds my waist, fingers curling into the fabric of my jacket, grounding me. His other hand ghosts up my arm, over my shoulder, until his fingertips brush my jaw. His touch is careful. Testing. Giving me a chance to pull away.

I don’t.

I tilt my head, leaning into him, and that’s all it takes.

Azriel snaps.

His lips crash into mine, and—fuck.

The kiss is fire and hunger and every ounce of tension that has built between us, spilling over like an overflowing dam. His hand tightens on my waist, dragging me into him, until I can feel every inch of him—solid, warm, burning. His fingers thread through my hair, tilting my head just so, deepening the kiss, stealing the breath from my lungs.

I let him.

I let him claim, let him take—because I am taking just as much. My hands slide up, grasping at his shoulders, his back, the cool leather beneath my fingers. His wings flare, a shudder rippling through him as I drag my nails down his spine.

And the sound he makes.

Low. Guttural. A growl against my lips that sends a sharp, delicious shock through me. My knees weaken, my body pressing against his, as if I could sink into him entirely and still not be close enough.

The world around us ceases to exist. The ballroom, the music, the murmured conversations—it all fades into nothing. There is only this. Only him. The scent of cedar and cold night air. The taste of him, heady and consuming. The feel of his hands on me, no longer hesitant, no longer holding back.

He wants.

And gods, I want too.

But then—

A sharp, exaggerated whistle.

Azriel wrenches back, his breath ragged, his golden eyes dark and wild. His grip on my waist tightens—like he doesn’t want to let go.

Neither do I.

Then I hear it.

“Well, shit,” Cassian crows. “Didn’t see that one coming.”

Laughter ripples through the ballroom. The realization slams into me—we’re not alone. We’re still standing at the edge of the dance floor, in full view of everyone.

Feyre, barely concealing her grin, lifts her brows in mock innocence. Rhys looks entirely too pleased with himself. And Cassian—smug bastard—is grinning like this is the best entertainment he’s had in centuries.

Azriel groans, tilting his head back as if praying for patience. His shadows slither around him, like they might shield him from prying eyes.

I smirk, tilting my chin up to meet his gaze. “Something wrong, Shadowsinger?”

Azriel exhales sharply, his fingers still digging into my waist, still possessive. He looks down at me, his gaze dipping to my lips—still swollen, still parted from his kiss.

Then, very quietly, very dangerously, he murmurs—

“Not even close.”

ACOTAR Masterlist TAG LIST - updated 12th Oct 2024

TAGS:

Xaden Riorson, the man who has made a career of maintaining control in a world that crumbles around him, has never looked more vulnerable than in this moment. His eyes—those sharp, calculating eyes that see everything and give nothing away—widen as the words I just spoke settle between us. The smirk that usually dances on his lips, the one that makes him seem untouchable, vanishes as if it’s never been there at all. His expression, typically guarded and enigmatic, is now a map of raw emotion, impossible to ignore.

I watch him, unsure of whether I’ve just shattered the air between us or opened a door we aren’t ready to walk through. His hands, always confident and steady, grip my waist with a force that seems born of instinct, as if the weight of what I just told him threatens to pull him down. He inhales sharply, and in the way his breath catches in his throat, I can feel it—a tremor, almost imperceptible, but it’s there. The sound of it—soft, like a whisper of disbelief—breathes life into the moment, making it real, making it unavoidable.

His eyes dart to my stomach, that small curve, barely noticeable but unmistakably there. Then, without warning, they flick back to mine, as if trying to find some confirmation that this isn’t a cruel joke, some twisted play to see him unravel. His jaw tightens, his muscles go taut, and for the briefest of seconds, I think he might not believe me. But then he whispers, his voice low and edged with something I’m not ready to identify. “You’re sure?”

I nod, unable to contain the mix of fear, anticipation, and joy that floods through me, and that’s when everything shifts. The tension in his body cracks, splintering apart like ice breaking under the weight of an ocean. His breath, shallow and uneven, spills out in a rush, and his gaze—normally so calculating, so indifferent to everything around him—softens, transforming into something I’ve only seen glimpses of: vulnerability. There, in that look, I see the faintest flicker of hope, a light that barely dares to exist in the shadows of his usual guarded composure.

The silence that follows feels like an eternity, a moment stretched so thin it could shatter at any second. But instead, he moves. His hands, which had been trembling ever so slightly, find their place around me, pulling me close as if I’m the only thing holding him together. His lips brush against the side of my face, pressing against my temple in a gesture that feels oddly fragile for someone like him—someone who has built walls taller than any fortress, whose every breath is calculated, every action precise.

His voice, when it finally comes, is raw—thick with emotion I didn’t know he was capable of showing. “You have no idea how much I love you,” he murmurs, his words a promise. His hands slide down slowly, reverently, until one rests on my stomach. His thumb begins to trace circles, soft at first, like he’s afraid to touch too firmly, as if afraid he might shatter something precious. And maybe he’s right—because in this moment, something shifts inside him, and I’m not sure he’s ready to face it yet.

The man who once seemed so untouchable, so impenetrable, is unraveling in front of me, but not in a way that makes me want to run. Instead, I find myself holding him just as tightly, afraid that if I let go, he might slip away. He isn’t just holding me—he’s holding onto something else. Something bigger than both of us.

We stay like that for a long while, the world fading into the background. His hands, still tracing slow circles over my stomach, seem to speak volumes without words. Each pass of his thumb is a vow—a promise to protect, to fight for, to love the life growing inside me with the same fierce, unrelenting devotion he’s always given to me. Only now, there’s something new in his gaze—something deeper. The promise isn’t just to me anymore. It’s to the little one we’ve yet to meet, the one who has already captured his heart in a way I never could have expected.

We’re lying in bed, the early morning sunlight spilling through the window, painting Garrick’s bare shoulders in a soft, golden glow. The light dances across his skin, highlighting the muscles in his back as he sleeps, his breathing slow and steady, the rise and fall of his chest like a calming rhythm. His arm is draped lazily over my waist, holding me close but not tight, as if he’s still half-anchored to the world of dreams. The warmth of him presses against me, a comfort I never want to lose, but something stirs inside me—something I can’t ignore, something that needs to be said.

I shift slightly, the flutter of nerves in my chest making my heart race just a little faster than it should. His eyes crack open, barely more than a sliver, and he blinks up at me through the haze of sleep. His lips twitch into the softest of smiles, and I can’t help but feel a warmth spread through me, even as my own pulse quickens.

“You’re staring,” he murmurs, his voice husky from sleep, a teasing note in the words.

I swallow hard, suddenly feeling the weight of the moment, the gravity of the words I’m about to say. “I have something to tell you,” I whisper, my voice barely audible, thick with nerves. I watch his expression shift as he processes my tone—sleep fading from his eyes as they focus on me, sharpening with concern, alertness creeping in. His brows furrow slightly, his grip on me tightening just enough that I can feel the change, the instinctive need to protect, to hold me steady.

The air between us thickens, and I take a steadying breath before finally letting the words escape. “I’m pregnant.”

For a long moment, there’s nothing—no sound, no movement. Just the steady beat of my own heart, pounding in my ears. His blue eyes lock onto mine, and I see the wheels turning in his mind, trying to make sense of what I’ve just said. It’s as if he’s searching for any sign that he’s misunderstood, trying to find some hint that this isn’t real. And then, slowly, so slowly that it feels like time itself holds its breath, a grin begins to spread across his face. It starts small, like disbelief, and then grows—grows until it’s nothing short of radiant, the kind of grin that could light up the world. It’s like the sun breaking through storm clouds, a warmth that fills the space between us, and I feel myself melt under it.

A quiet, breathless laugh escapes him, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing, what he’s feeling. He sits up then, pulling me with him, his movements fluid, confident, like he’s always known he’d be here. His hands come up to cradle my face, and his thumbs gently trace over my cheekbones, each touch reverent, as though I am the most precious thing he’s ever held. His touch is tender, full of wonder. His gaze never leaves mine.

“We’re having a baby?” he whispers, voice hushed, awed, like the very idea of it is too beautiful to fully comprehend. His eyes search mine for any hint of doubt, any sign that this might not be true, but all I can do is nod. And when I do, he kisses me—deep, lingering, filled with everything he feels, overflowing with love and joy in a way that takes my breath away.

The kiss is everything—the kind of kiss that promises a future, the kind that says we’re in this together, no matter what. When he finally pulls away, his hands slide down to rest over my stomach, his touch slow and careful, like he’s handling something fragile, something sacred. His voice is thick with emotion as he murmurs, “I’m going to love them so much.”

I can feel the sincerity in his words, hear the depth of his commitment in every syllable. He presses his forehead to mine, the grin never fading, and I can feel his joy radiating off of him, filling me up. There’s no hesitation, no doubt in him, just a certainty that this moment, this new chapter of our lives, is exactly where we’re meant to be. He holds me close, his hands still resting gently on my stomach, as if he’s already thinking of all the ways he’ll love the little life growing inside me.

“I can’t believe this is real,” he murmurs, and the wonder in his voice makes my heart swell. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

And for the first time in a long time, I’m certain too. In his arms, with his heart beating against mine, I know that whatever comes next, we’ll face it together. And I know, deep down, that we’ll be the best parents we can be. Because this moment—this shared joy—is only the beginning.

Liam is in the middle of fixing his dagger, the rhythmic glide of the whetstone over the blade a comforting sound, familiar and steady. His brow is furrowed in concentration, lips slightly parted as he works, his fingers steady and sure. There’s a certain ease to his posture, though—a quiet confidence in the way he holds the dagger, in the way he moves. I watch him for a moment, the soft light from the window casting shadows over his strong features, and something stirs deep in my chest.

I know what I’m about to say will change everything. It will shift the balance of us, of this quiet, simple life we’ve built. It will disrupt the calm. And yet, in this moment, with his presence so solid and steady beside me, I’m not sure if I’m ready for the words to leave my lips.

“Liam,” I say softly, my voice steady despite the whirlwind inside me. My heart is racing, a thudding pulse in my ears, but I push through it. He hums in acknowledgment, his eyes still focused on the blade in front of him. But when I don’t continue, when the silence stretches between us too long, he finally stills. His sharp green eyes flick to mine, reading me in an instant. And in that moment, I feel like he’s already seen it all—the hesitation, the fear, the joy that fights its way to the surface.

The dagger is forgotten, carefully set down on the table beside him, and he stands in one smooth motion, crossing the distance between us in two quick strides. The energy between us shifts, and his hands frame my face, warm and steady, his breath unsteady as he studies me. I can see the question in his eyes, and I know he’s waiting for me to speak again.

“What is it?” he asks, his voice low, steady. But I can hear the uncertainty beneath it—the flicker of confusion, of concern, because he knows something is coming, something big.

I exhale slowly, trying to steady myself, gripping the edge of the table as though it’s the only thing keeping me grounded in this moment. I whisper the words, barely above a breath, but I feel them settle between us like a charge in the air. “I’m pregnant.”

The words hang there, heavy, charged, electric. I watch as his body locks up, the shock rippling through him, a brief stillness in the air before everything changes. He blinks once, then twice, his lips parting slightly, as if he’s trying to find the right response but no words come. The seconds stretch out, thick and heavy, as though we’re suspended in time, before he inhales sharply, his chest rising and falling with an effort that betrays his calm.

Without another word, he steps closer, closing the gap between us. His hands are on me in an instant, cupping my face with a tenderness that makes my heart catch. He’s searching my eyes, his expression intense, as though he’s trying to read me, to make sure this is real. “Say it again,” he murmurs, his voice thick, as if the words themselves are something he needs to hear once more to believe.

I don’t hesitate this time. I say it again, the words rolling off my tongue with a clarity I didn’t know I had in me. “I’m pregnant.”

His chest rises again, this time in a sharp inhale, and his fingers tighten around me as if to pull me even closer, as if he never wants to let go. The moment feels suspended, timeless, and then suddenly—he laughs. It’s a quiet, disbelieving sound, almost as though he can’t quite wrap his mind around it, and the laugh shifts into something softer, something deeper. Something filled with wonder.

He presses his forehead to mine, the weight of his hands on my face grounding me, and then slowly, reverently, his hands slip down to rest over my stomach. His touch is warm, careful, as though he’s holding something delicate, something precious. The moment stretches between us, full of a new, tender energy, and I know without a doubt that everything has changed.

“You have no idea how much I love you,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion, raw and genuine, like he’s trying to find the words to hold all of it—this moment, this future, this life we’re about to create together.

And then, without another word, he kisses me. It’s slow, deep, and everything I’ve ever wanted. It’s a kiss that speaks of promises, of futures and dreams, of everything we’ve built and everything we will. I can feel the weight of it, the depth of it, and as he pulls me close, as his hands rest gently on the life growing inside me, I know that this moment is the beginning of everything. Everything has changed. And somehow, it feels like it always was meant to.

Bodhi is pacing, his boots scuffing against the cold stone floor with every angry step. The rhythm of his movement is frantic, almost like he's trying to outrun the frustration boiling inside him. His hands are thrown up in exasperation, his voice sharp with bitterness. “Of course, Xaden gets the good shit. Again. Powers? Sure. Now Violet... First in line for the throne? Why the hell not?” His voice cracks with sarcasm, the words biting through the air like daggers. “They both get the good fucking shit.”

I watch him, my heart beating wildly in my chest. It’s not the anger that rattles me; I’ve seen him like this before. But the weight of it all—the frustration that pours out of him—makes my stomach twist with something deeper. It’s all too familiar, this endless cycle of feeling overlooked, dismissed. His voice is thick with old grievances, with wounds that never quite heal, and I know well enough to recognize when he’s spiraling.

He’s about to explode, and I can’t let him. Not this time. If I don’t stop him, I know he’s going to hurt himself in more ways than one. So I step forward, my footsteps silent but determined, and before he can throw his next bitter word into the air, I grab his wrist, holding it firmly but gently.

“Bodhi.”

My voice cuts through his storm of frustration like a calm in the eye of the hurricane, sharp and steady. He freezes mid-step, his body tensing as my name slides past my lips. His hazel eyes, blazing with unresolved anger, snap to mine, and for a moment, everything else falls away.

I take a deep breath, steadying myself, feeling the weight of the words that have been resting on the edge of my tongue for what feels like an eternity. "I’m pregnant."

The shift is immediate, like the world tilts on its axis. His body locks up, rigid and uncertain, and his expression flickers through anger, confusion, and something else—something raw, vulnerable, and unguarded. His lips part, but no sound escapes. For a long moment, he just stands there, staring at me like I’ve just ripped the ground out from under him, like he’s trying to process what I’ve just dropped into the space between us.

The air in the room feels thick, charged, like time itself is holding its breath. Then, as if he’s been holding onto something for too long, the tension in his shoulders suddenly drains away, replaced by something softer, almost fragile. His fingers twitch at his sides like he’s unsure of what to do, like he wants to reach for me but is afraid of the weight of what this means.

“You’re—” He stops himself, blinking hard as if he’s trying to shake off the fog of disbelief. “You’re serious?”

I nod, and when I do, his whole body seems to collapse inward. His breath comes out in a sharp exhale, ragged and uneven, and a shaky laugh bursts from him. It’s low, almost disbelieving, like he can’t quite catch up to the reality of it all. His hands tremble as he reaches for me, pulling me close like I’m the only thing holding him together in this moment. His fingers land on my waist, steady and desperate, as if he needs to feel me beneath his hands, solid and real.

“Holy fucking shit,” he breathes, shaking his head with a soft, disbelieving laugh. "Xaden can keep his damn throne." And then, without warning, he’s kissing me. It’s not soft or gentle—it’s desperate, a kiss that’s full of raw emotion, of relief, of something far too big to name. His hands tighten around me, anchoring himself to the moment, to the realisation, to us.

When he finally pulls back, he doesn’t let go, his hand sliding down to rest over my stomach, warm and steady. His touch is a promise, a grounding force. He’s breathing heavily, still trying to catch up to the reality of everything, but there’s a clarity in his eyes now. A certainty that wasn’t there before.

“This?” He murmurs, voice thick with emotion. “This is ours.”

And for the first time in a long while, I see it—the shift in him, the release of all that frustration, all that anger, replaced with something I can’t quite name. But I know this is the moment everything changes. This is the beginning of something far greater than the chaos we’ve both been drowning in.

Violet slides a glass toward me, the faintest glint of challenge in her eyes as she smirks. “Come on, you’re not seriously turning down a drink, are you?” Her voice has a playful edge, teasing me, but something’s different in the way she looks at me, like she senses that something is off. I hesitate, the words swirling in my mind, threatening to spill, and that’s when I push the glass away.

Her smirk falters. “Wait. What?”

Before she can press further, I feel it—the weight of Ridoc’s gaze on me. I turn, and there he is, standing a few feet away, brow furrowed and head tilted just enough to show he’s putting pieces together. I’ve been trying to hide it, but I can’t. His sharp eyes meet mine, and I know he’s already suspicious. He sees the way my fingers twitch, the way my breath hitches just a little too sharply when Violet teases me. He knows something’s coming.

I swallow hard, grip his wrist, and tug him away from the table. The murmurs of the others fade as I pull him further from the group, needing space to breathe. My pulse is racing now, my heart pounding louder with each step. I know damn well I can’t hold this in any longer, but the moment I say it, things will never be the same.

We stop just outside the circle of laughter and conversation, where no one can overhear us. Ridoc stands there, arms folded, eyes narrowed with a mix of amusement and curiosity. “Alright,” he says, drawing out the word. “You’re acting weird, you turned down alcohol, and you’re pulling me aside like you’ve got some massive secret. Should I be worried?”

The weight of it all presses against me, suffocating, but I manage to look him in the eye. This isn’t something I planned to tell him so soon, but I can’t carry this any longer. I take a deep breath, the words burning on my tongue, and whisper, “I’m pregnant.”

The world seems to stop.

Ridoc blinks once, then twice, as if he didn’t hear me right. His mouth opens, and then shuts, his brain visibly scrambling to process what I just said. His eyes dart to mine, searching for any hint of a joke, but there’s nothing. His hands, once folded tightly across his chest, now hang at his sides, fingers twitching like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

For a moment, he’s completely still, like the world around us has fallen silent and we’re the only ones who matter.

And then, his face shifts. The shock gives way to confusion, and that’s when I see it—the joy. The raw, unfiltered joy that bursts through his expression. His lips part, the corners twitching upward in disbelief. He can’t quite believe it. He doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

In the next breath, before I can say another word, he spins around, his body moving with a force that’s both desperate and excited. And then, as if he’s claiming the moment for himself, he calls out across the room, loud enough for the entire squad to hear.

“I’M GONNA BE A DAD!”

The room goes completely still. Every single person freezes. A glass hits the floor with a dull thud. Violet chokes on her drink. Rhiannon’s jaw nearly hits the floor. Xaden, of course, looks like he already knew, his gaze unamused but somehow fond. Ridoc, meanwhile, is still grinning like the world is his to conquer. He doesn’t even care that we’re the center of attention.

The chaos erupts. Cheers, whoops, congratulations from every corner of the room. The sound of people scrambling to get to us, laughing, offering their well-wishes. But I can’t help but bury my face in my hands, overwhelmed with embarrassment.

Ridoc’s laughter, though, it’s pure, unrestrained. He pulls me into his arms, lifting me off the ground in a tight, dizzying hug. His grip is firm but gentle, as if I’m the most precious thing he’s ever held.

“You really thought I’d keep that to myself?” he says, his voice muffled in my hair as he chuckles, his breath warm against my skin. “Oh, love, you should know me better by now.”

I can barely breathe, laughing in spite of myself. The entire world feels like it’s shifting around us, and yet in this moment, I don’t care. I’m lost in him, in the joy he’s radiating, in the life we’ve just begun to build together. For the first time, I feel like nothing can touch us.

And when he finally pulls back, his hand slides over my stomach, slow and reverent, as if trying to memorise the change that’s already started to take place.

“This?” he murmurs, voice thick with emotion. “This is going to be the best thing thats ever happened to us.”

The soft sound of footsteps echoes through the quiet hallway, but it's the unmistakable sound of a door creaking open that pulls me from my thoughts. I'm sitting at the edge of the bed, a thousand things running through my mind, but when I hear it, I freeze.

The door clicks shut behind me. I don’t need to turn around to know who it is. I can already hear Sawyer’s quiet, steady steps, the way he moves with that lazy confidence, like nothing in the world could make him rush. He's always been like that—unfazed, comfortable in his skin, but also the first one to notice when something’s off.

He leans against the doorframe, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his lips, and one brow arches slightly, like he's in on some joke I haven't figured out yet. He watches me for a long moment, his gaze knowing, waiting for me to speak. But I can’t. Words are stuck in my throat, heavy and thick.

I open my mouth, then close it again, trying to find the courage. My fingers brush against the edge of the bed, and it feels like the room is shrinking, the weight of what’s coming making my chest tighten.

Sawyer, ever perceptive, notices the shift in my demeanor instantly. Without hesitation, he pushes off the doorframe, his movements slow but purposeful. His voice is low, calm, but laced with concern. "What’s wrong?"

I glance at him, my heart hammering, and for a second, I almost wish I could keep this to myself just a little longer. But I know I can’t. Not with him. Not now.

I take a deep breath, avoiding his gaze as I stand up from the bed. My stomach churns again, a nauseating wave rising in my gut, but this time, it's different. I press a hand to my stomach, fighting against the bile that threatens to rise.

And that’s when I feel it—the low, guttural sound of me retching. I stumble toward the bathroom door before the first wave of nausea hits, pushing the door open just enough to avoid the inevitable disaster. I’m barely able to make it to the toilet before I’m on my knees, my body doubling over as I empty my stomach. The burn in my throat makes everything spin, and I try to steady myself, but it’s no use.

Then I hear it—the sound of Sawyer’s footsteps behind me, closer now, much closer. The door to the bathroom creaks open, and I don't need to look up to know he’s standing there. I can feel his presence, solid and unwavering. His hands press against the doorframe as he leans in, his gaze searching for me in the dim light.

“Hey… hey, you okay?” His voice is soft but urgent, his concern bleeding through the calm tone. He steps closer, his hand resting gently on the back of my neck, his touch warm and steady, like he’s trying to pull me back to earth.

I try to swallow, my breath still shallow, but I can’t bring myself to meet his eyes. “I’m fine,” I say, but it comes out raspy and weak, not even close to convincing. The words fall flat, like they’re already on their way to breaking.

Sawyer doesn’t buy it. He crouches down beside me, his fingers brushing through my hair as he presses a damp cloth to the back of my neck. It’s soothing, but it’s also him, grounding me in a way that only he can.

“Talk to me,” he murmurs, voice low and calm.

And that’s when it happens—the dam breaks. I feel the weight of it, everything I’ve been holding back, and it spills out before I can stop it. “Sawyer, I’m pregnant.”

The words hang between us for a moment, and I can see it in his eyes—surprise, confusion, maybe even a little disbelief. His expression shifts like he's trying to process it, his brows furrowing for a fraction of a second before they smooth out, replaced by a gentle, almost stunned smile.

"You’re what?" he asks softly, his voice thick with the disbelief of the moment. But there’s something else there now, something warmer, a flicker of excitement, and maybe even hope.

I nod, my heart thudding in my chest as I try to steady myself, the nausea still lingering. His hands, once gently cradling me, tighten around me now, pulling me closer as if he’s trying to keep me anchored in the moment.

He blinks, then laughs softly, the sound almost disbelieving. “Holy shit,” he breathes, a smile spreading across his face. “I’m gonna be a dad?”

I nod again, the words tumbling out like they’re finally free, but I can feel the tension lift from my shoulders, replaced by something new, something lighter.

Sawyer’s expression shifts from disbelief to joy. It’s like the moment the words left my mouth, everything clicked for him. His arms tighten around me, pulling me into a warm embrace as he presses a kiss to my temple, the action soft, tender. "I’m gonna be a dad," he repeats, voice thick with emotion.

He pulls back just enough to look at me, his hand coming up to gently cup my cheek, his thumb brushing over the skin there. “You just made me the happiest guy alive, you know that?”

I lean into his touch, feeling the sincerity in every word, every action. The chaos of the moment, the whirlwind of emotions, all start to settle in a way I didn’t expect. I’ve been carrying this secret, but now, in this moment, it feels like everything is going to be okay. Together.

Sawyer grins, his eyes sparkling with a joy that’s impossible to miss. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, but we’ll figure it out. Together.” And just like that, the weight of everything shifts. It’s no longer a burden. It’s a promise.

Dain is already watching me when I step into the room, his eyes flicking over me with that overly cautious, ever-concerned expression that only he can pull off. It's like he has a sixth sense for when something is off. I can feel the weight of his gaze, like he's reading me before I even open my mouth. But this time, I can tell—he has no idea what's coming.

I shift on my feet, trying to steady my racing heart, and exhale sharply. The words feel stuck in my throat, but I can’t keep them in any longer. I have to say it, no matter how much it makes my palms sweat or my stomach churn.

“I’m pregnant,” I say, my voice a little shakier than I want it to be.

For a full five seconds, Dain doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. It’s like time has stopped, and I’m caught in this endless moment, waiting for him to process what I’ve just said. His face is completely blank, like his brain just short-circuited, like I’ve just dropped an impossible bomb on him and his system is still rebooting.

Then, panic. Pure, unfiltered panic. “You’re what?!” His voice jumps an octave, his eyes going wide as his hands fly up in the air, like he’s physically trying to keep reality from sinking in. “How—? I mean, I know how, but—this isn’t—what are we going to—?”

I can almost see the wheels turning in his head, like he’s trying to work out a hundred different scenarios all at once, his mind moving faster than he can process. He starts pacing, running a hand through his hair, muttering to himself like he’s already mentally drawing up battle plans for a war he didn’t see coming. “We need a plan. I need to—fuck, what if—what about Xaden? Does he know? And the squad? And—”

Before he can fully spiral, a sharp smack echoes through the room. Dain jerks forward slightly, his eyes snapping up in shock, and I can’t help but let out a breath of relief at the interruption.

Behind him stands Sloane, one hand on her hip, the other still raised from the smack she just delivered upside his head. She’s unimpressed, as always, her expression a mixture of disbelief and mild annoyance.

“Pull yourself together, Aetos,” she deadpans, like she’s heard enough. “She just told you she’s pregnant, not that the kingdom is burning down.”

Dain blinks rapidly, his hand coming up to rub the back of his head, his brow furrowing as he tries to process what just happened. “Did you just—?”

Sloane doesn’t even flinch. She just raises an eyebrow and gives him an almost bored look. “You were being dramatic.”

I can’t help the small chuckle that escapes my lips at the exchange. I’m still reeling from the words I just said, but Sloane’s dry humor is like a lifeline, and Dain’s still-freaked-out expression helps ground me.

Something shifts in Dain’s face then. The panic is still there, lingering, but it begins to break apart, bit by bit. He exhales sharply, like he's realizing just how deep into this he’s about to dive. His gaze flicks back to me, and this time, he really sees me—really sees me. The fear is still there, but it's quieter now, and there’s something else in his eyes. Something steadier. Something that tells me he’s starting to process it, even if he’s still not sure what the next step is.

Dain steps forward slowly, almost cautiously, like he’s afraid I might slip away from him if he moves too quickly. His hands reach for mine, his grip warm, a little shaky. For a moment, the world feels like it narrows to just him and me, the chaos of his thoughts receding into the background as he pulls me into his orbit.

“You’re pregnant,” he repeats softly, his voice a little raw. The words still feel strange in the air, like he's still getting used to them, but there’s something comforting in the way he says them. Like he's finally letting the weight of it sink in.

Then, to my complete surprise, a small, almost reverent smile tugs at his lips. The kind of smile I’ve never seen from him before. It’s not the typical confident, strategic grin he wears when he’s solving a problem or taking charge. No, this smile is softer, more awed, like he’s realizing something bigger than both of us.

“We’re going to be okay,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, but it’s filled with something more. A promise. A reassurance.

Just as I feel myself starting to breathe again, Sloane claps Dain on the shoulder with enough force to almost send him stumbling forward. She doesn’t even look back at us as she starts to walk away, her voice cutting through the moment with a sarcastic edge.

“About time,” she mutters under her breath, shaking her head.

Dain huffs out a quiet laugh, clearly unbothered by her comment. He squeezes my hands tighter, his grip grounding me as his other arm slides around my back, pulling me into a tight embrace.

“I’ll be better at this,” he murmurs, his voice rough with emotion, his breath warm against my ear. “I promise.”

I rest my head against his chest, feeling his heartbeat against mine, and for the first time in a long while, I believe him. Together, we’ll figure this out. One step at a time.

The meeting room is tense, filled with whispers and the clink of metal as people adjust in their seats. Violet is leaning forward, her usual soft smile replacing any hint of concern, while the others are deep in debate about who will go on the next mission. The stakes are high, and it’s clear that everyone wants to make sure they’re well-prepared. My heart is pounding in my chest, a tight knot forming as I feel the weight of what’s coming. The group is discussing the flying assignments, who’s going to be paired with Violet on her dangerous mission, and I can’t help but feel like something’s off. There’s a restlessness in me, a hesitation that I can’t shake.

Then, as expected, the moment comes. They call my name.

I stand, my legs feeling heavier than usual as I move toward the front of the room, my mind racing with a thousand thoughts. I haven't even had the chance to tell Aaric yet. Haven’t had the chance to figure out what to say, how to handle it, how to let him in on something that already feels like it might be too much for us to process together.

But then, just as the silence begins to settle in the room, his voice cuts through, clear and commanding.

“No.” Aaric’s tone is sharp, his presence suddenly filling the room with an authority that demands attention. All eyes snap toward him as he stands from his seat, his jaw tight, a flash of something determined in his eyes. “She’s not going.”

Everyone blinks in confusion, unsure of where this sudden interruption is coming from. I glance over at Violet, who raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. She’s known Aaric for years, but she’s never seen him this... intense, this protective.

“What do you mean, she’s not going?” Xaden’s voice is incredulous, his hands on her hips as he challenges him. “We need her there. She’s more than capable—”

Aaric cuts her off, his gaze never leaving me. “I’m not letting her go. Not when—” He pauses, his expression tightening, like he’s struggling to hold back the words. But then his gaze flickers over to me, and the moment shifts. He knows. His eyes soften, just for a second, and I realize that somehow, without me even saying a word, he’s already figured it out. He’s seen it.

Before anyone can react, Aaric strides toward me, his hand lightly resting on my shoulder, like he’s grounding himself as much as he’s grounding me. “You’re pregnant,” he announces, his voice thick with the weight of his knowledge. The room falls into stunned silence.

I freeze, every muscle in my body locking up as his words hit me like a physical blow. I hadn’t planned to tell anyone yet. I hadn’t even figured out how to tell him. And now, here he is, pulling me into the center of attention, revealing something so personal that I feel like my entire world is shifting beneath me.

There’s a brief moment of chaos, with murmurs spreading through the room, eyes flicking between us. Some of the squad members look concerned, others confused, and a few seem like they’ve been expecting this. But I can’t focus on them. I can’t focus on anything except the look in Aaric’s eyes.

“I…” I try to speak, but the words stick in my throat. I’m not angry at him, not exactly. But I feel exposed, raw. How did he know?

Aaric’s gaze softens as he watches me, but his tone is firm. “I saw it.” His voice drops, quieter now, only for me to hear. “My signet... It showed me. I can’t... I can’t let you put yourself in danger. Not now.”

The sincerity in his eyes is almost enough to break me. His instinct—his foresight—has always been a double-edged sword. It’s saved us more times than I can count, but now, it’s exposing a vulnerability neither of us were ready for. He’s not just thinking about the mission or the war. He’s thinking about me. About us.

Violet is staring at us, disbelief on her face, but Aaric isn’t looking at her. His attention is fully on me, and the way he holds my gaze makes me feel like I’m the only person in the room.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, his hand slipping from my shoulder to gently take my hand. “I know this isn’t easy. But I’m not letting you go out there. Not like this. Not with...” His voice falters for a moment, the weight of his own emotions pressing down on him. “We’re going to be a family.”

His words hit harder than I expected. He hasn’t even had time to process the gravity of what he’s saying, yet somehow, he’s already stepping up in ways I hadn’t anticipated. There’s no panic in his voice, no second-guessing. Just a quiet certainty that, in this moment, makes me feel like maybe everything will be okay.

I open my mouth to argue, to tell him that I’m capable, that I’ve handled worse, but something in his eyes stops me. The truth is, I’m scared. Scared of what this means, what it changes between us. But at the same time, there’s something about Aaric’s confidence, his protectiveness, that makes me feel like maybe—just maybe—he’s right.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, my voice shaky. “I didn’t mean for you to find out this way.”

He squeezes my hand, his smile a little softer now, though still full of that unshakeable confidence. “You didn’t have to tell me. I knew.”

And for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like I’m carrying this burden alone.

The war room is quiet, save for the occasional crackle of candlelight and the rustling of parchment as Brennan pores over the map before him. His shoulders are taut, his brow furrowed in deep concentration. He hasn’t come to bed yet. Again.

I watch him from the doorway for a long moment, arms crossed, my heartbeat an insistent drum against my ribs. He’s been lost in his own mind for hours, drowning in battle plans and strategy, and if I don’t pull him out of it, I know he’ll stay here all night.

So, I move.

The air is thick with the scent of parchment and ink, the remnants of a half-finished cup of tea gone cold at his elbow. He doesn’t look up as I approach, not even when I step behind him and press my hands against his tense shoulders, kneading gently.

“Brennan.” My voice is soft, coaxing.

A quiet hum is the only response I get. He leans into my touch, just barely, but his eyes stay fixed on the map.

Stubborn man.

I exhale sharply before shifting, slipping into his lap with ease. That gets his attention. His hands move instinctively to my hips, steadying me, but his gaze flickers only briefly to my face before returning to the table, as if I’m just another part of the world he’s trying to control.

I huff in frustration, threading my fingers through his auburn hair, tugging gently. “You’re ignoring me.”

“I’m working,” he murmurs, voice distant, distracted.

“Brennan.” This time, there’s warning in my tone. When he still doesn’t look at me, I grab his face between my hands, forcing him to meet my gaze.

He startles, his breath catching, and for the first time tonight, I have his undivided attention.

“Look at me,” I whisper.

His lips part slightly, confusion flickering in the depths of his amber eyes, but he doesn’t pull away. My thumbs brush over the sharp lines of his jaw, tracing the tension there, the weight he carries like armour.

I exhale, slow and measured, before I finally speak the words that have been pressing against my ribs all night.

“I’m pregnant.”

Silence.

A long, breathless pause where the world seems to still, time stretching between us like something fragile. Brennan doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. His expression is utterly unreadable, carved from stone.

Then—his hands tighten at my waist, his fingers digging into the fabric of my shirt like he’s grounding himself, like he’s afraid to let go.

“What?” The word is barely a whisper, hoarse with something I can’t quite name.

I swallow, my throat suddenly tight. “I’m pregnant.”

His chest rises and falls sharply, the only sign that he’s actually processing what I just said. For a long, terrifying moment, he just stares at me—like I’m something impossible, something too precious to be real.

And then, the breath he’s been holding rushes out of him all at once. His hands move without thought, sliding up my sides, over my stomach, reverent and almost hesitant, as if he’s afraid he might break me.

“You’re serious?” His voice is raw, stripped of all its usual certainty.

I nod.

Something in him shatters.

He exhales a quiet, disbelieving laugh, but his eyes are bright, almost feverish with emotion. And then he’s kissing me—fierce, desperate, like he’s trying to press this moment into my skin so he’ll never forget it. His hands tangle in my hair, pull me closer, his breath warm and unsteady against my lips.

When he finally breaks away, his forehead rests against mine, his eyes searching mine for something unspoken. His fingers skim over my stomach again, slower this time, lingering.

“We’re going to have a child,” he murmurs, like he’s only just allowing himself to believe it.

I nod again, my own breath shaky.

Brennan closes his eyes for a moment, exhaling against my skin. And when he looks at me again, it’s different. The storm inside him has quieted, replaced by something deeper, something unshakable.

“I love you,” he whispers, voice rough with promise. “And I swear to you—I swear on everything—I will protect you both.”

Tears burn at the edges of my vision, but I blink them away, letting my fingers trace the strong lines of his face. “I know.”

And for the first time in hours, Brennan forgets about war.

For the first time in weeks, he lets himself hold something other than duty.

Me. Us. Our future.

Y/N's POV

The sound of rushing water stops, leaving only the quiet crackle of tension in the air. I hear Xaden moving in the bathroom—quick, efficient movements, the sound of his hands adjusting the faucet, testing the water. For a few long moments, I sit there, feeling the heat of my own words still lingering between us, replaying the way his body tensed, the way his breath caught when I suggested he join me. I don’t regret saying it. Not even a little. But now, with the silence stretching between us, I wonder what’s running through his mind.

Footsteps approach, heavy and deliberate, and then Xaden steps back into the room. His expression is unreadable, his golden-flecked eyes shadowed with something I can’t quite name. He doesn’t say anything at first, just watches me from where he stands, as if deciding whether or not to speak. Then, with a sigh that sounds like he’s battling himself, he moves toward me, reaching out.

"Come on," he says, his voice lower than usual, raspier. "Water’s ready."

He extends his hand, waiting for me to take it. I hesitate—not because I don’t want to, but because something about this moment feels different. He’s always been imposing, always carried himself with that unwavering confidence, but right now, there's something softer in the way he looks at me. Something unguarded.

I slide my hand into his, and his fingers curl around mine, firm and warm. The contrast between his calloused palm and my own sends a shiver up my spine. He doesn't say anything about it—just helps me up, steadying me as my sore muscles protest. The ache in my body is undeniable, and I probably should have been listening to Vireth when he told me to stop, but the damage is done now.

Xaden doesn’t let go as he guides me toward the bathroom, his other hand finding my waist like he’s afraid I’ll collapse again. Maybe I will. Every step reminds me how exhausted I am, how much I’ve pushed myself beyond my limits.

The warmth from the bath curls into the air as we step inside, steam clinging to my skin. It smells faintly of the lavender oil he must have added to the water—something soothing, something that makes me feel like maybe, just maybe, I don’t always have to fight so hard to prove I belong here.

I turn to look at him, expecting him to let go now that we’re here, but he doesn’t. Instead, his hands stay on me, lingering at my waist, fingers pressing slightly into the bare skin between my sports bra and the waistband of my underwear. His gaze drops to the bruises lining my ribs, his jaw tightening.

“You push yourself too damn hard,” he mutters, almost to himself, his voice a quiet accusation. His thumb ghosts over one of the deeper bruises, and I feel his restraint in the way he touches me—gentle, but simmering with frustration.

I don’t answer. What is there to say? He’s right, and we both know it. But I don’t regret it. I can’t afford to.

Xaden exhales sharply, shaking his head before finally—reluctantly—stepping back.

“Get in before the water gets cold,” he says, his tone gruff, but there’s an underlying softness there, something he doesn’t want me to hear.

I don’t move. Not yet. Instead, I tilt my head, watching him carefully. He meets my gaze, and for a moment, I swear I see the battle in his eyes—the war between every instinct telling him to leave, to put space between us, and the deep, undeniable pull that keeps him here, rooted to the spot.

My fingers find the hem of my sports bra, and I peel the damp fabric up over my ribs, my muscles protesting the movement. I know he’s still watching me—can feel the weight of his gaze like a brand against my skin—but I refuse to meet it. Instead, I focus on my breathing, slow and steady, as I pull the bra over my head and let it slip from my fingers onto the floor. The air against my bare skin is cool in contrast to the steam curling through the room, sending a ripple of heat down my spine that has nothing to do with the bath.

I take my time sliding my underwear down my legs, my fingers brushing against the bruises lining my hips, a reminder of how hard I pushed today. Of how hard I always push. I step out of them, standing completely bare under the dim bathroom light, knowing his gaze is still locked on me, burning.

Even without looking, I can picture the way his jaw must be clenched, how his fingers might be curled into fists at his sides as he fights every instinct screaming at him to move. To touch. To close the space between us.

I don’t give him the satisfaction of a glance. Instead, I turn, stepping carefully into the bath, the heat of the water licking up my calves, then my thighs, until I sink beneath its welcoming warmth with a quiet sigh. The tension in my muscles loosens almost immediately, and I let my head rest against the cool porcelain edge, closing my eyes for a brief moment.

I should feel self-conscious. Exposed. But I don’t. Not really. Not when his silence is thick with something else entirely—something raw, barely restrained, and entirely too tempting.

And still, I don’t look at him.

The silence stretches between us, thick with something unspoken, something charged. My body hums with awareness, my skin prickling under the heat of both the bath and his relentless gaze. I keep my eyes closed for a beat longer than necessary, as if that will somehow lessen the intensity of the moment. It doesn’t. It only makes the tension coil tighter, thick and suffocating.

Then, finally, he speaks.

“Are you trying to fucking kill me?”

His voice is low, breathy, like the words have been torn from him against his will, and the sheer frustration laced in them is enough to make my eyes snap open.

I turn my head slowly, and—gods help me—he looks wrecked.

Xaden stands rigid, his broad shoulders stiff, every muscle wound so tight it’s a miracle he hasn’t shattered under the strain. His fists are clenched at his sides, veins pressing against the golden-toned skin of his forearms like he’s holding himself back with every ounce of control he possesses. His chest rises and falls in shallow breaths, and his lips—his lips—are slightly parted, like he’s just realised how parched he is and that I’m the only thing that could possibly quench him.

But it’s his eyes that do me in.

Those gold-flecked onyx irises burn, searing a path over every inch of exposed skin, dark and predatory, his pupils blown wide with something dangerously close to hunger.

And then, as my gaze drops lower, I see just how much I’ve affected him.

The evidence is straining against his jeans, a prominent, undeniably enticing outline pressing against the dark fabric. My mouth goes dry. Heat pools low in my stomach, winding tightly through my limbs, and suddenly, the bath feels entirely too small, the room too hot, the air too thick to breathe.

I should say something. Should break the moment, laugh it off, defuse the impossible tension crackling between us before it ignites into something I know we won’t be able to stop.

But I don’t.

Instead, I drag my gaze back up to his, meeting his with deliberate slowness, letting him see every thought running rampant through my mind.

I raise a single brow, the ghost of a smirk playing at my lips, and that’s all it takes.

Something snaps.

Xaden curses under his breath, something low and guttural, and then he’s moving. Fast.

His hands fly to the hem of his shirt, yanking it over his head in one fluid motion. The fabric barely clears his arms before he’s tossing it to the side, forgotten. My breath catches at the sight of him—of the solid planes of muscle, the ink that stretches across his arms and chest, the way his skin is already flushed like he’s been fighting this battle for far too long.

His fingers go to the buttons of his jeans, fumbling in his haste, jaw clenching as he struggles with the damn things like they’re his mortal enemy.

I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to suppress the laugh bubbling in my throat as he growls in frustration, finally forcing them open. But when he shoves the denim down his hips, he nearly trips over his own damn feet, his balance thrown as he kicks his shoes off at the same time.

A very undignified thud echoes through the bathroom as one shoe hits the wall.

And then—fuck.

Xaden looks up at me, half-dressed, breathless, and so fucking wrecked, and the sheer heat in his gaze burns through whatever amusement I had, replacing it with something molten.

His chest rises and falls rapidly, tension still coiling through his muscles, but there’s something else in his expression now. Something that makes my own breath stutter.

Like he’s already mine. Like he’s made peace with the fact that he’s about to break every rule he’s set for himself.

Xaden is back on his feet in seconds, the last shreds of his restraint gone. He practically rips his boxers down those thick, muscular thighs, the motion so desperate, so reckless, that the waistband almost gives out under the force.

And then—gods help me—my gaze drops.

My breath catches. My pulse stumbles.

I don’t mean to look. I don’t. But gravity itself seems to drag my gaze downward, past the hard ridges of his stomach, the sharp lines of his hip bones, to—

Oh.

Oh.

A sharp inhale gets caught in my throat, my fingers clutching the porcelain edge of the bath like it’s the only thing tethering me to reality. A slow, involuntary heat creeps up my neck, settling deep in my stomach as I try—try—to force my gaze back up. But it’s impossible.

Because fuck.

He’s big. Thick, heavy, fully erect, standing proud against his stomach. And the worst part? The moment my eyes betray me, lingering too long, a sound escapes me—a tiny, almost imperceptible hitch of breath. But it’s enough.

Xaden hears it.

I feel the shift in the air before I even meet his gaze again.

When I do, it’s devastating.

His eyes are burning, dark as molten gold, pupils blown wide, chest rising and falling with a barely restrained tension that vibrates through every inch of his body. His lips part like he’s about to say something, but he doesn’t. He just stands there, watching me watch him, taking in every single reaction, every single thing I’m failing to hide.

And then—fuck him—his mouth curves. Just slightly. Just enough to make my pulse stumble.

He knows.

He knows exactly what he’s doing to me. Exactly how wrecked I am.

And from that slow, wicked smirk pulling at his lips?

He’s savouring every fucking second of it.

Xaden steps forward, closing the small, agonising distance between us, and fuck. It’s right there.

My breath shudders as the heat of him seeps into the steam-heavy air, his presence overwhelming in a way that makes my pulse trip over itself. He’s so close now, towering over me, muscles taut with restraint, water-darkened strands of black hair falling across his forehead. But it’s not his face I’m struggling to focus on.

No.

It’s him. Right there. In front of my face.

And gods help me, I want to do something.

My fingers twitch against the porcelain edge of the bath, an ache settling deep in my core that has nothing to do with my exhaustion and everything to do with the way every primal, desperate part of me is screaming to reach out—to wrap my hands around him, my mouth—fuck—I don’t even care how.

As if sensing the exact second I start to spiral, Xaden exhales sharply through his nose, his fingers pressing against my shoulder. “Don’t,” he warns, voice low, tight, wrecked.

I drag my eyes up, catching the way his jaw flexes, how the veins in his forearms strain like he’s barely holding himself together.

And then, just to make absolutely sure I understand, his hand finds the curve of my neck, thumb grazing the hinge of my jaw as he leans in close enough that his breath is a ghost against my lips.

“Be a good girl and behave,” he murmurs.

Fucking bastard.

A slow, deliberate heat spreads from where his hand lingers, all the way down my spine, settling low in my stomach. My breath is shaky, uneven, but I force myself to hold his gaze, to not react—to not give him the satisfaction of knowing just how much those words affect me.

I fail. Miserably.

His smirk deepens, smug and knowing, before he nudges me forward in the water, shifting me just enough to slide in behind me.

The moment he sinks into the bath, a low groan escapes him, the sound vibrating through the space between us, sinking into my skin. Strong, calloused hands find my waist under the water, guiding me back until my spine meets the solid wall of his chest and my ass meets something very different. 

And fuck.

The heat of him, the sheer size of him, makes my entire body lock up. Every muscle goes rigid as I try to convince myself this is fine, that I can handle this without combusting on the spot.

But then his lips brush my ear.

“Relax.” His voice is pure sin, rough with restraint. “I’ve got you.”

I don’t think relaxing is an option anymore.

Not when I can feel him, hot and hard against me, pressed so intimately that my breath catches in my throat. Not when his hands, large and calloused, find my waist beneath the water, his thumbs brushing slow, burning circles into my skin.

A shiver ripples through me, and I know he feels it because his grip tightens, fingers flexing like he’s fighting every instinct to pull me closer.

“Xaden—” My voice is barely a whisper, but before I can even process what I’m trying to say, his hands begin to move.

Slow. Deliberate.

He traces the curve of my sides, trailing the bruises with a careful touch, his palms mapping every ridge, every muscle, like he’s memorising me.

Like he wants to.

And it should be soothing—it would be soothing—if it weren’t for the fact that every shift of his hands sends a fresh wave of awareness through me, heat pooling low in my stomach, turning my bones to liquid.

I squeeze my eyes shut, my breath uneven. “This isn’t fair,” I manage, trying to ignore the way my entire body reacts to his touch.

Xaden hums, the sound deep, amused, dangerous. His breath is warm against the side of my neck as he leans in, his lips barely ghosting over my skin.

“Life’s not fair, violence,” he murmurs, his voice like smoke and embers, like temptation itself. His fingers tighten at my waist, pressing me just a fraction more against him, until there’s no mistaking exactly what I’m doing to him.

A quiet, wrecked sound escapes me before I can swallow it down.

And gods.

I don’t think I want to relax anymore.

Xaden’s hands remain steady on my waist, but there’s a subtle shift in his touch. His fingers begin to move, a slow, deliberate exploration of the skin beneath his hands. The warmth of his touch sends ripples of heat over me, and it’s as though I can feel every inch of his fingers against me, the way they trail over my skin, brushing lightly against my ribs before descending lower.

His touch is careful at first, like he’s testing, sensing the boundaries I haven’t yet laid out. The water between us becomes a barrier of heat and tension, and I can feel him getting closer, his breath mingling with mine, quiet and measured.

Then, with deliberate patience, his fingers shift down to my legs, gliding along the smooth skin of my thighs. My pulse quickens, and I struggle to keep my breathing steady, not knowing whether to lean into the touch or brace myself against it.

When his hand nudges my legs apart ever so slightly, it’s a gentle but insistent movement, a tease that has my heart pounding in my chest. It’s almost as if he’s savouring the slow build-up, the way he’s tracing every line of my body with his fingertips—each touch purposeful, each stroke drawing out more of the tension that I can’t escape. 

Suddenly he’s lifting me a bit, one strong arm around my waist against. A soft sound of surprise leaving my lips when I feel the tip brushing against my soaking entrance, a soft question on his lips. I’m nodding before I realise it, gripping the arm around my waist and completely forgetting that this isn’t me. I don’t fuck for fun but Xaden sends every rule of mine out the window, especially when he’s slowly and carefully sinking me down until he’s fully sheafed inside me. 

My head falls back onto Xaden’s shoulders he hands go back to exploring my body but all I can focus on is the delicious stretch of him, the tip feeling like it’s pressing against my cervix. No-one has stretched me this much and it’s almost too much to handle and Xaden can tell, the way the rough pads of his fingers run over where we’re connected. His lips brushing my neck, biting down and littering my skin with hickeys that I am in no way going to be able to cover up tomorrow. 

I’m opening my mouth to speak but he silences me by circling my clit, a smirk pressing into my jaw as he continues to roll lazy circles over my clit, my walls fluttering around his girth filling me up. I can already tell I’m not going to last long with the mixture of stimulation and I’m gripping Xaden’s arm that is paying attention to that bundle of nerves as my thighs clench together. He’s moving his lips from my jaw to my ear, murmuring, “Come for me baby.”

Those words plus one more tight circle on my clit has my aching back arching, drawing Xaden even deeper than I thought possible and my walls are clamping down around him, feeling hi twitch inside me as waves of bliss roll over me. I can feel Xaden rocking his hips up ever so slightly and before I know what’s happening he’s sinking his teeth into my shoulder and his dick is throbbing, filling me up with rope after rope until I feel it dripping down into the water and he’s letting out a low groan of pleasure. 

His breath is ragged against my ear, each inhale a sharp, uneven sound that mirrors the frantic rhythm of my own. His body is still pressed tightly against mine, and I can feel the heat of him seeping through the water, the warmth of his chest against my back as his arms tighten around me.

"Fuck..." he breathes, his voice strained, rough with the effort to regain control. It's low, almost a growl, but the vulnerability in it—how breathless he sounds—has my heart hammering in my chest. The intimacy of the moment makes my head spin, and I bury my face in the crook of his neck, needing the coolness of his skin to steady myself.

Every part of me feels alive, humming with the aftershocks of what we've shared. My lungs are still struggling to keep up, my chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. I close my eyes, trying to slow the frantic pace of my breathing, but with Xaden so close, the air feels thick, charged with a quiet tension that doesn't seem to want to fade.

His lips brush against my neck, a soft, breathless kiss that sends a shiver racing down my spine, and his hand, still resting on my hip, flexes slightly. "Take it slow," he murmurs, his voice low and raw, like he's trying to soothe me, but I know it’s just as much for himself.

I want to say something, to break the silence, but every word feels heavy, every sound trapped somewhere deep in my chest, caught between us like the air we share. His presence, the heat of him, the way he's holding me so close—it’s all too much, too overwhelming in the best way possible.

And as I try to regain my breath, the world outside seems to disappear, leaving only the two of us, tangled in the aftermath.

The warm water, the steady rhythm of Xaden’s breathing, and the weight of his body against mine have me feeling utterly relaxed, more than I’ve ever felt before. My muscles, still sore from training, are languid and loose, and I can feel myself beginning to drift, the world around me fading into a haze of warmth and comfort.

I try to fight it, to stay awake, but my eyelids are heavy, and the rhythmic pulse of the water, the sound of Xaden’s heartbeat, and his steady presence make it hard to keep my thoughts straight. Everything in me is exhausted—physically, emotionally. I feel his chest rise and fall with each breath, and it’s like a lullaby, pulling me deeper into sleep.

The gentle pressure of his hand on my hip only makes it worse, a soothing presence that makes me feel safe and cherished, like I could stay here forever. I let out a soft sigh, nestling further into him, too tired to do anything but let myself be held.

But then, I feel him shift, his hand nudging me gently as the cold begins to settle in, and I realise the water has started to cool. A part of me knows I should get up, but my body protests every movement, too spent to function properly. The weariness pulls at me, a fog I can’t shake.

"Come on," his voice is soft but insistent, the edge of concern threading through the words. "We need to get out before we both freeze."

I barely manage to lift my head from his chest, my eyes half-lidded as I try to push myself up, but the effort is too much. My body feels like lead, and the warmth of the bath is so comforting, I can’t seem to summon the energy to do anything but slump back into him with a soft groan of frustration.

I hear him curse softly under his breath, and before I can protest, his arms shift around me. In one smooth motion, he’s standing, lifting me with ease. I’m held against him, wrapped in his strong arms, and I’m so out of it, so weak from everything we’ve just shared, that I don’t even think to object. I rest my head against his chest again, too tired to fight it, and just let him carry me.

He moves with surprising grace, effortlessly holding me as though I weigh nothing at all. His body is warm, and I can feel the solid strength of him beneath me as he carries me out of the bath, stepping carefully through the bathroom and towards the bed. The movement causes a slight shiver to roll through me, but I barely register it, too lost in the warmth and comfort of his embrace.

The cold air that hits my skin as he pulls me from the bath is a shock, but it’s quickly replaced with the warmth of his hands as he gently helps me sit up. His touch is careful, almost reverent, as he grabs a towel and begins drying me off, his hands moving slowly over my skin, taking extra care around the sore muscles from training. The friction of the towel feels comforting against my damp skin, like he’s erasing the tension that’s settled in my body.

Every pass of the towel makes me feel lighter, his movements deliberate, yet tender. He’s so close, I can feel his breath against my skin, and I can’t help but be hyper-aware of every little sensation, every brush of his fingers. He finishes drying my legs and feet, then wraps the towel around my shoulders, pulling me into a standing position for just a moment. The dizziness that tries to creep up on me from being so relaxed is immediately washed away by the firm grip of his hands, steady and sure.

He doesn’t say anything, just looks at me for a moment, his gaze steady and warm, before picking out one of his oversized shirts from the pile of clothes he keeps by the door. It’s big enough to drown me, but he’s surprisingly gentle as he slides it over my head, the fabric billowing over my frame like a soft cloud. When the shirt falls to my knees, he gives a satisfied nod, his hand lingering on my arm for just a second before he guides me back to the bed.

I’m so exhausted, every inch of my body heavy with fatigue, that I barely manage to crawl into the bed, curling under the thick covers as Xaden moves to the side. But I can’t stop watching him, my eyes half-lidded as he dries himself off with a towel, the water dripping down his chest in rivulets. His muscles flex as he works, and I feel my breath catch in my throat as I take in every inch of him—his broad shoulders, the tautness of his abdomen, the way his hands move over his body with practiced ease.

He doesn’t seem to care about modesty, or maybe he simply doesn’t need to, because before I know it, he’s slipping into the bed behind me, his bare skin pressing against mine. I feel the heat of him, his presence a constant, undeniable force against my back. He doesn’t bother to pull on any clothes, his bare chest brushing against me as he settles in, his arm wrapping around me, pulling me close.

I let out a breath I didn’t realise I was holding, my body sinking into the warmth of him as I try to adjust to the feeling of being so close, so tangled in his presence. His heartbeat, steady and calm, thumps against my back as he presses his lips to my shoulder, a small, contented sound leaving him. It makes me shiver, not with cold, but with something else—something deeper, something I can’t quite define.

Xaden’s arm tightens around me, but his touch remains gentle, his warmth seeping into my skin as I finally relax into him, the exhaustion of the day and our shared moments taking its toll. I let myself breathe deeply, every inhale filling me with the scent of him—musky, warm, a hint of something like cedar and saltwater.

I close my eyes, but not before I catch one last glimpse of him, the outline of his face in the dim light, his expression soft but still holding that intensity I can’t shake. It’s enough to send a flutter through my chest, the lingering tension in my body finally dissipating as I let sleep claim me. His body behind me is a steady, reassuring presence, and in his arms, I feel like I’ve found a place I never want to leave.

Fourth Wing Masterlist TAG LIST - updated 12th Oct 2024

Y/N's POV

The sun hangs low over Basgiath, bleeding gold and deep crimson across the sky, its light casting jagged shadows over the towering battlements. The war college looms around me, its stone walls unyielding, its presence as foreboding as ever. The air is thick with the lingering scent of sweat and scorched leather, remnants of a day spent in brutal training.

The air is thick with the scent of fresh earth and damp stone as I sprint across the training yard, my feet pounding the ground with a rhythm that feels like a heartbeat—a constant reminder of my inadequacies. Sweat drips down my forehead, stinging my eyes, but I refuse to wipe it away. I don’t have time to care about that. I only have time to run.

Over and over, I push myself to the brink, my body screaming in protest, muscles tight with fatigue. My breaths are ragged, desperate for air that feels like it's slowly being stolen from me. But the pain doesn’t matter. It’s nothing compared to the quiet voice inside my head, the one that whispers my doubts and my fears, the one that tells me I’m not enough.

You can’t keep doing this.

It’s Virethalon’s voice. Low, firm, and impossibly calm, like he always is when he sees me teetering on the edge. His presence pulses in my mind, filling the quiet spaces with a calm I can’t find within myself.

Stop, he says again, the warning clear. You’ll burn out before you ever get the chance to fly.

But I ignore him. I have to. I can’t stop, not when the weight of everyone’s expectations hangs so heavily on my shoulders. I can’t afford to be weak. I can’t afford to be what everyone expects—a failure.

My legs scream, my body trembling with every step, but I push harder. Faster. A flip, a backflip, then a roll, twisting midair in an effort to improve my reaction time, my agility. I force my limbs to obey, despite how they beg for rest, despite how my mind is breaking under the strain.

I am not enough. I’m not strong enough to make it here.

Each fall, each misstep echoes the same message in my mind: You don’t belong.

The words are a sting in my chest, sharp and bitter, poisoning the air in front of me. The instructors don’t believe in me, not truly. They’re waiting for me to break, to fail in front of everyone. The other cadets—they’re watching too, eager to see how long I’ll last.

Stop.

Virethalon’s voice is more insistent now, rising with frustration. I know he’s watching, can feel his eyes on me, even though he’s nowhere near. You don’t need to prove anything.

I don’t stop. I can’t. If I stop now, the quiet, haunting voice of failure will take over. If I stop, I’ll feel it—the shame of not being able to meet the impossible standard everyone else expects from me.

The ground shifts beneath me as I sprint forward, my foot catching on something, my body twisting unnaturally in the air. For a split second, time seems to stretch—slow, agonising. And then, I crash.

The world flips. My body slams into the earth, my hands and knees taking the brunt of it. The impact rattles my bones, sharp and unforgiving. My breath is knocked out of me, and for a moment, I just lay there, feeling the tremor of my body as it tries to recover from the shock.

I’m not moving. I can’t move.

Gentle hands find my shoulders before I can even process what’s happening. The pressure is firm yet careful, guiding me, coaxing me into a sitting position. My body trembles from exhaustion, every muscle protesting the movement, every joint aching with the weight of my own failure. I try to steady myself, but the effort makes the world spin, and I can’t seem to get my bearings.

The cold stone beneath me is a cruel reminder of how far I’ve pushed myself. My hands shake, fingers stiff from too much strain, and I finally drop my head, trying to hide the rush of heat that floods my face.

And then, I feel him.

His presence looms over me like a shadow, suffocating and unavoidable. My heart skips a beat, and I immediately wish I could melt into the ground, anything to escape the situation. But it’s too late.

I glance up—my breath catches as I come face to face with him. Xaden Riorson. He stands before me, looking like a damn god, his tall, muscular frame casting a shadow over me. The way his wide shoulders fill out his leather jacket should be illegal. He’s built like someone who’s spent years training and fighting, his chest massive, arms heavily muscled. His dark hair is windblown and tousled, the kind of messy that only makes him look more dangerous. His tawny-brown skin is kissed by the sun, and the dark stubble along his jawline only adds to the rough, untamed look. His eyes—gold-flecked onyx—are locked on mine with an intensity that makes me feel like I’m about to be set ablaze, and I would rather do anything else than face him like this.

I rub my face with both hands, hoping to hide the blush that’s rising to my cheeks. Of all the ways for this to end—of course, it’s Xaden Riorson who catches me. And of course, he looks like that.

“What the hell are you doing?” he growls, his voice a deep rumble of anger that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. “You’re an idiot.”

I blink, half-frozen, half in disbelief. The audacity. “Oh, wow. Thank you, Wing Leader,” I drawl, sarcasm practically dripping from my tongue. “You really know how to make a girl feel special.”

Xaden’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t bite back—at least, not yet. Instead, his eyes flicker over me, and I know he’s assessing the damage. My exhaustion. The way I’m trembling, barely able to hold myself upright. It’s the worst feeling in the world. I’m embarrassed as hell that he’s seeing me like this—weak, on the edge of crumbling.

“I told you to stop before you reached this point,” he mutters, shaking his head. There’s an edge of frustration in his tone now, and I can’t decide if I want to hit something or laugh at how he sounds like he’s scolding a child.

“Yeah, well, you know me,” I say, wiping a bead of sweat off my brow, trying to make myself sound more in control than I feel. “Can’t resist proving everyone wrong.” I let out a bitter laugh, the kind that doesn’t reach my eyes. “But, hey, thanks for showing up and saving the day. Just what every soldier needs: an overbearing Wing Leader.”

A flash of something—maybe amusement, maybe exasperation—crosses his face, but it’s gone too quickly for me to read it properly. His dark brows furrow, and he steps closer, invading my space. “You’re burning yourself out. You can’t keep going like this.”

I force myself to sit up straighter, determined not to appear as weak as I feel, but I can’t hide the tremor in my limbs. The ache in my muscles is almost unbearable now, and Virethalon’s voice echoes through my mind—Stop, or you’ll destroy yourself. But I ignore it, as I have for hours.

I grit my teeth. “I don’t need your help, okay? I don’t need anyone’s help.”

I try to push myself to my feet, but my body betrays me, buckling underneath me like a broken chair. I stumble, gasping for breath, my hand reaching out for support but finding nothing.

Xaden’s eyes flash with anger again, but his movements are faster than I can process. He’s at my side in a heartbeat, and before I can even protest, he lifts me up, cradling me against him in one smooth, powerful motion. His arms are like iron around me, and my body, still trembling with exhaustion, goes stiff against him.

“What the hell are you doing?” I gasp, still trying to regain some semblance of control. I push against his chest—unsuccessfully—my arms too weak to do anything more than flop uselessly at my sides. “Put me down, you asshole!”

Xaden doesn’t respond immediately. He doesn’t have to. His grip tightens, holding me effortlessly against him as he carries me toward the barracks. “I told you to stop, but you never listen. So now you’re paying the price.” His tone is laced with annoyance, but there’s something else beneath it—something that makes my heart twist. Maybe it’s concern, maybe it’s guilt, but I can’t focus on that. I’m too busy trying to avoid the heat that floods my face.

“You’re such a prick,” I mutter, my voice half muffled by his chest. I’m so fucking embarrassed, and I hate that I feel this way. His warmth, his scent, is all-consuming, and my skin burns at the contact. But I refuse to admit it. “I don’t need you to carry me like some helpless baby.”

“Funny,” he says, his voice low, “because you sure look like one right now.”

I can practically hear the smirk in his voice, and I want to punch him. I should punch him. But I don’t have the energy, so I settle for biting my lip, muttering curses under my breath as he carries me.

The weight of his presence presses against me, and I can feel his muscles shifting beneath me, each movement of his body reminding me of just how powerful he is. And for all my protests, for all my sarcasm, I don’t want to admit that I’m secretly grateful. Grateful that he’s here. Grateful that he doesn’t let me fall apart.

Even if it means I have to endure his endless teasing.

Xaden’s warm eyes flicker down at me, and this time, there’s something softer there. Almost like...he understands. But I’m too stubborn to let myself believe it.

Xaden doesn’t say a word as he carries me through the barracks, the warmth of his body pressing against mine as I try to ignore the heat rising in my cheeks. I’m too tired to fight it. His presence is too overwhelming, and I can feel his heartbeat steady against me. Every step he takes is calculated, strong, as though it’s second nature for him to carry someone in his arms like this. It’s as if he’s done it a hundred times—though I have to wonder just how many times I’ve crossed his mind before today.

Xaden moves with a quiet grace, his large frame effortlessly navigating the corridors of the dorm building as though he’s done this a thousand times before. He steps softly, almost soundlessly, his footsteps absorbed by the shadows that seem to cling to him like a second skin. My heart races, but it's not from exertion anymore—it's the way he's so effortlessly commanding in everything he does. The weight of his arms around me, the heat radiating from his body, and the way my mind seems to short-circuit whenever I’m near him make it hard to think straight.

We pass the first-year rooms—mine included—and I can’t help but cringe at the thought of being caught sneaking past curfew. But Xaden moves with such precision, such mastery of his surroundings, that the idea of us being caught seems laughable. No one can hear us, no one even notices us. It’s like we’re ghosts, gliding past the rooms, unseen by anyone else.

I briefly wonder how he does it—how he’s so adept at slipping through the shadows, unnoticed, silent. But then, he’s always been a mystery to me. The kind of mystery I’ve never quite been able to figure out. And maybe, in a way, I don't want to.

Finally, we reach the staircase that leads to the upper floors, and with a swift glance in either direction, Xaden steps into the shadows, carrying me effortlessly up the stairs. We move past the landing and down the hallway to the last door—the one I know leads to his room. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t pause, and with a final quiet push of the door, we’re inside.

Xaden doesn’t put me down right away. His arms remain around me, his hold firm, as if he’s unwilling to let go. As if, for a brief moment, he’s afraid to lose the connection. The closeness between us feels suffocating, overwhelming, and yet I can’t bring myself to pull away. Every inch of my body is acutely aware of his presence, the heat of his skin seeping into mine, the muscle and strength in his arms keeping me held too close. I can feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat against me, mirroring the frantic pulse racing through my veins.

His dark eyes meet mine, and I swear, for a second, everything else falls away. His gaze is fierce, like a storm trapped behind his irises, flickering with a raw intensity that sends a wave of heat rushing through me. I’m suddenly aware of how painfully close we are—so close that if I moved even an inch, I’d be pressed against him completely. My breath catches, and I can’t look away, trapped in the gravity of his stare, like he’s pulling me toward him without even trying. And then, as if trying to fight whatever is building between us, his eyes flicker to my lips, and I feel it—the pull—stronger than anything I’ve ever felt.

But just as quickly as the moment seems to rise, he jerks his gaze away, his jaw tightening with the effort to control himself. It’s like he’s trying to push back the part of him that’s aware—aware of the magnetic pull between us, aware of how much he’s been fighting this… whatever this is. He shakes his head slightly, as though dismissing the thought entirely, like he’s trying to shut down the desire that flares in him. But I see it in his eyes—the flicker of something primal. Something I can’t ignore.

Finally, he sets me down, but he doesn’t let go immediately. He’s still so close that I can feel his breath on my skin, a whisper of warmth against the cold, the tension stretching taut between us, like a string pulled too tight. My pulse races as I settle onto the bed, the soft covers pressing against me, but my chest feels like it’s about to burst. I try to catch my breath, but it’s like the air in the room has thickened, heavy with unsaid words and the suffocating weight of everything unsaid.

Xaden doesn’t back away. He hovers, towering over me, his presence suffusing the space around us. I can feel the heat radiating off him, his body just a breath away, and every inch of me is screaming to close the distance. But I don’t move. I’m not sure I can. His nearness makes every part of me ache, makes every nerve light up, thrumming with the raw electricity that crackles between us.

His voice cuts through the thick silence, deep and steady, but there’s something almost... softer now, something gentler that makes my heart stutter. “Stay here,” he commands, his words pressing down on me like a physical weight, making my chest tighten. The force of his tone is undeniable, but there’s an undercurrent of something else—something that makes my stomach flutter. Something dangerous and thrilling all at once. "Be a good girl. Don’t go anywhere.”

I feel those words in my bones, in the very marrow of my being. The way he says it—it’s like a promise, a command that makes my heart race faster than it should. And yet, there’s a tenderness beneath it, a strange gentleness that pulls at me, twists my insides into knots. He wants to keep me here, close. He wants to possess this moment with me, even though I can feel the struggle in him—his body yearning to cross the line, but his mind pulling him back, trying to control what’s growing between us.

His gaze holds mine, unwavering, and I swear I see something break in his eyes—something raw and unspoken. It’s as if he’s holding himself back from doing something he knows would be too much, too dangerous. But the look in his eyes tells me everything I need to know: the battle is far from over, and this tension—this charge—it’s only just beginning.

I try to swallow, but my throat is dry. Every muscle in my body is taut, every nerve alive with an electric hum. Xaden disappears into the adjoining ensuite, his heavy footsteps echoing softly across the stone floor. I can hear the gentle hiss of the water filling the tub, the steady flow of it working in rhythm with the hammering of my heart. The tension between us lingers, the silence more suffocating now than ever before, and I can’t shake the feeling of his gaze still lingering on me even as he disappears from the room.

I should feel grateful for the space—should breathe, slow my pulse—but all I can think of is him. The way he’s so effortlessly commanding, yet there’s this softness beneath it that I can't quite place. The way he had looked at me, his expression a battle between restraint and something far more intense.

My fingers twitch, almost compulsively, and I reach for my boots, needing to do something. My body is still shaking from the exertion, from the near-collapse, and now my brain feels fuzzy, the exhaustion creeping in faster than I expected. I should just wait, I know I should, but I feel... out of control. I need to regain some semblance of normalcy, something to anchor me.

I struggle to bend down, but my balance is still far off from the punishment I just put my body through. My vision swims a little, and before I can register what’s happening, my body tips forward, sending me sprawling from the edge of the bed with a yelp. The floor greets me hard, and a shock of pain shoots up my spine, but it's nothing compared to the embarrassment that floods through me in waves. My pulse spikes, and I scramble, feeling utterly ridiculous.

A sharp, almost instinctive growl of frustration rises in the air—Xaden. He’s already moving quickly, a blur of motion as he rushes back into the room, his broad form filling the doorway in an instant. His dark eyes sweep over me, a flicker of concern passing through them, but it’s quickly replaced with something harder—almost irritated.

"You really are a disaster, aren't you?" His voice is deep, but there's a teasing bite to it, even as he crosses the room toward me in strides that eat up the distance. I can’t even find it in me to be offended. I’m too busy feeling like a complete fool.

Before I can open my mouth to respond, he’s crouching in front of me, his hands reaching for my arms to steady me. The sheer strength in his touch almost knocks the wind out of me as he helps me back onto my feet, the warmth of his hands traveling through my skin and straight to my chest. He doesn’t say anything else, but the way his eyes linger on me for a moment, as though making sure I’m okay, sends something fluttering nervously in my stomach.

“Try not to break anything else, would you?” His voice is softer now, as though the weight of the moment has finally broken through that icy exterior of his. His lips curve into a smirk, but there’s no denying the genuine care beneath the sarcasm.

Xaden moves with quiet precision, his hands wrapping around my waist, gentle but firm, as he guides me toward the bed. The heat from his touch lingers on my skin, and despite everything, I can't help but shiver. His grip is unyielding, his presence surrounding me, and as I sit on the edge of the bed, he stands in front of me, towering over me. The dim light from the room casts shadows across his features, making him look even more intimidating than usual, but there’s something in his eyes that betrays the mask he’s trying so hard to maintain.

His hands rest on my knees for a moment, and his gaze flickers to mine. There’s a question there, unspoken, something almost vulnerable beneath that stoic expression. I can see the battle waging in his eyes. He doesn’t want to touch me—at least, that’s what his expression says. But his eyes… those eyes of molten gold flecked with onyx… they betray him, flashing with an intensity I can’t quite read.

And then, in a moment that feels both like an eternity and a breath, Xaden sinks to his knees in front of me. The movement is fluid, almost too graceful, and my heart skips a beat. It feels wrong to be this close, too intimate. His presence is overwhelming, and I can feel the tension in the room thickening with every inch of space he closes between us.

Xaden kneels before me, his hands gentle but firm as he removes my boots. His touch is careful, almost reverent, but the tension is unmistakable. Each movement is deliberate, like he's holding himself back from something. The weight of his gaze on me is intense—smouldering, even—and I can feel every inch of him watching, noticing, memorising.

As he pulls off the second boot, his fingers brush against my calf, sending a jolt through me. My breath catches, and I instinctively tense, but it's more from the electric charge between us than the discomfort of my body. I don’t know why it affects me like this—this man who’s never once been shy about hiding the way he feels or thinking that his touch doesn’t matter—but in this moment, it matters. It matters more than it should.

He looks up then, his gaze locking onto mine. The heat in his eyes is unmistakable, a dark storm brewing just beneath the surface. His brow furrows slightly, and for a split second, I wonder if he’s questioning something—me, himself, what we’re both doing here, like this. But then his eyes flick lower, and I can see the hesitation there, a silent question that hangs in the air between us.

His fingers hover at the waistband of my tracksuit bottoms, brushing lightly against my hips. The touch is almost too soft, as if he’s trying to gauge my reaction before crossing a line that’s already dangerously blurred. He doesn’t say a word—he doesn’t have to. The question is in his eyes, in the way his lips part ever so slightly, in the subtle tension in his jaw. It’s an unspoken request, one that I know all too well.

I can feel the pulse of uncertainty in my veins, but something about this—about him—makes me lower my defences, just a little. Without even thinking, I raise my hips slightly, just enough to give him the signal. My movement is small, almost imperceptible, but it's enough. His breath hitches, and I can see the way his eyes flicker, a momentary loss of control before he tightens his grip on his composure.

Xaden exhales sharply, like he’s been holding his breath all this time, and I can see it in his expression—the struggle between what he wants and what he’s trying so hard to resist. His fingers slide beneath the waistband of my tracksuit bottoms, and I feel the slightest tremor in his touch. He’s slow, deliberate, like he’s savouring the moment, but also like he’s afraid that if he moves too quickly, the entire thing might shatter.

The air between us crackles with an electric tension, and as he helps me out of the fabric, I’m left feeling exposed in a way that’s more than physical. My heartbeat is louder than anything else, pounding in my ears, and for a moment, I forget about the aches in my body, the bruises, the exhaustion. It’s as though the world has narrowed to just us. Just this. And I can’t seem to pull away from him, from the way he makes me feel, from the way his hands linger a little too long at the edge of my clothing, as if to remind me that he sees me—every part of me.

I know it’s not supposed to feel this way, not like this. But every glance, every touch, every quiet, unspoken word between us is enough to unravel the careful walls I’ve built. And yet, even as he pulls the tracksuit bottoms off, his hands gentle but insistent, there’s something else in his eyes—something that tells me he’s fighting every urge to touch me, to kiss me. But he doesn’t. He never does.

I can’t decide whether that makes it harder or easier.

And when he finishes, leaving me in nothing but my sports bra and panties, I feel more vulnerable than I’ve ever been—completely at his mercy, exposed in more ways than one. The air is thick with unspoken words, and even as I sit there, trying to catch my breath, I know this isn’t over.

Xaden lets out a frustrated sound, a low, throaty growl that resonates deep in his chest. His breath stutters as his forehead falls gently to my thigh, the weight of it anchoring me in place. The intensity of the moment is suffocating, like the world around us has slowed to a stop, leaving only the two of us, tangled in something we can’t deny. His hands are gripping the edge of the bed, his knuckles white, and I can feel the tension in his body, a tight coil of restraint and hunger.

And then, in one swift, desperate motion, he surges upward, his lips crashing against mine. There’s no warning, no hesitation. Just pure, raw need. His mouth takes mine with a fierce intensity that leaves me breathless, as though he’s been holding back for far too long and now there’s no more control. It’s like he’s been starved for this—starved for me—and he doesn’t want to let me go, not even for a second.

I kiss him back with everything I have, my hands finding the sides of his face, pulling him closer, as if I can’t get enough. Every part of me feels alive with the heat between us, my skin tingling where his fingers brush against it, my heart thudding erratically in my chest. He tastes like fire—burning hot, consuming—and I can’t help but fall into him, into the kiss, into the feeling of him. I can feel the weight of his body pressing against mine, the strength of him, but it’s not overbearing. It’s grounding, like he’s pulling me into his orbit.

His hands move quickly, urgently, as if he’s afraid the moment will slip away from him. Before I can fully comprehend what’s happening, he’s lifting me effortlessly from the bed, and suddenly I’m straddling his thighs. His hands settle on my hips, holding me in place, the heat of his body radiating into mine. I can feel the way his pulse races beneath his skin, the way his chest rises and falls against mine. The kiss deepens, growing even more frantic, and I don’t know whether it’s the intensity of it or the way he’s holding me that makes everything else feel so insignificant.

He pulls me closer, his hands guiding me with a possessive, yet gentle touch, and I can feel the thrum of energy between us, something electric, something undeniable. My fingers tangle in his hair, tugging him closer, and the sound of his breathing, his heavy exhales, fills the space between us. I can hear the way he’s fighting for control, the way his muscles tighten with the effort of keeping his composure.

But I don’t want him to. I don’t want him to hold back.

I don’t want him to fight it anymore.

I can feel the heat of his body through the thin fabric of my sports bra, his chest pressing against mine with each movement, and I’m acutely aware of how close we are, how easy it would be to lose ourselves completely in this. And yet, even as we continue kissing, tangled in each other’s embrace, there’s a part of me that’s still unsure, still trying to catch up with everything happening around me. But when his hands slide down to my thighs, gripping them with such possessiveness, that uncertainty melts away, replaced by a heady rush of desire.

The kiss breaks, but just for a moment, both of us gasping for air. His lips hover above mine, and I can see the raw intensity in his eyes, a mixture of frustration and something else—something far more tender, even if it’s buried beneath the layers of urgency.

"Don't stop," he mutters, his voice rough and low. His hands tighten around me, pulling me against him, as if he’s trying to make sure I’m real. “Please don’t stop.”

And all I can do is nod, my chest still rising and falling with the rapid pace of my heart. I don't want to stop either.

The air between us feels thick with heat, charged with a tension that I don't want to break, even as the reality of what we’re doing begins to settle in. Xaden’s hands are still firm on my hips, his grip tightening with every shift of my body, and I can feel every muscle in his form, every bit of control he's holding onto, fighting to stay composed. He pulls me closer again, the fabric of my sports bra barely separating us, his chest brushing against mine as he presses his forehead to mine, both of us gasping for breath.

The heat from his skin, the closeness of his body, is too much to ignore. It's overwhelming in the best way. I can hear my own pulse hammering in my ears, feel the electricity between us that neither of us can escape. He looks at me, his gold-flecked eyes searching mine, his breath ragged as if he's barely holding on to the edge of whatever control he has left.

I can't stop myself from raising my hand to touch his face, my fingers trailing down the line of his jaw, tracing the hard curve of his chin, feeling the roughness of his stubble. The tenderness in my touch makes him shiver, his breath catching in his throat, and for a brief second, everything else fades. There’s no training, no curfew, no expectations—just the two of us, caught in something far more complex than either of us ever intended.

His lips brush against mine once more, a soft, tentative kiss, but it feels more intimate than the previous fiery moments. It's full of the unspoken things, the feelings we've been hiding, buried beneath layers of duty and unacknowledged desire. Xaden pulls back slowly, just enough to look at me, his eyes heavy with something unreadable.

"I—" he starts, his voice thick with emotion, but I stop him, my fingers pressing gently to his lips.

“I know," I whisper. "I know, Xaden. We don’t need to say it.”

The words hang in the air between us, unspoken yet understood. He looks at me, really looks at me, and for once, there’s no pretension, no walls between us. Just a moment of raw honesty.

But then, he pulls back just a fraction, his hands slowly loosening their grip on me, as if reluctant to let go but knowing he has to. His eyes soften, a flicker of something tender passing over his features before he runs a hand through his windblown hair, trying to regain some semblance of composure.

“You should rest,” he murmurs, though there’s a trace of something unreadable in his voice. “You’ve pushed yourself too hard tonight.”

I nod, feeling the weight of his words as the adrenaline from our moment starts to ebb away, leaving me with a sense of vulnerability, of exhaustion I hadn’t realised had been creeping up on me. My body is still sore from the training, but now, there’s an ache of a different kind, a deep, resonating need I’m not sure how to deal with.

“You’re right,” I murmur, my voice hoarse. “About that bath…”

Xaden’s hands gently guide me to my feet, his fingers lingering on my hips just a moment longer than necessary, as if making sure I’m steady before he lets go. His touch is firm but considerate, grounding me, reminding me that he’s here, present, in this moment. I almost wish he didn’t have to pull away so soon, but the space between us feels impossible to close for reasons I can’t quite name.

With a soft grunt, Xaden rises to his full height, towering over me for a moment before he reaches down and picks me up again, effortlessly moving me toward the bed. His strong arms encircle my waist, and I feel the heat radiating from his chest, the power in his body that he keeps so carefully controlled. He sets me down gently on the edge of the mattress, the softness of the sheets a stark contrast to the tension that still crackles in the air between us.

I sit there for a moment, watching him, as he turns toward the bathroom, his broad back stretching as he moves, his muscular frame rippling with every step. His windblown black hair falls just above his collar, and I can't help but stare at the way he walks—confident, purposeful, but there’s an undercurrent of something, a quiet storm inside him that’s barely contained.

The silence feels heavy, too heavy, until I finally speak up, the words tumbling out before I can stop them.

“... Maybe you could join me?”

The moment they leave my mouth, time seems to slow. Xaden freezes in his tracks, his hand hovering over the doorframe, his back to me. For a breathless second, I wonder if he didn’t hear me, if the words just got lost in the space between us. But then, the tension in his body is palpable. His shoulders tighten, his jaw clenches, and I watch as a low, almost imperceptible sound slips from his throat—a frustrated, breathy exhale that he seems to be holding back with all his strength.

He doesn’t turn around right away, but when he does, his eyes meet mine, and there's a flicker of something dangerous there. It’s not anger. It’s hunger—raw, palpable, and so intense that it sends a shiver down my spine. I can't look away, can't tear my gaze from his. The silence between us stretches, thickening, until I can almost feel the heat coming off of him.

"You really want that?" His voice is low, a little strained, like he's trying to rein himself in. There's a slight tremor in his hands, and his posture is tense, like a coil ready to snap. He’s trying to keep himself in check, and I know he’s holding back everything he wants to say, everything he wants to do. But there's something in his eyes, a flicker of vulnerability, of yearning, that betrays the composure he’s trying so hard to maintain.

I nod slowly, heart pounding in my chest as I search his face, looking for any sign of hesitation, any clue that I’ve crossed a line. But there’s none. Instead, he takes a step toward me, his movements slow and deliberate, as if he’s waiting for me to stop him, to give him some sort of excuse to turn back. But I don’t.

I don’t know what happens next, only that the space between us feels like it’s been stretched so thin that it could snap at any moment. Xaden is so close now, his presence overwhelming, and I can’t breathe, not properly. All I can do is stare at him, feel the pull, the need between us, and wonder if he can feel it too.

“Don’t tempt me,” he mutters under his breath, before stepping into the bathroom, leaving me to wonder if he’ll give in, if he’ll actually let this tension between us break.

Part Two ⇒ Giving Into Temptation

Fourth Wing Masterlist TAG LIST - updated 12th Oct 2024

Y/N's POV

Lunch in the Rider’s Quadrant is supposed to be a brief respite—a small break from the endless training, a moment of peace before we're thrust back into the chaos of Basgiath. But, with my friends around? Peace is a joke.

Ridoc lounges across from me, his smirk too damn infuriating as he stirs his stew with far too much amusement. Violet props her chin on her hand, watching me like I’m the star of her personal comedy show. Sawyer, the unwilling participant in all our chaos, sits next to me, sighing deeply into his cup like he already knows what’s coming.

And, of course, as always, I’m the topic of discussion.

I glance around the crowded mess hall, my eyes scanning for the familiar form of Liam. I swear, I can’t stop myself from looking for him, even though I know full well I’ll just end up making an idiot of myself when he catches me staring.

But before I can spot him, Ridoc speaks.

“You’re so obvious,” he drawls, his voice lazy but laced with far too much amusement. He taps his spoon against the edge of his bowl like he’s conducting some twisted rhythm. “It’s almost painful to watch.”

I roll my eyes, trying to ignore the heat creeping up my neck. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Sawyer huffs a quiet laugh, not even bothering to hide his amusement. “You definitely do.”

Violet grins, leaning forward with that knowing look. “You want us to spell it out? Fine. You stare at Liam like he’s a godsdamned meal, you turn into a stuttering mess when he talks to you, and—oh, wait—didn’t you walk into a pole last week because he smiled at you?”

I groan, slumping forward and burying my face in my hands. “Once. That happened once.”

Ridoc snickers, not missing a beat. “You apologised to the pole.”

Sawyer shakes his head, clearly done with both of them. “You’re aware that most people just… talk to their crushes, right? Instead of ogling them like they’re about to go extinct?”

I lift my head just enough to glare at him. “First of all, I do not ogle him—”

Ridoc snorts. “Oh, babe. You do.”

Violet hums thoughtfully, a smirk playing at her lips. “I mean, to be fair, I’d ogle him too.”

Ridoc grins, his shoulder leaning back casually. “Same.”

Sawyer sighs, running a hand over his face. “I hate both of you.”

Violet nudges my foot under the table, a playful glint in her eyes. “You’re so far gone. What is it? The muscles? The whole ‘dangerous but soft-hearted protector’ thing?”

Ridoc elbows her, joining in. “Or is it the way he looks like he could pick you up and throw you onto a bed like you weigh nothing?”

I shoot them both a withering glare, but they’re not even fazed. “You both suck.”

Violet just laughs, clearly enjoying herself far too much. “I bet he’s great in bed.”

And that’s the moment that seals my fate. Without even thinking, I let out a dreamy sigh, my voice soft and full of wistful longing. “Oh, definitely.”

Sawyer’s fork hits his plate with a loud clatter, his eyes wide with shock. Ridoc and Violet exchange delighted glances, both of them far too entertained by this.

“Oh, please,” Ridoc urges, leaning forward with far too much enthusiasm. “Do go on.”

I should stop. I know I should. But the words just spill out, and I can’t seem to stop myself.

“Okay, just think about it,” I begin, my hands moving as I get more caught up in my own thoughts. “Liam’s always in control, right? He’s always calm, always watching out for everyone. But I bet when he finally lets go?” I exhale sharply. “Gods.”

Ridoc presses a hand to his heart, pretending to swoon. “This is already my favourite meal ever.”

Violet grins wider. “Go on.”

And so, I do.

“He’s so strong,” I continue, eyes wide as I gesture in excitement. “He could pin you down so easily. Hold you right where he wants you.” My voice softens, turning almost reverent. “And he would—he absolutely would. And he’s so thoughtful, you know? He’d pay attention. He’d know exactly what makes you lose control, and he’d use it against you.”

Sawyer makes a strangled noise behind me, while Ridoc actually fans himself, looking delighted.

“I bet he loves praise, too,” I murmur, voice barely above a whisper. “He’s got that heroic streak—he wants to protect, wants to be good at what he does. So imagine what he’d be like in bed if you just—” I trail my fingers along the table, my breath hitching slightly. “If you just moaned his name and told him how good he was—”

Ridoc wheezes, barely able to contain his laughter.

Violet’s eyes are wide, fighting back her own amusement.

Sawyer groans, rubbing his temples like he’s in physical pain.

And that’s when my stomach drops.

I freeze, my mind going completely blank. The atmosphere shifts, and Ridoc’s laughter turns manic while Violet looks far too entertained. Sawyer—traitor that he is—won’t even look at me, staring at his plate like he’s preparing for my inevitable demise.

I slowly turn my head.

And there he is.

Liam Mairi stands right behind me, arms crossed, hazel eyes dark with something unreadable. There’s a slight flush creeping up his neck, but his lips are quirked in the faintest, most infuriating smirk.

I can’t breathe

For what feels like an eternity, there’s nothing but silence. The entire room seems to freeze, and my heart races in my chest like it’s trying to escape. I’m convinced I’ve just combusted, my soul departing from my body as the blood rushes to my ears. I feel like I'm suffocating, trapped in the crushing weight of my own humiliation.

Then, in a voice that’s far too calm, too collected, Liam says, “That’s quite the imagination you’ve got there.”

And just like that, I forget how to exist. My body goes slack, my mind blanking out in the worst possible way. I can't even form a coherent thought. It’s like the universe has decided to prank me on an existential scale.

Ridoc is the first to lose it. He collapses against the table, gasping for breath as he bursts into full-blown, wheezing laughter. I can feel the heat of embarrassment spreading across my face, but there’s nothing I can do to stop it. Sawyer groans in disbelief, slumping in his seat as though he's praying for an escape. And Violet? Violet just watches me with gleaming eyes, too pleased with herself as she waits to see how I handle this nightmare.

And because Liam is a menace, he steps closer. He leans in just enough that his breath ghosts over my ear, and I feel a shiver run down my spine. His voice is low, teasing, and he murmurs, “You could’ve just asked.”

I’m pretty sure I stop breathing entirely, my entire world shrinking down to that one breath, that one infuriatingly calm whisper in my ear. And then—like he didn’t just completely obliterate my existence—he straightens up, grabs an apple from the table like it's the most normal thing in the world, and walks away without another word.

I’m frozen. I don’t even know how I’m still upright. Every single neutron in my brain is fried beyond repair. The weight of my own existence crashes down on me, and I don’t know whether I want to crawl into a hole and die or just evaporate into thin air.

The silence is unbearable. It stretches on like a taut string, a physical thing, as though everyone else in the room is waiting for me to fall apart. And then—

“Oh, fuck, that was beautiful,” Ridoc gasps, still wiping actual tears from his eyes as he struggles to catch his breath. He barely manages to hold himself up, clearly on the verge of total collapse from laughter.

Sawyer exhales deeply, like he’s been holding his breath for an hour. “I think I need a cold shower after that.”

Violet is grinning like a cat that got the cream, her eyes dancing with wicked glee. “So… are you going to ask?”

I groan, burying my face in my arms on the table. This is it. My life is officially over. I’m going to die here, surrounded by the most insufferable friends in existence, right in the middle of the Rider’s Quadrant.

Ridoc is practically howling with laughter now, unable to contain himself any longer. He slides off the bench, clutching his stomach as he wheezes. Violet beams like she just orchestrated the most spectacular thing in the world. Sawyer—poor, long-suffering Sawyer—just groans, his face buried in his hands like he cannot handle the absolute chaos any longer.

Meanwhile, I am completely frozen in place, still reeling from the fact that Liam Mairi—the man I’ve been not-so-secretly fantasising about—just heard everything. And then, then, he had the audacity to whisper in my ear like he hadn't just obliterated every ounce of dignity I’ve ever had.

I am never going to recover from this.

“Holy shit,” Ridoc gasps, still on the floor, clearly out of his mind with laughter. “That was—I am deceased. Do not revive me. Let me die like this.”

Violet sighs dreamily, clearly still basking in the aftermath of the moment. “Gods, that was hot. The way he just—” She mimics Liam’s smirk, deepens her voice mockingly, “‘You could’ve just asked.’” She shudders, as though she felt it too. “I felt that.”

I groan again, shoving her arm away. “You’re not helping.”

“Oh, I never intended to.”

Ridoc finally manages to haul himself back onto the bench, though he’s still wiping tears from his eyes. “You know,” he says between fits of laughter, nudging me with his elbow, “if you want, I can go find him. Tell him you’d like to—what was it?—moan his name and tell him how good he is?”

My soul leaves my body. “Ridoc!”

He grins, unbothered. “What? I’m just being a good friend.”

“You’re the worst friend.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

Violet, still wearing that insufferable smirk, tilts her head with a knowing look. “You do realise you now have zero excuse not to make a move, right?”

I blink at her, not understanding at first. “I—what? No, I absolutely have an excuse. Multiple, actually.” I start counting them off on my fingers. “One: I’ve just suffered a public humiliation the likes of which I will never recover from. Two: I am pretty sure I’ve spontaneously developed a heart condition from that interaction alone. And three: I simply cannot face him after that.”

Sawyer groans, cutting me off with a loud exasperated sound. “For the love of all that is holy, just go after him.”

I blink, completely thrown off by his sudden urgency. “What?”

“I cannot handle any more of this,” he grumbles, dragging a hand down his face like he's dealing with something far beyond his understanding. “I love you, but I am too straight to be forced to think about another man’s dick this much.”

Ridoc cackles like a madman. “You poor, poor thing.”

Sawyer levels him with an exasperated look. “You are thriving in this chaos. I am suffering.” He gestures at me, then at Liam’s retreating figure. “And she’s just sitting here instead of chasing after him like a normal person.”

I sputter, feeling like the world is spinning around me. “Chase after him?!”

Violet hums thoughtfully, a mischievous glint in her eye. “I mean… it would be the logical next step.”

I shake my head, my voice low and shaky. “No, the logical next step is that I pretend this never happened and spend the rest of my life avoiding him—”

Sawyer cuts me off with a sharp, pained groan as he shoves me. “Go.”

“I—”

“Go.”

“I don’t—”

“If you do not get your ass up and go after him, I swear, I will personally tie you to a saddle and deliver you to him myself.”

Ridoc perks up, like he's suddenly interested. “Oh, that sounds fun.”

“Not helping!”

Violet crosses her arms, clearly not letting me off the hook. “Sawyer’s right. You have a literal invitation to make a move. Are you really going to sit here and let it go to waste?”

I groan, slumping further down onto the table. “You all suck so much.”

“Yeah, yeah, we’re the worst,” Ridoc says, rolling his eyes. “Now go get your man.”

I lift my head just enough to glare at them all. “If this ends in disaster, I’m blaming all of you.”

Violet shrugs nonchalantly. “Fair.”

Sawyer gestures toward the door, clearly done with the back and forth. “Please just go before I hear one more word about Liam Mairi’s dick.”

“Don’t forget to suck his-“ 

I throw a one-finger salute over my shoulder, my heart already in my throat. The last thing I need is Ridoc making more of a spectacle out of this than he already has. Still, I can hear him laughing behind me, Violet trying (and failing) to stifle her giggles, and Sawyer groaning in what I can only assume is pure agony.

I try to focus, pushing past the teasing and the anxiety building in my chest. I need to find Liam. I can’t even think about the fact that he—the person I’ve been obsessing over in the most embarrassing of ways—now knows exactly how I feel. I really need to see him again to figure out if what happened was as insane as I think it was.

As I jog away from the dining hall, the crowd thinning as I round a corner, I spot him just outside. His broad shoulders are visible before anything else—impossible to miss, especially when his presence seems to take up more space than necessary. He’s standing near the stone archway, arms crossed, with that familiar soft smile playing on his lips. I stop short, heart hammering in my chest, legs feeling like they’re made of lead as I stare at him.

What the hell am I even supposed to say?

Liam’s eyes flicker toward me, his smile widening slightly, as if he’d known I’d come running after him. He leans back slightly against the archway, his posture easy and relaxed, and I feel a flutter in my chest that has nothing to do with nerves.

“You know,” he says, his voice warm and inviting, “I didn’t expect you to come after me quite like this.”

I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. Gods, help me. Instead, I shuffle on my feet, trying desperately to act cool, but I can feel the heat creeping up my neck. It’s almost like every ounce of confidence I’ve ever had is being sucked out of me by his gaze.

He pushes off the stone with one hand, his eyes soft but teasing as they meet mine. “I didn’t think I was that irresistible.”

I wince, my blush spreading even further. “You’re not—"

Liam’s eyebrow quirks up, his lips curving into that playful smile I know so well. “Oh, really? Because Ridoc sure seemed to think you were.”

And just like that, the air in my lungs feels like it’s been replaced with stone. Ridoc’s voice echoes in my mind: “Suck his dick, huh?”

Fucking Ridoc.

“I—” I stutter, trying to force words through the haze of panic, but they’re stuck somewhere in my throat. “I don’t—I wasn’t—”

Liam steps closer, slowly, his presence gentle but unmistakable. He reaches out, his hand brushing lightly against my arm, sending a surge of warmth through me. It’s soft, almost tender, like he’s being careful with me, like he’s waiting for something. But the intensity in his gaze tells me that he’s not the least bit uncertain.

“You know,” he murmurs, his voice low, almost teasing, “I’ve been thinking about this. And I think we’re both tired of pretending we don’t want this.”

I open my mouth to respond, but the words catch in my throat. The heat between us is building, and my mind feels hazy. His eyes flicker down to my lips, and then back up, and I swear I see a flicker of something darker in his gaze.

Before I can process what he just said, his hand moves quickly—too quickly for me to react—and he pulls me closer, his fingers wrapping around my waist. My breath catches in my chest as he draws me in, his grip firm but gentle, like he’s in control, like he knows exactly what he wants.

Then, in a move so fast it almost takes my breath away, he spins us around, his body pressing me up against the nearest wall. My hands are pinned above my head, his strong grip keeping me in place. The world seems to stop as I feel the heat of his body against mine, his breath warm on my neck.

There’s no teasing this time. No playful smirk. His face is inches from mine, his expression serious, searching. “Is this what you imagined?” he asks, his voice breathless, a hint of vulnerability behind the intensity.

I freeze, my heart pounding in my chest. The weight of his words hangs in the air between us, and for a moment, all I can do is stare at him. This—this is different. This isn’t the playful Liam I know. This is something raw, something real.

The space between us crackles with heat, the air thick with anticipation, and when his lips finally crash against mine, it’s not soft or hesitant—it’s burning, desperate, and hungry. He moves with a primal need, as if he’s been waiting for this exact moment for far too long.

My breath hitches as his hands grip me, pulling me even closer, pressing my body flush against his. His lips are bruising, demanding, his kiss deep and relentless as if he wants to devour me whole. His tongue slides against mine, coaxing, urging, like he’s trying to erase every ounce of hesitation between us. I can’t think, can’t breathe—there’s nothing but him, nothing but the heat of his body and the intoxicating taste of his kiss.

I lose myself in it, my fingers tangling in his shirt as I tug him closer, needing more, deeper. His hand moves back to my wrist, pinning it above my head against the wall again, his grip tight but not painful, a reminder that he’s in control, that he’s holding me here, with him. His other hand slides down to my waist, tugging me even closer until there’s not an inch of space between us.

His lips shift, feverish, his kiss becoming more insistent, more demanding. His breath is ragged against my lips, each exhale a fire that only fuels the inferno building between us. The sensation of him, the taste of him, consumes me, and for a moment, I forget everything else—the world, the noise, the people around us.

Then, just when I think I can’t take it anymore, just when my mind is a haze of desire and need, he pulls away, his lips barely brushing mine as he pants against my face. His eyes meet mine, dark and heavy with unspoken questions.

“Is this what you imagined?” His voice is low, gravelly, the words thick with longing.

I can barely breathe, let alone form a coherent thought, but somehow, I manage to let out a shaky breath and nod, my hands trembling as I rest them on his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart under my fingertips. I can still taste him on my lips, still feel the heat of him all around me. My head spins, but I can’t stop smiling. “Yeah,” I whisper, my voice barely a breath. “I think it is.”

Liam’s grin returns, wicked and slow, before he leans in again, his lips hovering just above mine. There’s something different in the way he kisses me this time—softer, more intimate, like he’s savouring every second, every breath.

But just as the world narrows down to nothing but him, just as his lips move with that same heated urgency, an unmistakable wolf-whistle pierces the air.

I freeze, every muscle in my body tensing as a familiar voice rings out through the silence, followed by another.

“Damn, Liam! Save some of that for later!” Ridoc’s voice calls out, his tone mocking but amused.

Sawyer groans in the background, dragging a cackling Ridoc and Violet behind him. The sound of their laughter cuts through the haze of heat between us, and before I can even react, Ridoc’s obnoxious whistle echoes again, followed by a loud, exaggerated "Woo!"

I pull back from Liam, my cheeks flushed with embarrassment, my heart still racing from the kiss. But the moment has shattered, replaced with Ridoc’s teasing and Sawyer’s grumbling.

Liam chuckles softly, his breath still heavy, though there’s a playful glint in his eyes now. “I guess we’ll have to finish this later,” he murmurs, his voice full of promise.

I blink, disoriented, and turn my head to glare at Ridoc, my heart still pounding in my chest. "You’re a real piece of work, you know that?" I mutter, though a smile threatens to break through.

But I know this isn’t over. Not by a long shot.

Fourth Wing Masterlist TAG LIST - updated 12th Oct 2024

Y/N’s POV 

Ridoc’s lips don’t leave mine as we stumble further into the room, his hands warm and steady against my hips, like he’s guiding me but not controlling me. Every kiss is teasing, deliberate, like he’s savouring the moment—or more accurately, savouring the way I’m starting to melt under his touch. His lips leave mine briefly, only to trail down to the sensitive spot just beneath my jaw, where he pauses to press slow, heated kisses that make my breath hitch.

“You’re quiet,” he murmurs against my skin, his voice low and rich with amusement. “I like it.”

“Don’t get used to it,” I manage to say, though my words are breathless, lacking any real conviction.

Ridoc huffs a soft laugh, his lips curling into a smirk that I can feel against my neck. “You keep saying that, but I’m not convinced.”

I don’t have the chance to reply because his hands slide up my sides, his thumbs brushing beneath the hem of my shirt, just barely grazing my skin. The simple touch sends a wave of heat through me, and I gasp quietly, my fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as I pull him closer, refusing to give him the satisfaction of stepping back.

He tilts his head, catching my mouth with his again, and this time the kiss is slower, deeper. His tongue brushes against mine, coaxing rather than demanding, and I swear he’s trying to dismantle me piece by piece. One of his hands moves to the small of my back, steady and insistent, while the other tangles in my hair, tilting my head just enough to deepen the angle of the kiss.

“You’re trouble,” I mutter against his lips, the words coming out more like a sigh than anything else.

“So are you,” he counters smoothly, his grin audible in his tone. “But isn’t that what makes this fun?”

The teasing glint in his voice is enough to snap me out of whatever spell he’s weaving. I tug at his shirt, pulling him closer as a challenge, refusing to let him have the upper hand. Ridoc seems to enjoy it, his laughter rumbling low and warm in his chest as he lets me take control for a moment, his lips meeting mine with equal fervour.

It’s only when the back of my knees hit something solid that I realise he’s been steering me the whole time. I barely have time to register what’s happening before I lose my balance, the unexpected movement sending me tumbling backward onto the edge of the bed with a soft, surprised sound.

Ridoc comes with me, catching himself with one hand braced against the mattress beside my head. The other stays firmly on my waist, his grip steady as he looks down at me with a mixture of amusement and something darker, something that makes my heart skip a beat.

“Careful,” he says, his voice softer now, though his grin hasn’t lost its mischievous edge. “I’d hate for you to hurt yourself.”

“Funny,” I retort, though my voice wavers just enough to betray me. “I thought you were the dangerous one.”

He smirks, his free hand coming up to brush a strand of hair away from my face. “Oh, I am. But don’t worry—I’ll catch you every time.”

There’s something in his tone, something warm and unguarded, that makes my chest tighten. Before I can think too hard about it, he leans down, capturing my lips in another kiss that’s slower this time, more deliberate. His weight presses against me, his body warm and solid, and the sensation sends a thrill racing through me.

His lips leave mine to trail down my neck again, his teeth grazing my skin just enough to draw a quiet gasp from me. His hand slides beneath my shirt, his fingers tracing lazy circles along my waist, the touch light and teasing.

“You’re going to drive me crazy,” I whisper, my voice barely audible over the sound of my own racing heartbeat.

Ridoc lifts his head, his grin softening into something almost tender as his thumb brushes against my skin. “Good,” he murmurs, his tone playful but laced with sincerity. “Then we’re even.”

He kisses me again, his hand slipping from my waist to thread through my hair, and I lose myself in the feeling of him—his warmth, his weight, the way he’s somehow both maddeningly teasing and completely grounding all at once. I don’t know where this is going or what it means, but for now, I don’t care.

Ridoc’s lips trace a burning path down my neck, his kisses deliberate and lingering, as though he’s memorising every inch of me with his mouth. Each touch sends a rush of fire through my veins, making it harder to think, harder to breathe. His hands are everywhere—sliding over my waist, my back, cradling me like I’m something precious and fragile, yet anchoring me so firmly I feel like I might shatter if he lets go.

I arch against him instinctively, a soft gasp slipping free when his teeth scrape lightly against the sensitive skin below my ear. It’s too much and not enough all at once, my thoughts spinning wildly as he presses closer, his body fitting perfectly against mine.

“Ridoc,” I whisper, his name tumbling from my lips without permission, and he hums in response, the sound low and dangerous and enough to make my knees go weak.

His lips skim my collarbone, his fingers slipping under the hem of my shirt, the heat of his touch burning into my skin. I feel the shift in him—the slight hesitation as his fingers trail upward, his movements careful but insistent.

“Is this okay?” he murmurs, his breath warm against my skin, his voice rough with restraint. He lifts his head, his dark eyes locking onto mine, searching, waiting.

I hesitate, my hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt to steady myself as the weight of the moment crashes over me. My heart pounds in my chest, a relentless rhythm of want and worry. I want this. I want him. But a tiny voice whispers in the back of my mind, reminding me of the risks, the stakes, the things I can’t take back once they’re given.

“Wait,” I say, my voice breaking as I press a trembling hand against his chest. He freezes instantly, his brow furrowing as he pulls back just enough to look at me fully.

“What is it?” he asks, his tone softer now, threaded with concern.

I bite my lip, glancing away as I try to gather my thoughts. My chest tightens with a mix of vulnerability and fear, but I force myself to meet his gaze. “I don’t want this to be… just a one-time thing,” I admit, the words spilling out in a rush before I lose my nerve. “If we’re doing this, it has to mean something. I need to know that it’s not just casual for you.”

Ridoc stares at me for a moment, his expression shifting into something I don’t entirely recognise. There’s no cocky grin, no teasing glint in his eye—just an earnestness so raw and unguarded it makes my breath catch. Slowly, he lifts a hand to my face, his thumb brushing gently over my cheek in a touch so tender it nearly undoes me.

“You think I’d be here, like this, if it didn’t mean something?” he asks, his voice low but steady. His gaze never wavers, his intensity pinning me in place. “You think I’d touch you, kiss you, look at you the way I do if there was anyone else? There’s no one but you. There never has been.”

His words hit me like a thunderclap, unraveling every ounce of doubt I’ve been holding onto. My chest tightens, my throat burning as I stare at him, trying to find any trace of insincerity and coming up empty. He’s serious. Ridoc Gamlyn, the man who could charm his way out of any situation, who always seems to have a smirk on his face and a joke on his lips, is looking at me like I’m the only thing that’s ever mattered.

I swallow hard, my hands trembling as I slide them up to his shoulders, pulling him closer. “Okay,” I whisper, my voice breaking on the word. “Okay.”

Ridoc doesn’t move for a heartbeat, his gaze lingering on mine as though he’s giving me one last chance to change my mind. Then his lips crash against mine, harder, hungrier, every ounce of restraint slipping away. His hands grip my waist, pulling me flush against him as his kiss deepens, his teeth catching my bottom lip in a way that makes my breath hitch.

My fingers tangle in his hair, tugging lightly as heat coils low in my stomach, a heady mix of anticipation and need flooding through me. When his hands find the hem of my shirt again, this time pulling it up just slightly, I don’t stop him.

Instead, I let myself fall into him completely, losing myself in the heat of his touch and the fire in his kiss

Ridoc’s kiss deepens, his lips and tongue working in perfect rhythm with an intensity that sets me alight. His hands are everywhere—careful but commanding, sliding over my sides, my back, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. The world narrows down to just him: the press of his body, the rasp of his breath, the faintest tremble in his touch that tells me he’s holding back more than I can fathom.

When his fingers find the hem of my shirt, he pauses again, his forehead resting against mine. “Tell me to stop, and I will,” he murmurs, his voice low, husky, and utterly sincere.

I shake my head, my own breath shaky as I grip the fabric of his shirt tighter in my fists. “I don’t want you to stop.”

That’s all he needs. Slowly, deliberately, he tugs at the hem of my shirt, his hands brushing against my skin as he lifts it higher. Every movement is unhurried, reverent, like he’s savouring each second. When the fabric finally clears my head, Ridoc tosses it to the side, his gaze dropping to my newly exposed skin.

The way he looks at me sends a shiver through my entire body. It’s not just lust—it’s awe, reverence, like I’m something he never thought he’d deserve but refuses to let go of now that I’m here. His hands trace over my shoulders, down my arms, his thumbs brushing the curve of my collarbones with a gentleness that feels at odds with the fire in his eyes.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers, the words so soft they’re almost a breath, but they hit me with the force of a confession. His lips follow the path of his hands, pressing soft, lingering kisses to my shoulders, my throat, the curve of my neck.

Ridoc takes his time, his touch maddeningly slow as he works his way lower. His fingers trail down my sides, slipping beneath the waistband of my flight trousers just enough to tease but not enough to make a move yet. He looks up at me, his eyes locking onto mine as he leans in to press a kiss just below my collarbone, his lips warm and soft against my skin.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmurs, his voice thick with restraint.

“It’s not,” I manage, my voice trembling. “It’s perfect.”

His smirk makes a brief appearance, softer now, tinged with affection. “Good. Because I’m not rushing this. Not with you.”

His hands find the button of my flight trousers, and as he unfastens it, his lips continue their slow exploration, kissing and nipping at every inch of skin he reveals. He presses his lips to the dip of my stomach, the edge of his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there just enough to make my breath hitch.

When my flight trousers join my shirt on the floor, Ridoc leans back slightly, his gaze sweeping over me in a way that should make me feel self-conscious but somehow doesn’t. There’s no judgment in his expression, only raw, unfiltered desire mixed with something deeper, something that makes my chest tighten.

“You’re incredible,” he says, his voice low and rough, and the way he says it—like he truly believes it—makes my heart stumble in my chest.

He reaches for me again, his hands warm and steady as they slide up my thighs, over my hips, his touch reverent and grounding. Every brush of his fingers, every press of his lips feels deliberate, like he’s worshiping every inch of me, committing every detail to memory.

When his lips find mine again, it’s different this time—slower, deeper, filled with an intensity that makes my head spin. His hands cup my face, his thumbs brushing over my cheekbones as he kisses me like he’s trying to tell me everything he can’t put into words.

“Ridoc,” I whisper against his lips, my voice trembling with emotion I can’t quite name.

He pulls back just enough to meet my gaze, his forehead resting against mine. “You okay?”

I nod, swallowing hard as I lift a hand to his face, my fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw. “I just… I’ve never—no one’s ever made me feel like this before.”

Ridoc’s expression softens, his eyes searching mine as he lifts a hand to cover mine where it rests against his cheek. “Good,” he says, his voice low but firm. “Because I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you.”

His words settle over me like a promise, and when his lips find mine again, I let myself fall into him completely, trusting him to catch me. And he does.

Ridoc’s hands move with a slow, deliberate intent, his fingers brushing over my shoulders before gliding down my arms. His touch feels electric, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. When his hands come to rest at the clasp of my bra, he pauses, his eyes flicking up to meet mine, searching for any sign of hesitation.

My breath catches, my heart pounding so loudly I’m sure he can hear it. I nod, giving him the silent permission he seems to need. His lips curve into the faintest smile—soft, reverent—before his fingers deftly undo the clasp.

The moment the fabric slips away, I feel the cool air against my skin, a stark contrast to the warmth radiating off him. Ridoc’s gaze lowers, his expression shifting into something almost worshipful. His hands return, gliding up my sides and stopping just beneath my ribs, his thumbs brushing over the sensitive skin there.

“You’re perfect,” he murmurs, the words barely audible but carrying the weight of absolute sincerity.

His hands move higher, slow and careful, and when his palms finally cup me, I feel the world tilt on its axis. His touch is firm but tender, his thumbs grazing over me in a way that sends a shiver racing down my spine. My breath stutters, and a soft sound escapes me before I can stop it, a mix of surprise and overwhelming sensation.

Ridoc’s lips find my throat, pressing kisses there as his hands explore, mapping me with a care that makes my chest ache. His touch is maddening, teasing, like he’s determined to take his time and savour every reaction he pulls from me.

“Ridoc,” I whisper, his name a breathless plea.

He pulls back just enough to meet my gaze, his eyes dark and filled with something that makes my stomach twist in the best way. “Tell me what you need,” he says, his voice rough but steady, grounding me even as I feel like I’m unraveling.

“I just—” I bite my lip, heat rushing to my face as I struggle to find the words. But I don’t need to.

Ridoc seems to understand, his hands sliding lower, tracing a path down my stomach. Every movement feels deliberate, each touch igniting something deep within me. When his fingers finally slip between us, brushing against the apex of my thighs, I can’t hold back the gasp that tears from my lips.

The sensation is overwhelming, a sharp spike of pleasure that spreads through me like wildfire. His touch is gentle but assured, his fingers moving with a confidence that leaves me breathless. My hips arch instinctively, seeking more, and Ridoc responds with a low, throaty sound that makes my pulse race.

“You’re incredible,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against my ear. “Every sound, every movement... I could get drunk on you.”

His words, combined with the skilful way his fingers explore, send me spiralling further into a haze of pleasure. The world falls away until there’s nothing but Ridoc—his touch, his voice, the way he looks at me like I’m the only thing that matters.

Ridoc’s fingers move with unrelenting precision, each stroke coaxing a crescendo of sensation that builds higher and higher, until I feel like I might shatter from it. My breath comes in ragged gasps, and I clutch at his shoulders, grounding myself in the solid warmth of him as he watches me, his gaze heavy with intensity and something softer, more profound.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he murmurs, his voice rough but gentle, sending a shiver down my spine. His thumb brushes a sensitive spot, and I cry out, my body arching into him as the tension inside me finally snaps.

Pleasure crashes over me in waves, and I cling to him as the world blurs and narrows to nothing but the overwhelming sensation and the sound of his voice murmuring quiet encouragements against my skin. His lips press soft kisses along my temple, my cheek, grounding me as I come back down, trembling and breathless.

When my pulse steadies and I open my eyes, Ridoc is watching me with a small, self-satisfied grin tugging at his lips. The tenderness in his gaze makes my chest ache. Without thinking, I reach for him, tugging at his shirt, my fingers desperate to find skin.

But Ridoc gently catches my hands, stilling them with a quiet chuckle. “Whoa there,” he teases, though his voice is husky, betraying his own restraint.

“Ridoc,” I protest, pulling at his hands, but he shakes his head, leaning down to capture my lips in a slow, lingering kiss.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine, his breath mingling with my own. “Tonight’s about you,” he whispers, his voice low and steady. “I wanted to make sure you felt how much you mean to me. We can do more another day, but for now…” He trails off, brushing a strand of hair from my face with a tenderness that sends warmth flooding through me.

I start to argue, but he silences me with another kiss—soft and insistent, stealing the words from my lips and leaving me dizzy. “Let’s get into bed,” he murmurs when he pulls back, his smile gentle but firm. “I just want to hold you tonight.”

There’s no room for argument in his tone, but the sincerity in his eyes melts any resistance I might have had. With a soft sigh, I let him guide me toward the bed. He pulls the covers back and helps me settle in, his movements careful and unhurried, like he’s savouring every moment.

When he slips in beside me, his arms wrap around me, pulling me close against his chest. His warmth surrounds me, his heartbeat steady and grounding beneath my ear.

“Just you and me,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “That’s all I need.”

And as I lie there, cocooned in his embrace, I realise it’s all I need, too.

Fourth Wing Masterlist TAG LIST - updated 12th Oct 2024

Y/N’s POV 

The dining hall at Basgiath buzzes with the chaotic symphony of clinking goblets, hearty laughter, and the metallic scrape of knives against plates. The air smells of roasted meat and spiced ale, mingling with the smoky scent of the torches lining the walls. Our squad claims one end of a long wooden table near the center of the room. Despite the cacophony, our corner feels lighter than usual, celebratory even. We’ve made it through another week of training—still breathing, still together—and that alone feels like something worth toasting.

Ridoc Gamlyn sits across from me, lounging in his chair like the rules of gravity don’t apply to him. His brown skin glows in the warm light of the torches, and his floppy brown hair—forever unruly—falls into his face no matter how often he shoves it back. There’s a spark in his dark eyes, a mischief that matches the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He’s spinning a fork between his fingers, the casual rhythm oddly mesmerising, and I find myself staring.

Big mistake.

“You’ve been staring at me all night, love,” Ridoc drawls, his voice cutting through the din with effortless precision. He sets the fork down with a deliberate clink and leans forward, the gleam in his eyes making my stomach twist. “Should I be flattered or concerned?”

I stiffen, heat rising to my cheeks as I scramble for a response. “I’m not staring at you.”

His eyebrows shoot up, his expression dripping with faux innocence. “Oh? Then who were you looking at? Barlowe? Imogen?” He grins, leaning even closer, his head tilting just enough for that ridiculous mop of hair to flop sideways. “Or maybe you’ve finally realised how devastatingly handsome I look in candlelight.”

I snort, rolling my eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t get stuck. “Candlelight? What century do you think this is?”

“It’s called ambiance, darling,” Ridoc says, completely unfazed. He spreads his arms wide, gesturing to the flickering torches. “Something you clearly haven’t learned to appreciate.”

“You’re insufferable,” I mutter, shoving a piece of bread into my mouth to keep from smiling.

Ridoc notices anyway—because of course he does—and his smirk transforms into a triumphant grin. “Ah, there it is. You’re smiling. That counts as a win for me.”

“It doesn’t,” I shoot back, though the words lack conviction.

“Sure it does,” he says, sitting back again with the kind of casual confidence that sets my teeth on edge. His chair creaks dangerously under his weight, but he doesn’t seem to care. “I always win.”

Imogen, seated a few spots down, snickers and raises her goblet in our direction. “Ridoc, leave her alone before she stabs you with her dinner knife.”

Ridoc’s grin widens. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone’s tried,” he says, winking at me.

I groan and pick up my cup of water, draining it in one long sip to avoid saying something I’ll regret. He’s relentless, a constant thorn in my side—and yet, for reasons I can’t fully understand, I don’t hate it.

As the night wears on, the squad’s conversations shift to trading stories from the week. Close calls in training, spectacular failures during drills, and ridiculous mistakes that somehow didn’t get anyone killed. Ridoc’s quick wit earns plenty of laughs, but I can’t help noticing how his gaze keeps flickering back to me, as if checking to see if I’m still paying attention.

It’s maddening.

I hate how aware I am of him—the way his laughter sends a strange ache through my chest, the way his teasing feels oddly personal, like it’s meant for me and no one else.

Eventually, the others start drifting away, one by one, until it’s just Ridoc and me left at the table. The noise of the dining hall fades to a distant hum, leaving an almost intimate stillness between us.

“You’ve been quiet tonight,” Ridoc says, his voice softer now, the usual teasing edge absent. He rests his elbows on the table, his fingers tapping a steady rhythm against the wood.

I shrug, unsure how to respond. “Just thinking about the squad. How lucky we’ve been.”

Ridoc nods, his expression unusually thoughtful. “Yeah. Not everyone’s got what we have. Iron Squad’s something special.”

He pauses, his fingers stilling as he meets my gaze. “And so are you, you know.”

I blink, caught completely off guard. “What?”

“You heard me,” he says, his tone lighter now, though his eyes stay serious. “You’re sharp. Fierce. And you keep me on my toes, which I appreciate more than I probably should.”

My stomach twists again, and this time I know it’s not from the wine. “I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or an insult,” I manage, my voice quieter than I’d like.

Ridoc grins, but it’s softer now, lacking the usual bravado. “It’s a compliment. Trust me.”

For once, I think he might actually mean it.

He stands abruptly, pushing his chair back with a scrape that echoes through the nearly empty hall. “Get some rest, love,” he says, tipping an imaginary hat before turning to leave.

I should let him go—I really should—but the words spill out before I can stop them. “Wait.”

Ridoc pauses, glancing back over his shoulder with a curious tilt of his head. “What’s this? You actually want me to stay?”

I roll my eyes, trying to ignore the rapid thudding of my heart. “Don’t make it weird, Gamlyn.”

His smirk returns, slow and deliberate, as he steps closer. “Too late. But I’ll bite—what is it?”

I open my mouth to respond, but no words come. The tension between us feels electric, crackling in the air like a storm about to break.

Ridoc stops just in front of me, close enough that I can see the faint freckles dusting his nose and the way his dark eyes gleam in the low light. His gaze drops briefly to my lips before flicking back up to meet mine.

“Say the word, and I’ll leave,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. “But if you don’t…”

I don’t let him finish.

Before I can second-guess myself, I grab the front of his jacket and pull him down. Our lips collide, and for a moment, the rest of the world ceases to exist. He’s warm and solid, his hands finding my waist as he kisses me back with a fierceness that takes my breath away.

When we finally break apart, I’m left gasping, my pulse pounding in my ears. Ridoc’s smirk is gone, replaced by something softer, something real.

“Well,” he says, his forehead resting lightly against mine. “That was unexpected.”

“Shut up, Ridoc,” I whisper, but there’s no bite to the words.

His grin returns, bright and genuine. “You know, I could get used to this.”

“Don’t push your luck,” I warn, though I can’t help the smile tugging at my lips.

Ridoc chuckles, his thumb brushing softly against my side. “Too late.”

And just like that, everything shifts. It’s still us—but better. Something new, something I’m not sure I want to let go of.

The dining hall feels distant now, the noise fading into a comforting hum as Ridoc’s hand lingers on my waist. His touch is warm, grounding in a way that makes me want to lean in, even as my brain screams at me to step back. I shouldn’t feel this way—not about him—but there’s something disarming about the way his eyes meet mine, steady and unguarded.

“You’re staring now,” I manage, my voice softer than intended, like I’m trying to break the tension without shattering it completely.

Ridoc chuckles, low and quiet, his thumb tracing idle circles against my side. “Can you blame me?”

“Yes,” I reply, though the word falters, betraying the conviction I wish I had.

His smirk softens, and for once, it’s free of his usual bravado. “You’re cute when you’re flustered,” he murmurs, and the way he says it feels less like teasing and more like truth.

“Ridoc…” I warn, though it comes out weak, almost breathless.

“Alright, alright.” He steps back slightly, giving me space but not entirely letting go. His hands hover, like he’s not quite ready to lose the connection. “I’ll behave. For now.”

I narrow my eyes, trying to reclaim some semblance of control. “That’s a first.”

“Don’t get used to it,” he fires back, the grin creeping back onto his face. “I make no promises.”

I roll my eyes, but the smile I’m fighting slips through anyway. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he says, tilting his head with mock innocence, “you kissed me. Funny how that works.”

Heat floods my face, and I shove lightly at his chest. “Don’t make me regret it.”

Ridoc laughs, his gaze bright and alive with something I can’t name. “Not a chance, love.”

The easy banter fades into a quiet moment, the kind that feels heavier than it should. Ridoc shifts, his confidence softening at the edges as he glances down at our hands, his fingers brushing against mine. “Dinner tomorrow?” he asks, the question casual but his tone anything but.

I blink, caught off guard. “You’re asking me on a date?”

His grin is still there, but it’s gentler now, almost shy. “I mean, we’ve already kissed. Might as well see where this goes.”

Something in his sincerity makes my chest tighten. Ridoc, insufferable flirt and relentless tease, is suddenly serious in a way that feels terrifying and exciting all at once. I hesitate, the weight of the moment pressing against me, before finally nodding.

“Fine,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant. “But if you bring up candlelight even once, I’m stabbing you with a dinner knife.”

Ridoc’s laugh is warm and unapologetic as he takes my hand, his thumb brushing against my knuckles. “Noted.”

Ridoc falls into step beside me, a teasing smirk playing on his lips as we make our way down the dimly lit hallway. The flickering torches on the walls cast long shadows, but his presence is anything but subtle. He walks so close that our arms brush every few steps, and the air between us seems to hum with a tension neither of us is quite ready to name.

“You’re awfully quiet,” he drawls, his tone lazy, like he’s savouring the moment. “Planning your next move? Or just imagining all the ways you’re going to stab me with a dinner knife?”

I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, trying not to smile. “Maybe both.”

He chuckles, low and warm, and the sound sends a shiver down my spine. “You’ve got quite the imagination. Should I be flattered that I’ve taken up so much space in that pretty little head of yours?”

I roll my eyes, though the corners of my mouth betray me by twitching upward. “It’s less ‘taking up space’ and more ‘annoying squatter I can’t evict.’”

Ridoc places a hand over his heart, feigning a wounded expression. “Ouch. And here I thought we were making progress. Guess I’ll have to work harder.”

“Don’t strain yourself,” I retort, though the playful edge in my voice robs the words of any real sting.

He leans in slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “Oh, I won’t. You’re worth the effort.”

That makes me falter, my breath hitching just enough for him to notice. His grin widens, and I hate that he catches every little crack in my defences. It’s like he’s made a game out of unraveling me, and worse, he’s annoyingly good at it.

By the time we reach my door, the weight of the moment feels heavier, charged with something that wasn’t there before—or maybe it was, and I’d just been ignoring it. I stop in front of the wooden frame, my hand hovering over the doorknob as I try to decide if I’m ready to let this—whatever this is—go any further.

Ridoc leans casually against the doorframe, his body angled toward me, his hand braced above my head. He’s so close now that I can feel the heat radiating off him, and I have to fight the urge to step back—or closer. His gaze searches mine, the teasing glint in his eyes tempered by something softer, more sincere.

“You’re staring again,” I say quietly, trying to regain some semblance of control.

He doesn’t flinch. “Maybe I am. Can you blame me?”

I open my mouth to answer, but the words get stuck in my throat when his free hand comes up to brush a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers linger at my jaw, his touch warm and grounding, and suddenly the door at my back feels like the only thing keeping me upright.

“You should stop,” I manage to say, though my voice wavers.

His lips curve into a soft, knowing smile. “Do you really want me to?”

Damn him. Damn the way he looks at me, like he’s seeing something no one else does. Like he’s daring me to stop hiding and meet him halfway. My silence is answer enough, and his gaze flickers down to my lips for just a moment before returning to my eyes.

“I should probably say goodnight,” he murmurs, though he doesn’t move an inch. “But I don’t really want to.”

“Then don’t,” I whisper, the words slipping out before I can stop them.

That’s all the permission he needs. Ridoc closes the gap between us, his lips capturing mine in a kiss that’s as infuriatingly confident as he is. His hand slides to my waist, pulling me flush against him, and the intensity of it steals the breath from my lungs. There’s nothing tentative about the way he kisses me; it’s all heat and certainty, like he’s been waiting for this moment just as much as I have.

I fist my hands in the front of his shirt, anchoring myself as the world tilts beneath my feet. He kisses me like he has all the time in the world, his lips moving against mine with a maddening mixture of tenderness and hunger. When his tongue brushes against mine, I gasp softly, and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his grip on my waist tightening.

By the time we break apart, we’re both breathing heavily, our foreheads resting together. Ridoc’s eyes are darker now, his smirk gone, replaced by something raw and unguarded.

“You’re dangerous,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough. “You know that?”

I let out a shaky laugh, trying to ignore the rapid pounding of my heart. “Funny. I was about to say the same thing about you.”

The corner of his mouth twitches upward, but there’s an earnestness in his expression that takes me off guard. He raises his hand, his thumb brushing softly along my jawline. “So… do I get to come inside, or are you going to make me sleep in the hallway after that?”

I arch a brow, reaching for the door handle behind me. “You’re awfully confident for someone who’s pushing their luck.”

“It’s part of my charm,” he says with a wink, though the way his eyes flicker down to my lips betrays just how much he’s hedging his bets.

Instead of answering, I twist the doorknob and push the door open, the wood creaking softly. His smirk falters for half a second, replaced by genuine surprise, but I don’t give him a chance to recover. I grab the front of his shirt and tug him inside, the door clicking shut behind us.

His hands are on me in an instant, his lips finding mine again with renewed fervour. This time, there’s no hesitation, no testing the waters. It’s all fire and heat, the kind of kiss that leaves no room for second-guessing. His hands slide down my back, pulling me even closer, and I let myself get lost in him, in the way he kisses me like I’m the only thing that matters.

“Shut up, Ridoc,” I whisper against his lips, and for once, he actually listens.

Part Two Here ⇒ You Can Watch Me

Y/N’s POV

The hallways are eerily quiet as I make my way back toward the Riders’ dorms, the cold stone walls amplifying the echo of my footsteps. Shadows pool in the corners, stretching long and heavy under the faint glow of mage lights. My stomach twists as I think of the untouched meal sitting on the table in my room. It’s gone cold by now, the once-perfect plans I had for Garrick and me unraveling yet again.

He didn’t show up.

Again.

I tell myself not to be surprised. I knew this would happen. Garrick has been distant for weeks now, and every time I try to reach him, to pull him back into us, he slips further away. Still, it doesn’t stop the simmering frustration from clawing up my spine as I round the corner.

That’s when I see him.

He’s sitting on the stone floor outside Violet’s door, his broad shoulders leaning against the wall. His arms rest casually on his bent knees, but I know better. His head is tilted back just enough to suggest he’s relaxed, but the tension radiating off him tells another story. He’s on high alert even now. Watching. Guarding. Protecting.

Always her.

My steps falter, anger sparking like a match struck too close to dry kindling. I pause for a moment, staring at him in disbelief, before the sharp echo of my footsteps announces my approach. His head snaps toward me, his dark eyes narrowing at the sound. At first, his expression is unreadable, that cool, professional mask he wears so well. But the second he catches sight of my face—stormy, unyielding—his shoulders tighten.

He knows.

He knows he’s in trouble.

“You forgot, didn’t you?” My voice is sharper than I intend as I stop in front of him, my arms crossing over my chest.

His brow furrows, confusion flickering across his face. “Forgot what?”

The audacity.

“Are you serious, Garrick?” I snap, my voice rising. “The meal we planned! Weeks ago. You swore—swore—you’d make time for us, but here you are. Again. Camped outside Violet’s room like some guard dog.”

His jaw tightens as he pushes to his feet, the movement slow and deliberate. He towers over me, his height imposing in the dim corridor, but I don’t back down.

“I’m following orders,” he says evenly, though the edge in his voice betrays his irritation. “Xaden asked me to—”

“I don’t care what Xaden asked you to do!” I cut him off, my voice breaking with frustration. The words spill out faster than I can stop them, raw and unfiltered. “You’re so focused on her that you don’t even see what you’re doing to me! To us!”

“This isn’t about you,” he says firmly, his hands flexing at his sides like he’s trying to rein himself in.

I laugh, bitter and sharp, the sound echoing between us like a slap. “Isn’t it? Because it sure as hell feels like it’s about me when I’m constantly being pushed aside. Do you even realise how much you’ve been ignoring me? Or is Violet’s safety just more important than the promises you made to me?”

His eyes darken, frustration flashing like lightning across his face. “This is bigger than you and me,” he says, his voice rising slightly. “Violet’s not safe. Not after what happened to Liam. She needs someone looking out for her.”

“And that someone has to be you?” I step closer, my voice trembling with barely-contained anger. “Every second of every day? She’s not a helpless child, Garrick. She doesn’t need you to hold her hand and tuck her in at night!”

“You don’t understand,” he growls, his composure slipping.

“No, I do understand,” I snap, my fists clenching at my sides. “You think it’s your duty to carry everyone else’s burdens, to play the hero, and you don’t care who you hurt in the process. But guess what? I’m done being an afterthought. I’m done being the one left behind while you break every promise you’ve made to me.”

The air between us feels like it might shatter under the weight of my words. His mouth opens as if he wants to say something, but no sound comes out. For a moment, the only thing I can hear is my own ragged breathing.

I shake my head, my chest aching from the effort of holding back tears. “Forget it,” I whisper, the words hollow and final. Turning on my heel, I force my legs to move before he can stop me.

“Y/N,” Garrick calls after me, his voice rough and pleading.

I falter for the briefest of moments, but I don’t stop. Not this time.

Let him sit with the emptiness I’ve felt for weeks. Let him wonder what it means to be left behind.

By the time I reach my room, my vision blurs with tears. The weight in my chest feels unbearable, pressing down on me until I can barely breathe. I slam the door behind me, the sound echoing in the hollow silence, and collapse onto the floor. My hands shake as they press against my face, desperate to contain the flood of sobs I’ve been holding back for far too long. But the dam breaks anyway.

The tears come in heavy, wracking waves, each one a testament to the hurt and frustration that’s been building inside me. I clutch my knees to my chest, feeling as though the walls are closing in.

I don’t know how long I sit there, trembling and broken, before there’s a hesitant knock at the door. The sound barely registers through the storm of my emotions. I don’t answer. I can’t.

The knock comes again, softer this time, but I remain frozen. A moment later, the door creaks open. My heart stutters, but I keep my face buried in my hands. I don’t need to look to know who it is—I can feel his presence like a pulse in the air.

“Y/N.” Garrick’s voice is low and raw, his tone steeped in regret. “I’m sorry.”

I don’t respond. The effort to speak feels insurmountable. Instead, I stay hunched over, my shoulders shaking with the force of my grief.

He steps inside, his movements careful, almost hesitant. The door clicks shut behind him, sealing us in the same space, though the chasm between us feels immeasurable.

Garrick kneels in front of me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him. His hands hover in the air, uncertain. “I screwed up,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “I know I did.”

His words hit a nerve, but I keep my head down, my tears falling freely.

“I’ve been so focused on protecting Violet,” he continues, each word weighted with guilt. “So caught up in trying to do the right thing for everyone else, that I stopped seeing what it was costing me. What it was costing us. And I hate that I’ve made you feel this way.”

His words are a balm and a fresh wound all at once. They dig deep, unearthing the raw ache inside me. “Do you even care, Garrick?” I whisper, my voice trembling. “Or am I just… another thing on your list of priorities?”

He inhales sharply, his hands finally settling gently on mine. His touch is warm, grounding, but it’s not enough to ease the ache in my chest.

“I care,” he says firmly, his voice steady despite the crack I can hear beneath it. “More than anything. You’re not just a priority—you’re everything to me. And I hate that I’ve made you feel otherwise.”

I lift my head then, my tear-streaked face meeting his. His storm-gray eyes are wide, almost frantic, as though he’s afraid I might disappear right in front of him.

“You can’t just say that, Garrick,” I choke out, my throat raw. “You have to prove it. I can’t keep doing this if I’m always going to come second.”

“I will prove it,” he says, his gaze unwavering. His fingers tighten around mine, a silent plea. “I’ll make this right. I don’t know how yet, but I will. I can’t lose you, Y/N. Not over this.”

The desperation in his voice gives me pause. I search his face, trying to decipher the truth in his words. His usual stoic mask is gone, replaced by an unguarded vulnerability that cuts through my defences.

“Okay,” I whisper after what feels like an eternity. “But this is your last chance, Garrick. Don’t make me regret it.”

Relief floods his expression, and before I can say anything else, he pulls me into his arms. His embrace is fierce, almost crushing, like he’s afraid I’ll slip through his fingers. I let him hold me, my cheek pressed against his chest, listening to the unsteady rhythm of his heartbeat.

“I don’t want you to think I don’t care,” he murmurs into my hair, his voice quieter now, almost broken. “Because I do, Y/N. More than I’ve ever cared about anyone.”

I pull back just enough to meet his gaze again, my hands still clutching the front of his shirt. His eyes are searching mine, filled with something raw and desperate, something that looks like it’s tearing him apart.

“Then why do you make it so damn hard to believe that?” I ask, my voice soft but no less cutting.

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, he looks away, as if he can’t bear the weight of my stare. “Because I don’t know how to balance it all,” he admits, his voice heavy with self-loathing. “I’ve always been the one who follows orders, who puts the mission first. And now… now I’m trying to figure out how to be the guy who puts you first, too. But I’m screwing it up.”

“You are,” I say bluntly, though there’s no venom in my voice anymore. “And it’s not just about Violet or Xaden. It’s about you deciding that what I need isn’t as important as what everyone else needs. That’s what hurts the most, Garrick. Feeling like I’m not worth the effort.”

His throat works as he swallows hard, his eyes glassy with unshed tears. “You’re right,” he says quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “You deserve better than that. You deserve better than me. But if you’ll let me, I swear I’ll spend the rest of my life proving to you that you’re the most important thing in my world.”

The sincerity in his voice sends a shiver down my spine. My walls begin to crumble, brick by fragile brick, as I let myself hope.

“Words are easy, Garrick,” I say, my voice trembling. “Actions are harder. And I need to see that you mean it. I need more than promises right now.”

“I know,” he says, his hands cupping my face with a tenderness that steals my breath. “I’ll show you. I swear I’ll show you.”

Before I can respond, he leans in, his lips capturing mine in a kiss that is anything but gentle. It’s desperate and raw, filled with all the things he’s been unable to say. For a moment, I freeze, overwhelmed by the intensity of it. But then I melt into him, my hands fisting his shirt as I pour everything I’m feeling—hurt, love, anger, and hope—into that one moment.

When we finally break apart, we’re both gasping for air, our foreheads resting together.

“I love you,” he whispers, his voice steady despite the vulnerability in his eyes.

My heart stutters, and for a moment, I can’t speak. But then I let out a shaky breath, a small, tentative smile tugging at my lips. “I love you too, Garrick,” I whisper. “But you need to stop breaking my heart.”

“I will,” he promises, his lips brushing softly against my forehead. “I’ll prove it to you. Every day. For as long as you’ll let me.”

For the first time in a long time, I feel something like hope flicker to life in my chest. It’s fragile, uncertain, but it’s there.

And for now, that’s enough.

Y/N's POV

The late afternoon sun bathes the training arena in a golden glow, the heat sinking into my skin and mixing with the satisfying burn of exertion. Each punch I throw lands with a solid thud against the padded dummy, and I imagine it’s an Illyrian male with one too many smug comments. The mental image fuels my strikes, sharper, harder, faster—until I finally step back, breathing heavily, and shake out my arms.

I shift my weight, readying myself for another go, when the faintest prickling sensation tickles the back of my neck. Someone’s watching me.

I turn, slowly, scanning the empty terraces above the arena. Empty—except for the male leaning lazily against a stone pillar, silhouetted in the sunlight like some arrogant statue come to life.

Rhysand.

His midnight hair stirs in the soft breeze, and even from here, I can see the smirk tugging at his mouth. He looks unfairly perfect, his tailored shirt rolled up to the elbows, exposing forearms I stubbornly refuse to admire. His violet eyes lock on mine, and there’s a distinct, infuriating glimmer of amusement in them.

“Enjoying the view, High Lord?” I call, resting my hands on my hips.

“Immensely,” he replies, his voice carrying effortlessly over the distance—low, smooth, and laced with wicked humor. He pushes off the pillar, sauntering toward me with all the grace of a panther on the hunt. “Though I’ll admit, it’s much more entertaining when you’re scowling. You have this adorable little furrow in your brow when you’re frustrated.”

My scowl deepens on cue, and his laugh rings out, warm and rich and utterly maddening. “See? There it is.”

“I could arrange for you to see it up close, Rhys,” I say sweetly, though my tone drips with challenge. “Say, by smashing your face into the dirt.”

“Such violence.” He presses a hand to his chest as if I’ve wounded him, but that grin of his only widens. He’s close now, close enough that I can see the faint stubble on his jaw, the mischief practically oozing from every pore. “But if you wanted my attention, darling, all you had to do was ask.”

I snort, brushing a strand of sweat-dampened hair out of my face. “Please. You couldn’t keep up with me if you tried.”

“Bold words for someone who just spent five minutes attacking a dummy,” he counters, his voice teasing, though there’s something sharper lurking beneath it.

That spark of competitive fire ignites in my chest. “And here I thought the great Rhysand didn’t need to inflate his ego any further. Tell me, High Lord, do you actually have the skill to back it up? Or do you just rely on your magic to make up for the lack?”

His grin sharpens, wolfish. “Are you challenging me, sweetheart?”

“Depends.” I step closer, tilting my head as I eye him. “Are you scared?”

“Scared?” He huffs out a laugh, shaking his head like he’s indulging a reckless child. But there’s a gleam in his eyes now—bright, electric, and entirely too dangerous. “You’re either incredibly brave or terribly foolish.”

“Guess you’ll have to find out.” I shrug, deliberately casual, though my heart is already pounding. “No magic. No wings. Just you, me, and good old-fashioned hand-to-hand.”

Rhys takes another step, and suddenly he’s looming over me, all dark power and infuriating smugness. His voice drops, low and velvety. “You really think you can take me on?”

I meet his gaze head-on, refusing to back down even as his scent—night-chilled air and cedar—threatens to fog my mind. “I think you’ll find I’m full of surprises.”

He studies me for a moment, the corners of his mouth curling into a slow, wicked smile. Then, with a lazy flick of his wrist, he shrugs off his jacket, tossing it onto the stone floor. “Alright, darling. Let’s see if you can keep up.”

I don’t give Rhys time to settle. The moment he’s rolled up his sleeves, I’m already moving, throwing a sharp jab aimed directly at his perfect, insufferable face. He sidesteps with a grace that borders on casual, like he’s stepping out of the way of a falling leaf rather than dodging a strike meant to wipe the smirk off his face.

“That’s cute,” he drawls, his voice rich with amusement.

I grit my teeth and pivot sharply, aiming a kick toward his ribs, but his hand shoots out faster than I can track. His fingers curl around my ankle with maddening ease, holding me in place like I’m a kitten trying to swipe at a lion.

“Careful, darling,” he murmurs, tilting his head slightly, as if to study my form. “We wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself. I’m rather fond of your legs, you know.”

Heat rises in my cheeks, though whether it’s from anger or the way his thumb brushes lightly against my ankle, I can’t say. I twist my leg free with a growl, spinning back to put distance between us.

“You’re insufferable,” I snap, rolling my shoulders to shake off the tension coiling there.

His grin widens, the sunlight catching on his teeth. “And you’re predictable. Shall we try again?”

I don’t answer. I lunge forward again, trying to be faster, sharper, unpredictable. I throw a series of punches, each one aimed to force him back, to make him work for his victories. For a moment, it seems like I have him; his weight shifts, his footing adjusts—but then his hand snakes out, seizing my wrist mid-swing.

“Not bad,” he murmurs, pulling me off balance. Before I can recover, he’s behind me, twisting my arm gently but firmly behind my back. His chest presses against my shoulders, solid and unyielding, and his breath ghosts against my ear.

“But not good enough.”

The low rasp of his voice sends a shiver down my spine, and I don’t even bother to suppress the snarl that escapes me. I stomp down hard on his foot, grinning in satisfaction when he hisses through his teeth. His grip slackens just enough for me to wrench free, spinning to face him once more.

“That’s more like it,” he says, shaking out his foot with an exaggerated wince. His eyes sparkle with mischief, a flicker of heat simmering just beneath the surface.

He’s toying with me. I know it, and he knows it. But I can’t help myself; the challenge in his gaze stirs something reckless in me, something that refuses to let him win.

We fall into a rhythm then, strikes and blocks, feints and counters, the sounds of our movements filling the space around us. His laughter rings out every time he dodges or counters me, a low, infuriating melody that fans the flames of my frustration.

“You’re quick,” he says, effortlessly deflecting a punch. “But you telegraph your moves. Like that little shift in your shoulder just now.” He ducks beneath my next strike, adding with a wink, “You’re giving me too much time to admire the view.”

My cheeks burn, my temper flaring hotter. I push harder, striking with all the strength and precision I can muster. But no matter how fast or clever I think I’m being, he’s always a step ahead, always one movement away from sweeping my legs out from under me.

And sweep them he does. Again.

I land flat on my back with a grunt, dirt clinging to my skin and hair. Before I can move, his boot hovers just above my chest—not pressing, not pinning, just a reminder that he’s still in control.

“Need a break, darling?” he asks, his voice laced with mock concern. “Or shall we keep going? I’m happy to wait if you need a moment to—”

I slap his boot away and scramble to my feet, my breathing ragged, my pride thoroughly bruised. “I’m going to wipe that smirk off your face, Rhysand.”

His grin deepens, a slow, deliberate curve of his lips that sends my pulse skittering. “I’d like to see you try.”

I don’t give him the satisfaction of a reply. This time, I focus, letting my frustration fuel me without clouding my mind. I circle him slowly, watching every subtle shift in his stance, every twitch of his muscles. When I strike, it’s deliberate—a feint to the left, a sharp kick to the right, a series of rapid punches meant to disorient him.

And for a moment, it works.

He moves to grab my wrist, but I twist out of his grip, using his momentum against him. My hands find his shoulders, and with a surge of strength I didn’t know I had, I shove him backward. He stumbles, his balance faltering just enough for me to tackle him.

The world tilts, and the next thing I know, we’re both on the ground. Dust rises around us, the faint scent of earth and sweat filling my senses. My thighs bracket his hips, my hands pinning his wrists to the dirt above his head.

For a moment, everything goes still.

His chest rises and falls beneath me, his dark hair spilling messily across the ground. Those violet eyes, usually so full of amusement, are wide with something else now—something sharper, hotter.

“Well,” he says after a beat, his voice rougher than before, “this is new.”

I lean down, close enough that my hair brushes against his cheek. “What’s the matter, High Lord?” I murmur, my breath ghosting over his lips. “Not so smug now, are we?”

His gaze flickers to my mouth, his eyes darkening with a heat that makes my stomach tighten. His wrists shift beneath my hands, testing my grip, but I press down harder, refusing to let him regain the upper hand.

His lips curve into a slow, wicked smile. “Careful, darling,” he whispers, his voice low and dangerous. “You might start something you can’t finish.”

The tension between us crackles like lightning, the air thick with the heat of the fight and something far more dangerous.

And gods help me, I don’t think I want to stop.

I stay there for a beat longer than I need to, straddling his waist, my hands firm on his wrists, holding him down. His chest rises and falls, brushing against mine with every labored breath. The moment hangs heavy between us, the fight draining away and leaving something far more dangerous in its wake.

I lean closer, so close that our noses nearly brush. His eyes are dark now, the violet swallowed by endless, stormy depths. His lips part slightly, as though he’s already anticipating what I’ll do next.

I let my gaze drop to his mouth, deliberately slow, watching as his tongue flicks out to wet his bottom lip. My own lips curve into a wicked smile as I lean even closer, until our breaths mingle, the heat of him sinking into my skin.

“You’re all talk, Rhysand,” I whisper, my voice low and taunting. My lips ghost against his, so faintly it could be an accident—or a promise. “For all your big words, I don’t think you can handle me.”

His breath catches, the smallest sound slipping from him—a soft, needy noise that makes satisfaction curl deep in my belly.

His hands tense beneath mine, his body taut like a bowstring, and for a moment, I think I’ve won. He looks at me like I’m the only thing in the world, his focus razor-sharp, his chest heaving with the effort of holding himself back.

But then I pull back, dragging my lips away before they can touch his.

I start to shift, moving to stand, intending to let him stew in his frustration. “Better luck next time, High Lord,” I toss over my shoulder, my voice dripping with mockery.

But I’ve barely lifted myself off him when everything shifts.

A startled gasp escapes me as his hands break free from my hold, his movements faster than I can react to. The world tilts, and suddenly, it’s my back hitting the ground, the air knocked from my lungs.

And now it’s him above me.

He looms over me, his body pressing me into the earth, his weight deliciously warm and solid. His hands pin mine on either side of my head, his fingers wrapping around my wrists with a firmness that sends a shiver racing down my spine.

“Was that supposed to rile me up?” he growls, his voice low and dangerous, but there’s a raw edge to it, a crack in the smooth facade that tells me exactly how much I’ve gotten under his skin.

His nose brushes against mine as he leans closer, so close that his hair falls around us like a curtain, shutting out the rest of the world. His scent surrounds me—crisp night air, cedar, and something uniquely him, intoxicating and overwhelming.

“You think you can tease me, taunt me, and just walk away?” His lips hover just above mine, so close I can feel the warmth of his breath. “Not a chance, darling.”

I swallow hard, my chest rising and falling against his, every inch of me hyper-aware of the way his body fits against mine, the heat rolling off him in waves. His eyes are locked on mine, dark and intense, like he’s daring me to look away.

But I don’t.

Instead, I smirk up at him, letting the smallest hint of challenge curl my lips. “What’s the matter, Rhysand? Losing your composure?”

A low, guttural sound rumbles in his chest, his grip on my wrists tightening just enough to send a thrill racing through me. “You’re playing with fire,” he murmurs, his voice a velvet threat, his lips grazing my ear as he speaks.

“Maybe I like the heat,” I shoot back, my voice breathless but steady, even as my pulse races like a wild thing beneath his touch.

His head dips lower, his mouth brushing the corner of my lips in a touch so fleeting it makes me ache. “Careful,” he murmurs again, his tone dark and laced with promise. “You might just get burned.”

The tension between us is electric, a live wire that hums and sparks, pulling us closer and closer until it feels like I might shatter beneath the weight of it.

I could stop this. I could break the spell, laugh it off, pretend this is still just a game.

The charged silence between us cracks like a dam breaking. I’m not sure who moves first—whether it’s his lips crashing against mine, or mine claiming his—but suddenly we’re kissing, and it’s anything but gentle.

It’s fierce, raw, and hungry. The kind of kiss that steals the air from your lungs and sets fire to every nerve in your body. His mouth moves against mine with an urgency that borders on desperation, like he’s been starving for this—starving for me—and finally has permission to feast.

I arch into him, my body instinctively responding to the weight of his pressing me into the dirt. His hands still pin my wrists above my head, but I’m not about to make this easy for him. I tilt my head, deepening the kiss, and then bite lightly at his bottom lip, earning a low, guttural growl that vibrates through his chest.

And just like that, the balance shifts.

I buck my hips up, trying to twist out of his grip. He’s strong—unbelievably so—but I’m nothing if not determined. I manage to wrench one hand free, my fingers tangling in his dark hair as I yank him closer, kissing him deeper. My nails graze his scalp, and he groans into my mouth, his control faltering for just a fraction of a second.

I take my chance, twisting us sideways. The momentum carries us over, and suddenly I’m the one on top, straddling him once more. His dark eyes flash with something between frustration and amusement as I grin down at him, my breath coming in short, uneven bursts.

“Not so easy now, is it, High Lord?” I tease, my voice breathless yet triumphant.

His answer is a feral smile, and before I can fully savor my victory, he surges upward. His hands find my waist, and with a smooth, almost predatory movement, he flips us again.

The ground is rough beneath my back, but I barely notice. All I can focus on is him—his weight pressing into me, his hands sliding down to grip my hips as his lips claim mine once more. This time, the kiss is slower, deeper, but no less consuming.

I refuse to surrender.

My hands roam over his back, my nails dragging lightly against the taut muscles beneath his shirt. He shudders above me, and I take that as my opening, wrapping one leg around his waist and using the leverage to push him off balance.

We roll again, the world spinning around us as we grapple for control. Dirt and grass cling to our skin, and the cool evening air brushes against the heat of our flushed faces. I end up on top once more, my knees pinning his hips, my hands braced against his chest.

“Yield,” I demand, my voice rough with exertion, though my lips twitch into a smirk.

His gaze locks onto mine, dark and blazing. “Never,” he growls, and then his hands are on me again, one gripping the back of my neck, the other sliding down to press against the small of my back. He pulls me down, and our mouths collide once more.

This kiss is different. It’s not just hunger or passion—it’s a battle. A clash of wills as much as it is a meeting of lips. He kisses me like he’s trying to conquer me, and I kiss him back like I’m determined to prove I can’t be tamed.

Our breaths come hard and fast, mingling in the space between kisses. His hand slides up to cradle my jaw, his thumb brushing against my cheek in a touch that’s almost tender—almost, but not quite, because his lips are relentless, drawing me deeper and deeper into him.

I break away first, gasping for air, but before I can say anything—before I can even catch my breath—he flips us one last time.

Now it’s me beneath him, pinned and breathless, my wrists captured once more in his iron grip. His face hovers inches from mine, his lips curved into a smug, infuriatingly gorgeous smile.

“Do you yield now?” he murmurs, his voice low and teasing, his thumb brushing against the inside of my wrist in a way that sends a shiver down my spine.

I meet his gaze, defiance burning in my chest even as my heart races wildly. “Not a chance,” I whisper, my lips brushing his as I speak.

His answering laugh is dark and full of promise, and as he leans down to kiss me again, I know this battle is far from over.

Rhys’ mouth descends on mine again, stealing what little breath I have left. His lips are softer this time, his movements slower, more deliberate. He’s not trying to conquer me now—he’s savoring me. His tongue brushes against mine, coaxing a sigh from my throat, and his grip on my wrists tightens just enough to remind me who has the upper hand.

But I’m not about to admit defeat, not even with the ground cool beneath my back and his weight pressing me into the dirt. My leg hooks around his, trying to gain some kind of leverage, but all it does is bring him closer—too close. His chest is flush against mine now, his body an unyielding wall of heat and strength.

I bite his bottom lip lightly, pulling back just enough to catch my breath. “You’re insufferable,” I manage to whisper, my voice shaky but laced with playful defiance.

“And you’re irresistible,” Rhys counters smoothly, his eyes dark and glittering as his lips trail from my mouth to my jawline. He takes his time, teasing a path down the column of my throat. My skin burns under his touch, every nerve alight, and I let out a sound somewhere between a gasp and a moan.

I arch against him, and he groans, the sound low and rough like it’s been dragged from the very depths of him. His lips hover just above my collarbone, his breath warm and tantalizing, when a familiar voice slices through the air.

“Training fields,” Azriel says dryly, his tone flat and unimpressed, “are for training. Not… whatever this is.”

My entire body stiffens, and I freeze beneath Rhys, mortified. I manage to tilt my head just enough to catch a glimpse of Azriel standing a few feet away, his arms crossed and his face impassive—though I swear there’s the faintest twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth.

Rhys doesn’t move immediately. Of course, he doesn’t. If anything, he looks even more infuriatingly relaxed, propping himself up on his elbows as he turns to glance over his shoulder.

“Whatever this is?” Rhys repeats with a smirk, his voice utterly unbothered. “I think it’s quite obvious, Az. Would you like a demonstration?”

I groan, my cheeks burning so hot I’m certain I could melt the dirt beneath me. Without thinking, I grab the front of Rhys’ shirt and tug him down, burying my face in the fabric to shield myself from Azriel’s gaze.

“Don’t you dare,” I hiss into Rhys’ chest, though it comes out muffled.

Rhys chuckles, the sound rich and deep and maddeningly pleased. “What?” he says innocently, though his hand slides to my back, holding me securely against him as though he has no intention of letting me hide anywhere else. “Azriel clearly interrupted something very important. He should be properly educated on the consequences of such rudeness.”

“You’re impossible,” I grumble, my voice still muffled.

“And yet, you can’t seem to resist me.” His voice dips lower, teasing, and I know without looking that he’s grinning like the cocky bastard he is.

“Rhys,” Azriel says again, this time with a sharper edge to his voice, being the only one who can talk to him like this. “Get up. Now.” 

“Fine, fine,” Rhys sighs, finally releasing my wrists and sitting back on his heels. He doesn’t move away, though—no, of course not. Instead, he leans down, brushing a kiss against my temple before murmuring, “We’ll finish this later, darling.”

I swat at his chest, still too embarrassed to meet Azriel’s gaze, but the traitorous part of me—the one still reeling from the heat of Rhys’ kiss—wonders if he means it.

Rhys stands, offering me a hand, and though I’m tempted to refuse, I know there’s no escaping this without his help. As he pulls me to my feet, I finally dare a glance at Azriel. His face is a mask of calm indifference, but the faint quirk of his lips betrays his amusement.

“If you’re done rolling around in the dirt,” Azriel says, his wings flaring slightly as he turns away, “some of us actually came here to train.”

I groan again, burying my face in my hands. Rhys’ laughter follows me as I stalk toward the nearest bench, determined to regain some semblance of dignity—even if my heart is still racing and my lips are still tingling from his kiss.

ACOTAR Masterlist TAG LIST - updated 12th Oct 2024

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