Page 143 of The Blood Rites

He sits on the edge of the bed, his back to me.

“I’m dangerous?” I say, stunned. “I’m nothing.”

He turns, eyes fierce. “You don’t see what I see.” He lifts his hand, then lets it fall. “You’re not a game to me.”

I want to ask what he means, but I’m afraid of the answer.

He leans in until his face is inches from mine. “I want you,” he says, soft but brutal.

It lands wrong. Too deep. Too close to something I don’t want to name.

My breath stutters. My hands twist in my lap. “I... don’t like being held down,” I whisper.

He stills completely. Then nods—no questions, no hesitation. “Okay.”

He moves slowly, every gesture deliberate.

He undoes the collar of his shirt, pulling it off over his head. The inky black of his tattoos coils down his arms, sharp and alive. The scars on his ribs are pale and raised. I bite my lip, resisting the urge to reach out and trace them.

He reaches for the hem of my shirt but pauses.

I nod, letting him.

He pulls it over my head, careful, like he might break me. He runs a thumb over the old scar on my torso before turning me, his fingers following the jagged line of a scar that wraps around my ribs and onto my back. I wince. I want to be invisible again.

His mouth goes tight with anger. “Someone hurt you,” he says.

I nod, the tiniest movement. “Many someones.”

He is gentle. He presses his lips to the base of my neck, trailing down my spine with reverence. His hands cup my waist, strong but never tightening.

I turn to face him. He lets me lead, lets me touch him. I run my hand over the tattoos on his chest. The black is so dark it seems to vibrate, and the skin beneath is warm, almost feverish. I want to lose myself in him.

He lets out a shaky breath. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

I nod. “I want this. I want you.”

He smiles—truly, for the first time. It makes my chest ache in a way I don’t trust.

We take our time, exploring. Our hands are cautious, learning the shapes of each other, our scars and their untold stories. When his lips press to mine, it is not with force, but with need. We kiss until my head spins, until fear loosens its grip.

We undress, piece by piece, until nothing separates us.

He guides me down, but leaves the choice in my hands. He hovers, letting me decide how far, how close.

I wrap my arms around him, pulling him against me.

He grinds his hips into mine, and I moan. He is hard against me, and so am I. I stop knowing which of us is which. His hand slips between us, and the world narrows to the heat of it—mine, his, impossible to separate. It isn’t about control or pain. It’s about release. About not being alone, just for a few minutes.

He builds the rhythm until I can’t think around it, the warmth of his touch overwhelming as he strokes us both. The friction pulls something sharp and bright out of me.

I don’t feel afraid. Not once.

I come first, shuddering, gasping into his neck. He follows a moment later, jaw clenched, sweat slick on his chest.

After, he gathers me up, holding me close. We lie tangled on the sheets, not talking, just breathing. Our heartbeats slow until they find a matching pace.

I feel it before I see it—a flicker of light, seeping from my skin into his, a gold vein travelling up his arm towards his heart. He stiffens, then laughs, low and amazed.