The kiss lingered, a bruising, consuming testament to Eliott's unyielding will and Maëlys's terrifying, undeniable surrender. Her earlier cries for freedom dissolved into whimpers against his mouth, a desperate sound of a body betraying a mind. He pulled back just enough to look into her eyes, their stormy depths reflecting a triumph so profound it made her shiver. But beneath the raw victory, there was a tremor of something else: an ancient fear, a vulnerability that rooted him to her just as surely as his embrace. He was afraid to lose her, even more than he was afraid to control her.
"You can hate me, Maëlys," he rasped, his voice thick with emotion, "but you can't deny this." His thumb brushed the corner of her swollen mouth, then trailed down her jawline, sending an electric current through her. "Not anymore."
She couldn't. Not after the way her body had betrayed her, igniting under his touch with a hunger that screamed of a past deeply etched into her very cells. The scientific explanation of amnesia, the rational part of her brain, fought against the visceral truth of her physical response, but the battle was lost. Her body remembered Eliott, remembered their unique brand of passion, remembered the way he had always owned her, even when her mind had forgotten.
He lifted her into his arms again, effortlessly, carrying her as if she weighed nothing. Her legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, her arms circling his neck, a natural motion born of countless forgotten repetitions. He moved with a purpose, not back towards the bed, but towards a different part of the loft, a more secluded, intimate space bathed in the soft, diffused light of the afternoon. It was an alcove, furnished only with plush cushions, heavy throws, and an intricate, low-slung table cluttered with sketches and tattooing equipment. This was his sanctuary within a sanctuary, a place of creation and raw vulnerability.
He lowered her gently onto the cushions, his body following hers, pinning her beneath him. The air was thick with the scent of ink and Eliott's distinct musk, a heady, intoxicating combination. He didn't rush, his movements deliberate, his eyes never leaving hers, seeking and finding the nascent hunger that mirrored his own.
"We need to go deeper, little bird," he murmured, his voice a low thrum against her ear. "Past the anger. Past the pain. To where it truly began. To the fire."
His lips found her neck, tracing a burning path down to her collarbone, lingering on the pulse point that hammered frantically beneath his touch. Maëlys gasped, her head falling back, exposing herself more fully to his exquisite torment. His hands, large and knowing, slid beneath her shirt, pushing the fabric up, exposing her trembling skin to the cool air, then to the scorching heat of his palms. He peeled the shirt away, then her jeans, each piece of clothing a layer of defense he systematically removed.
He worshipped her body with a reverence that shocked her, given the raw power he wielded. He traced the lines of her ribs, the curve of her hip, the long line of her thigh, his fingers leaving trails of fire in their wake. And as he did, he whispered. Not just words of desire, but fragments of their forgotten history, tied to each intimate touch.
"Do you remember," he rasped, his lips brushing the delicate skin of her inner thigh, making her arch into him, a soft cry escaping her, "the night I put this mark here?" His fingers brushed a faded, almost invisible line, a tiny, intricate spiral that she now saw for the first time. "We were at the abandoned lighthouse. The storm was breaking. You were shivering, but your eyes... they burned with a wildness I'd never seen before. You dared me. To mark you. To claim you. To make you mine in a way no one else could."
A flash. A cold, damp night. The roar of the wind. The dizzying height of the lighthouse. Her own breathless dare, fueled by a reckless euphoria. The searing pain of the needle, quickly replaced by a thrill she couldn't explain. Maëlys shuddered, not from cold, but from the vividness of the memory, the terrifying realization that this forgotten self was still very much a part of her.
"And this," he murmured, his lips pressing a searing kiss to the sensitive skin behind her knee, "was for the secrets. For the way we stole moments, hiding our desire from the world, from Liam. You hated sneaking, but you loved the danger. You craved it, just like you craved me."
Another memory. A hushed conversation in the dead of night, her heart pounding not just from fear of discovery, but from the intoxicating thrill of forbidden desire. The whispered plans, the stolen glances, the agonizing anticipation of a touch. Her breath hitched. He wasn't just telling her; he was making her remember, recreating the experiences, guiding her through the labyrinth of her own lost pleasure.
He moved between her legs, his body a heavy, welcome weight, pressing her into the soft cushions. The sheer power of his presence, the scent of him, the memory of his raw possessiveness, ignited a deeper fire within her. He leaned down, his eyes locked on hers, a dark, primal hunger in their depths.
"You were always my match, Maëlys," he growled, his voice thick with a mixture of adoration and unyielding dominance. "My equal in the chaos. My wild heart. And tonight... you'll remember every single part of it. Every raw, dangerous, beautiful detail."
He entered her slowly, deliberately, giving her body time to adjust, to stretch, to welcome his powerful invasion. Maëlys gasped, her eyes flying open, the intensity of the sensation ripping through her. It was a complete, breathtaking fit, a reunion of two halves that had been torn apart. She arched into him, her fingers digging into the hard muscles of his back, pulling him deeper, demanding the oblivion he offered.
The rhythm began, slow and deliberate at first, then building into a furious, relentless pace. Eliott moved with a primal urgency, his hips grinding against hers, his breath ragged against her ear as he whispered dark, possessive words, claiming her, branding her, reminding her of every way she had ever belonged to him. "Mine, Maëlys... always mine... never forget..."
Maëlys met his every thrust, her body a willing instrument to his powerful symphony. Her cries mingled with his groans, a chorus of raw, untamed passion. The boundaries between pain and pleasure blurred, between memory and present, between past and future. She wasn't just recalling memories; she was reliving them, embodying the wild, reckless woman she had once been, a woman who thrived on the edge, drawn to the dark allure of a love that promised both ecstasy and destruction.
The climax, when it came, was a cataclysmic explosion, tearing through her, leaving her trembling and utterly consumed. Eliott groaned, collapsing against her, his body heavy and sated, his breath ragged against her neck. His arms tightened around her, possessive and protective, as if he feared she might still vanish.
As their heartbeats slowly synchronized, Maëlys lay tangled with him, the scent of their shared passion heavy in the air. Her mind was a kaleidoscope of returning memories, each one vivid, raw, and undeniable. The physical act had been a brutal, beautiful reminder of the undeniable pull between them, a dangerous connection etched deeper than any tattoo. She might not remember all their past, but her body had remembered Eliott, recognizing the fierce passion that was uniquely theirs. She was branded by his fire, inextricably linked, a willing participant in the dark, consuming love that threatened to claim her entirely. And for the first time since her amnesia, she felt less like a broken reflection, and more like a whole, dangerous woman, reborn in the flames of Eliott's embrace. The resistance within her, though not entirely vanquished, had been temporarily quelled by the sheer force of his will and the intoxicating power of their shared desire. She had surrendered, not to weakness, but to a profound, terrifying truth that resided in the depths of her very soul.