The remnants of their passionate reunion clung to the air in Eliott's loft like a heavy perfume, a testament to the depths they had plunged. Maëlys lay tangled in the sheets, her body buzzing with a potent mix of sated pleasure and a terrifying clarity. Her mind, no longer a blank slate, was a storm of fragmented images, each one a sharp, vivid memory resurrected by Eliott's deliberate touch, his knowing whispers. He hadn't just made love to her; he had forced her to remember, tracing the map of their past onto her skin and soul with his hands, his lips, his sheer will.
She shifted, the rustle of the sheets drawing Eliott's immediate attention. He lay beside her, propped on an elbow, his dark hair falling across his forehead, his eyes fixed on her with that familiar, possessive intensity. There was no gentleness there, not truly. Only a raw, untamed hunger that never seemed to fully abate.
"Are you done with your lessons?" she asked, her voice raspy, a hint of defiance returning. She knew he wanted her to surrender completely, to accept his narrative without question. But the memories, now clearer, were a double-edged sword. They brought back the pleasure, yes, but also the pain, the recklessness, the undeniable truth of her own complicity.
A slow, dangerous smile curved Eliott's lips. He reached out, his fingers tracing the delicate curve of her collarbone, sending a shiver through her. "Lessons are never truly done, little bird. Not when there's so much to remember. So much to reclaim." His gaze dropped to her mouth, his eyes darkening. "And you have a quick study, I see. Your body remembers perfectly. Even if your mind still wants to fight it."
He leaned in, his warm breath ghosting over her lips. "Admit it, Maëlys. You craved it. The fire. The danger. The way I take you, completely." His words were a low purr, designed to break down her defenses, to ignite the primal response he knew she couldn't deny.
And he was right. Her body hummed in anticipation, a traitorous yearning that made her despise herself. She was bound to him by more than just shared trauma now; she was bound by an addiction, a visceral need for his touch, for the dark oblivion he offered.
"It doesn't erase anything," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "Doesn't erase Léonie. Doesn't erase Liam."
The mention of his brother brought a flicker of anguish to Eliott's eyes, quickly veiled by a controlled mask. "No," he conceded, his voice hardening slightly. "It doesn't. And it shouldn't. But it reminds you of us. Of what we forged. A connection stronger than death, Maëlys. Stronger than time. Stronger than any lie." He pulled her closer, pressing her flush against his solid body. "And stronger than any memory of regret."
He began to recount more stories, not just of their passion, but of the volatile world they had inhabited. He spoke of the adrenaline, the underground art scene they'd been a part of, where Eliott's tattoos weren't just ink, but rebellion. He described Liam's growing resentment, not just of their affair, but of Maëlys's fierce independence, her refusal to be tamed by him the way Léonie, in her quieter way, had sometimes been.
"Liam wanted to be the center of your universe," Eliott explained, his voice devoid of emotion, a cold assessment. "He wanted to own you, body and soul. But you were never meant to be owned by anyone. Except maybe me." His grip on her tightened, his eyes piercing hers. "I recognized that wildness in you. I craved it. And I knew, from the first moment, that you were mine to corrupt. Mine to keep."
The word "corrupt" sent a shiver through Maëlys. It was a stark, unflinching look into the darker side of their past, a side Eliott seemed to embrace without reservation. She saw herself in his descriptions: the girl who thrived on pushing boundaries, who danced with danger, who sought out the most intense, consuming emotions, regardless of the cost. It was terrifying. And undeniably, magnetically alluring.
As the morning light slowly crept through the windows, casting shadows on Eliott's tattooed skin, Maëlys found herself tracing the intricate raven on his bicep. "What about your family?" she asked, a new question forming in her mind. "Did anyone else know? About... us? About Liam's obsession?"
Eliott's jaw tightened, and he pulled away slightly, sitting up, his back now to her, gazing out the window at the waking city. "My parents were... complicated. Distant. They adored Liam, the golden boy. I was always the rebel, the shadow. They saw what they wanted to see. And they never looked too closely at any of us." His voice was flat, devoid of warmth. "They didn't see Liam's demons. Not truly. And they certainly didn't see the fire between you and me. We were too good at hiding it."
He turned back to her, his eyes blazing with a different kind of intensity, a raw pain she recognized. "After the crash, when I told them you had amnesia... they were relieved. Relieved you wouldn't remember the scandal. Relieved Liam was gone, and the problem was buried with him. They wanted to move on. They didn't care about the truth, only about appearances. And I... I let them. Because it allowed me to keep you safe. To keep you free from that legacy."
His honesty, brutal as it was, cut deeper than any lie. Maëlys saw the lonely boy he had been, living in his brother's shadow, overlooked by his parents. It explained so much of his fierce loyalty, his possessiveness, his desperate need to protect what was "his." He had been fighting for her, fighting for them, in a way no one else had.
He reached for her, pulling her against his chest, his arms wrapping around her in a possessive embrace. "I was alone in it all, Maëlys," he whispered, his voice thick with a vulnerability she hadn't expected. "Alone with the memories. Alone with the guilt. And now... now I have you. And I'm not letting you go back to being alone. Ever again."
His words, a declaration of both devotion and inescapable capture, resonated deep within her. The physical proximity was overwhelming, the scent of his skin, the beat of his heart against her ear, the raw emotion in his voice. She could feel the hard ridge of his arousal pressing against her, a constant, potent reminder of the carnal bond that was as strong as any memory. He was her anchor, her tormentor, her shadow. And in the depths of that complex reality, she found herself leaning into his touch, her hand instinctively reaching up to caress the back of his neck, a silent acknowledgment of the unbreakable tether that bound them. The ghosts of the past still lingered, but the grip of the present, Eliott's grip, was undeniable, pulling her deeper into a destiny she no longer fought. Their dark romance was not a choice, but a compelling, dangerous force, impossible to deny.