The dawn that broke over Eliott's loft found Maëlys entangled in his arms, the heavy weight of his body a comforting anchor against the storm of returning memories. His confession about his parents, about his isolated childhood in Liam's shadow, had exposed a raw vulnerability beneath his possessive exterior. It didn't erase her anger, nor the pain of what they had lost, but it wove another complex thread into the tapestry of his character, making him not just a monster, but a deeply wounded one. And in that wound, Maëlys found a strange, compelling tenderness that pulled her even closer.
She stirred, the faint light brushing against her eyelids. Eliott's arm tightened around her, a low groan rumbling in his chest. He was a deep sleeper, yet acutely aware of her slightest movement. His dark hair, mussed from sleep, fell across his forehead, softening the sharp angles of his face. She found herself tracing the line of his jaw, the faint stubble rough beneath her fingertips. He was beautiful in his slumber, a dangerous predator at rest.
He opened his eyes, their stormy depths meeting hers. The shift from sleep-softened gaze to his characteristic intensity was instant, a jolt of raw awareness passing between them. A slow, knowing smile spread across his lips, his thumb brushing over the curve of her hip, a silent reminder of the depths they had plunged in the night.
"Morning, little bird," he murmured, his voice husky with sleep and desire. He pulled her flush against him, making her acutely aware of his body, already hardening against hers. The scent of him, musky and primal, filled her senses, intoxicating and familiar.
"Morning," she whispered back, her voice barely audible. Her anger was still there, a simmering ember, but it was overshadowed by a powerful, almost desperate longing she couldn't deny. She was caught in his orbit, a satellite pulled by an irresistible gravitational force.
He lifted his head slightly, his eyes burning into hers. "No more running?" he challenged, his voice a low purr that sent shivers down her spine. His hand moved, sliding along her spine, pulling her even closer, pressing their hips together until the undeniable proof of his arousal was a searing brand against her.
Maëlys's breath hitched. She looked into his eyes, searching for a way out, for a lie she could tell herself, but found none. Her body hummed in anticipation, betraying her. "No," she admitted, the word a reluctant surrender. "No more running. Not from you. Not from... us."
A triumphant light flared in his eyes, brief but potent. He leaned down, taking her mouth in a slow, deep kiss that tasted of morning and fierce possession. It wasn't rushed, wasn't demanding, but a deliberate claiming, a lingering promise of more. His tongue swept inside her mouth, tasting, exploring, igniting the embers of the night before. Maëlys responded without thought, her own tongue tangling with his, her body arching into him, a silent plea for the delicious oblivion he offered.
He broke the kiss, just barely, their foreheads resting against each other. "Good," he rasped, his voice thick with satisfied desire. "Because there's nowhere else for you to go. Nowhere else you belong." His words were a soft warning, a declaration that settled deep in her bones. He wasn't just claiming her body; he was claiming her very existence.
The days that followed were a testament to the fragile, intense truce they had forged. Maëlys remained in the loft, a willing prisoner in their golden cage. Eliott continued to piece together her past, not through forceful interrogation, but through shared experiences, through touch, through moments of raw, unexpected vulnerability. He would take her to places they had frequented before the accident – an old, abandoned pier where they used to watch the fishing boats, a hidden cove accessible only by a winding, treacherous path.
At the pier, he described how they used to carve their initials into the weathered wood, intertwining their names with crude hearts. M + E. Maëlys traced the faded etchings with a trembling finger, a pang of recognition, a phantom ache of a forgotten happiness. He wrapped his arms around her from behind, pulling her close, resting his chin on her shoulder. "You loved this place," he murmured, his voice soft. "Our secret hideaway. Where we dreamed of escaping everything and everyone." His hand found hers, intertwining their fingers, his thumb tracing the faint flame tattoo on her inner wrist.
At the hidden cove, Eliott described long summer afternoons spent swimming naked, the sun on their skin, the thrill of their illicit freedom. He pulled her into the cool, salty water, his eyes blazing with a mischievous light. "Remember this?" he challenged, his hand sliding down her back, pulling her against his naked front. The water swirled around them, cool against their heated bodies. Maëlys felt the familiar rush, the sense of liberation and danger that had once defined her life with him. He kissed her, his mouth tasting of salt and fervent desire, and for a moment, the world dissolved into the shimmering blue of the ocean and the scorching heat of his touch.
Their nights were a relentless exploration of their shared past, orchestrated by Eliott. He'd often begin by tattooing. Not on her, not yet, but on himself, new designs appearing, each one a piece of their fragmented history. A single, stylized feather on his bicep, mirroring the one above her hip, symbolizing their reckless flight. As he worked, the low hum of the tattoo machine filled the silence, a rhythmic pulse accompanying his narratives. He would watch her, his eyes dark and intense, as he recounted the stories behind the ink, drawing her deeper into his world, into their world.
Then, the focus would shift. Their bodies became the canvas, not for ink, but for touch, for pleasure, for memory. One evening, after a day spent by the cliffs, Eliott brought her back to the loft. The light was dim, the air heavy with an unspoken anticipation. He led her to the bed, slowly, deliberately.
"Tonight," he whispered, his voice a low, gravelly promise, "you're going to remember every way I owned you. Every way you surrendered." He stripped away her clothes, his hands moving with a possessive expertise that left her breathless. He kissed every inch of her exposed skin, his lips a trail of fire. He started with her feet, tracing the delicate arch, before slowly, tantalizingly, moving up her calves, her thighs, kissing, biting, tasting, making her skin hum.
"This is where you'd beg me to stop," he murmured against her inner thigh, his voice thick with remembered lust, "and this is where I'd refuse." His fingers found her, exploring her intimate folds with a slow, deliberate intensity that made her gasp, her body arching off the bed. He watched her face, his eyes dark with hunger, devouring every flicker of pleasure, every moan that escaped her lips.
He moved above her, his powerful body hovering, casting a shadow over her. "You remember what happens next, don't you?" he challenged, his voice a guttural growl, his eyes blazing with untamed desire. "You remember how you scream my name. How you claw at my back. How you wrap yourself around me until there's no space left, no air, just us."
Maëlys's body was a live wire, every nerve ending screaming for him. Her vision swam, blurred by a mixture of desire and the overwhelming flood of fragmented memories. She saw flashes of their past lovemaking: fierce, raw, unbridled. The dominance in his eyes, her own desperate surrender. He had always taken her with an intensity that bordered on violence, yet always with an underlying reverence, as if her pleasure was his ultimate victory.
With a low groan, Eliott finally plunged into her, a deep, powerful thrust that made her cry out, an ancient sound of primal satisfaction. He filled her completely, a perfect, breathtaking fit. He moved with a relentless rhythm, each thrust a deliberate, possessive claim, driving her deeper into the maelstrom of pleasure and memory. He watched her face, his gaze burning into hers, ensuring she was present, that she remembered.
"Mine, Maëlys," he chanted, his voice raw, hoarse with passion. "Always mine. My wild, beautiful chaos. Don't you ever forget again." His hands gripped her hips, pulling her flush against him, driving her to the edge of delirium.
The climax was a shattering, explosive wave that ripped through her, leaving her trembling and gasping for breath. 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, her body humming with the aftershocks of pleasure, her mind a chaotic mosaic of present desire and agonizing past. She hated him for what he had done, for forcing her to remember, for holding her captive. Yet, in his arms, in the fiery depths of their shared passion, she found a strange, terrifying peace. He was her beautiful monster, the architect of her pain and her pleasure. And for the first time, she truly understood the depth of the unbreakable tether that bound them. She was his. Completely. And in the unraveling of her control, she found an intoxicating freedom she never expected.