I followed her into the bedroom, pulse thrumming that steady rhythm it always did when she looked at me like this—like she already knew every move I was going to make before I made it.
The door clicked shut behind me.
She didn't speak.
Just stood there, back to me, fingers already at the tie of her robe. The silk slipped down her shoulders and fell to the floor with a sound that felt too soft for what it stirred in me.
I swallowed.
Hard.
"I thought I was fetching you something sweet," I said, voice rougher than I meant.
She turned.
Completely bare under the glow of candlelight, her skin like molten bronze, every inch of her lit like a secret the dark couldn't hold.
"You did," she murmured, walking toward me. "And I want dessert in bed."
My mouth went dry. My resolve, thinner still.
She stopped in front of me and let her fingers drift to my shirt. "Off," she said.
I didn't need to be told twice.
I pulled it over my head, and even before it hit the floor, her hands were on me—cool against the heat of my skin, smoothing over my chest like she was memorizing me. Or claiming me.
"You're staring," I managed to say, breath uneven as her eyes traced every line of me.
"You're mine," she said.
Simple. Certain.
And then she kissed me.
God, that kiss.
Slow. Deep. Like she wasn't just tasting my mouth—she was dismantling me with it. Every second of it unraveled something I didn't know I was still holding onto.
My hands slid down her back, finding the curve of her hips, gripping tight as she pressed against me like we were made for this—like the space between us was always meant to burn.
We didn't move to the bed so much as fall into it. Tangled. Pulled. Like gravity had already decided for us.
Her hands threaded through my hair, pulling me closer as my mouth found the slope of her throat, the edge of her collarbone, the rise of her chest.
She tasted like heat and shadow, like something I couldn't name but already craved.
And when she gasped my name—half-laughed, breathless—I lost whatever control I thought I had.
I flipped us, pressing her down into the mattress, holding her there like I could keep her from slipping out of my hands again.
But the truth?
She was still in control.
Even like this. Especially like this.
Because Seraphine smiled up at me with that knowing look—the kind that said she could tear me apart if she wanted but was choosing not to. For now.
"You're learning," she whispered, voice catching as I moved.
"I'm improvising," I muttered, lips brushing the curve of her jaw.
She laughed—quiet and wicked—and arched into me. "Good," she breathed. "Now shut up and make me forget my name."
She made me forget everything else.
She wrapped her legs around my waist, pulling me down until there was no space left between us — just skin and breath and the heat that crackled every time our mouths met.
Seraphine tasted like sin and silk. Like something older than time. Every kiss, every drag of her nails down my back, felt like being pulled deeper into a spell I couldn't — and didn't want to — break.
Her fingers traced along my spine, then up into my hair. Not rough. Not urgent. Just steady, assured. Like she wasn't in a rush because she already knew how this ended.
I braced my hands beside her head, looked down at her — at the gleam in her garnet eyes, the faint curl of her lips like she was still holding a secret between them. Her hair fanned across the pillow like spilled ink, and her chest rose and fell beneath me with slow, measured breaths.
"You're thinking too loud," she murmured, lifting her hand to my cheek.
I blinked. "Am I?"
She nodded. "You always do right before you say something you think I'll regret hearing."
I laughed quietly, leaning into her touch. "Maybe I'm just trying to figure out what the hell this is."
Her thumb brushed my jaw. "Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Try to define it." Her voice dipped, velvet-wrapped steel. "You'll ruin it."
I should've pulled away. Said something sharp. Something safe.
Instead, I leaned down and kissed her again — slower this time. Deeper. Her breath caught, and her fingers curled around my wrist.
"I'm not trying to ruin it," I said softly, lips brushing her jaw. "I'm trying not to fall too deep."
She tilted her head, exposing her neck. "What if I want you to?"
God, she didn't play fair.
And I — I didn't want fair.
My hands slid down her waist, over the curve of her hips, memorizing every line, every shiver. Her body arched beneath mine, meeting me with a rhythm that felt older than words. Her skin was impossibly soft, and her breath hitched every time I kissed lower, lingered longer.
She tasted like everything I wasn't supposed to want.
Sweet. Dark. Dangerous.
Like sin served on silver.
I was on my knees, shoulders pressing her thighs apart, and she was already trembling. Not from fear. From the way I touched her—like I'd been waiting my whole damn life to worship something. Like I meant it.
Because I did.
I wasn't rushing. I wasn't teasing. I was devouring.
Every breath she took was a reward. Every soft sound she tried to bite back only made me hungrier. She had her head tipped back against the velvet, one hand tangled in my hair, the other gripping the edge of the chaise like she couldn't decide if she wanted to pull me closer or push me away.
But she didn't move.
She let me explore. Let me learn her.
And I took my time.
I kissed her like a secret. Licked her like a promise.
She tasted like heat, and salt, and something wild. And when her thighs flexed around my shoulders, when her voice broke open on a moan that sounded like my name—God, I could've died right there and called it heaven.
Her hips rocked forward, helpless. Her fingers tightened in my hair, and I let her guide me. Let her take what she needed from me.
And still—I gave more.
"Cassian..." she breathed, and the sound of my name from her lips — low, needful — made something snap in me.
Not lust.
Something quieter.
Something dangerous.
I wasn't supposed to feel this much for someone I barely knew.
But I knew her body. I knew the way she gasped when I kissed just below her ribs. I knew the little hitch in her voice when my fingers brushed the hollow of her hip. I knew the way she clung to me, not like a lover, but like someone starved.
And I knew that whatever this was — whatever we were — I didn't want to stop.
So I didn't.
We moved together like we were the last two people in the world.
Slow at first.
Like time had bent just for us. Like the house itself—the velvet-draped walls, the warm floor beneath us, the ancient hush of Villa Dahlia—was holding its breath, cradling us in silk and shadow.
Her body met mine in a rhythm that wasn't rushed. Wasn't greedy. Just right.
Every roll of her hips. Every gasp against my throat. Every low sound she made when she stopped pretending not to need me—it all burned into me. Down to the bone.
And I gave her everything. Again. Again. Until the lines between us blurred.
Until I didn't know where I ended and she began.
When it was over, I didn't move.
Couldn't.
I stayed inside her, chest heaving, my forehead resting against hers, breath hot and uneven as the firelight painted her skin gold. Her thighs still wrapped around me, the press of her chest against mine, the slick heat between us slowly cooling.
My heart was loud in my ears.
Like it didn't know what to do with the quiet she left in me.
She didn't speak.
Didn't need to.
Her fingers drew slow, lazy circles on my back. Not teasing. Not demanding. Just there. Grounding me. Like she knew I was still half-floating in the aftermath.
Her lips found my temple. Then the edge of my jaw. Then my shoulder—soft brushes of warmth that didn't ask anything of me but let me know I was seen.
And God, I felt her.
Not just her body, though that alone could've undone me.
No.
I felt the weight of her presence. Her power. That quiet, ancient kind of patience that said she'd waited centuries for this kind of closeness and would wait again if she had to.
She could've broken me.
Split me open and left me hollow.
But she didn't.
She let me fall apart—slowly, silently—and then pulled me in like it was the only thing she'd ever wanted. Like she knew what it meant to be a mess and chose me anyway.
I wrapped my arm around her waist. Buried my face in the curve of her neck. Held her like the world might fall away if I let go.
And she just breathed.
Soft. Steady. Bare beneath me.
And for the first time in months... maybe longer...
I didn't feel like I was running.
I didn't feel like a thief or a stray or someone begging for scraps.
I felt held. Wanted.
And God help me—
I felt home.