I think I might die if he stops.

It’s a defilement. Desecration. Pleasure so sharp I can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t focus on anything but the pleasure suffusing through my veins. Release hovers just out of reach. That coil of heat, that thing I’ve chased alone in my bed at night, imagining his hands instead of mine. Almost, almost, almost—

“Harder,” I say.

My voice doesn’t even sound like mine, but it doesn’t matter. Because I need to feel this tomorrow. Need the reminder that for once, I wasn’t careful. Wasn’t smart. That I just took what I wanted.

His teeth find my shoulder—not gentle, not asking. His thrusts sharpen, fucking me deeper, faster, not caring if it hurts. I’ll have bruises tomorrow where his fingers dig into me, but I want them there. Need them there.

I earned every single one.

He shoves in harder, his pace punishing. Stretching me, filling me. Pushing so deep. “You have no idea,” he pants, breath ragged, “how many times I’ve thought about this. About messing up all that pretty. Seeing what you look like when I’m fucking you.”

“And what do I look like?”

He breathes softly in my ear, “You look like someone I’d keep, if you were anyone but you.”

I feel everything. The heat of his body against mine, the spicy scent of him, the hard slap of his hips. Stars streak across the sky, and their light catches on his skin, on mine, on the places where we’re joined. He grips me so tight it hurts. Like if he loosens his hold even a little, I’ll disappear.

And I give him what he wants.

I let go.

Pleasure rips through me, violent and sudden. I tip my head up to the stars and shout my release. I can’t breathe, can’t think. Only the solid heat of the Wolf’s body keeps me from drowning, from falling. My fingernails scrape against the rock, breaking, bleeding. I don’t care.

“Evander.”

His fingers dig into my hips as he slams into me one last time, rhythm faltering. With a curse, he slaps his hand against the rock beside my head, splintering it under his fist. The heat of his release stings between my thighs. After a few shallow thrusts, he goes still, curling his body over mine.

For a minute, there’s nothing but our breathing—mine ragged, his deep. As if we’ve both been drowning.

The Wolf’s forehead rests between my shoulder blades, his palms gentling over my sides. I let myself savor this stillness, with the sweet ache blooming in places I didn’t know could feel this good.

“Bryony,” he whispers.

My name shouldn’t sound like a prayer. Like a vow. But it does, and it rattles something loose inside me—an emotion that’s too immense to be contained, pressing against my lungs. It feels like vulnerability. Like terror. Like some bright, fragile thing starved for all his softness. It suddenly hurts when I breathe, that light expanding and expanding until it’s as if I’ve swallowed a star—too much, too big, burning me up from inside.

I want to cut it out.

But that’s the thing about falling—you never think about the damage until you’re already halfway to the ground.

“Hey.” He turns me around, those gold-ringed eyes searching my face. “You okay?”

Each brush of his fingertips is a confession, a claim. As if he doesn’t already own every inch of me. As if this feeling isn’t still burning in my chest.

I nod, forcing my expression to stay even, neutral. If I speak, I think I’ll say something I can’t take back. Something like, keep me.

“Cold?” he asks, rubbing my arms.

I nod again.

He works his jaw as if he’s figuring something out. “Let’s get you back,” he murmurs, scooping me into his arms and spreading his wings.

When we land in the courtyard, I expect him to put me down. He doesn’t.

“Bath first,” he says. “Then my bed.”

I almost argue. Almost remind him in pitiless terms that what we just shared changed nothing, that he’s no more entitled to me now than he was yesterday. Getting fucked out of my mind by a savage god? An excellent decision. Willingly spending the night naked in my future executioner’s bed for an encore performance? A level of insanity I’m not prepared to claim.

Still, I’m filthy and sore and exhausted. I need to get clean.

I close my eyes and let him carry me through the halls to his chamber. His bedroom is exactly as I imagined and nothing like it at all. The tall windows admit a wash of aetherlight that illuminates the enormous four-poster bed with black sheets. Past that is a comfy-looking dark leather chair covered in stacks of books. The red roses have climbed nearly every inch of his walls and ceiling, still open and in bloom even in the darkness.

The Wolf doesn’t give me time to process my surroundings. Just carries me into the adjoining bathing chamber and sets me on my feet beside a sunken tub big enough for his wings.

Steam curls from the water as he fills the bath and gathers some bottles. The warmth licks at my skin, chilled after all that time spent naked in the elements.

He eases us both in, settling me between his thighs. I tip my head back with a sigh as floral-scented steam curls around me. A shiver rolls through me as his fingers thread through my hair, untangling the snarled mess with surprising care.

“Too much?” he asks.

“No.” I fidget, trying to tamp down the emotions battering around my ribcage. “Just new.”

“Lean back. Let me take care of you.”

So I do. He works the soap into a lather and glides his palms over my spine. He’s meticulous in his attention, as if he’s trying to memorize me in this rare, soft moment. Cataloging all my injuries. His power reaches for me, sliding across my skin and healing the bruises from his hands, the places where branches sliced into my skin during the run, the cuts on my palms, my injured feet. Comforting. Soothing.

He reaches for my inner thighs, and I tense, bracing. Ready to shore up the cracks broken open by his gentle hands.

“Easy. This is just…” He exhales, and it sounds oddly unsteady. “This isn’t about getting you wound up again. Just cleaning you off and making sure you’re all right.”

Holding my breath, I let my legs fall open.

The Wolf slides his hand along my inner thighs and I bite back a moan as he gently brushes fingers along my pussy, his magic soothing the soreness before he backs off. His palms smooth over my skin in circles. So careful with me, almost reverent as he washes my breasts, my belly. There is no demand in the drag of his fingers, no seduction. No intent beyond the act of caring for me.

It’s unbearable. Tenderness has no place between us. I should pull away, armor myself. Yet, as I tilt my head to study his face, the words wither. Our gazes catch and hold. The pad of his thumb finds my bottom lip, dragging until my mouth falls open on a sigh. Something complicated twists his features.

“You’re too quiet,” he says. He seems almost uncertain. “Did I hurt you?”

“No more than I wanted.”

The Wolf’s eyes flicker between mine. “Then what’s happening in that head of yours? Trying to convince yourself that this was a horrible idea? That you should have said ishkah before I had you up against that rock?”

“I was just thinking that for someone so dangerous, you’re far too good at being soft.”

“Only for you.” He strokes the damp hair from my brow and cups my cheek. “Temporary insanity brought on by rut-fever.”

“Is that all it is?”

“What else would it be?”

I don’t have an answer for that. Not one I’m willing to give.

His mouth finds mine, the kiss an unhurried glide of lips and tongue. Lush and intoxicating. So different from the way he claimed me before, all violence and desperation.

When he finally lifts his head, I’m dizzy. Drunk on the feel and taste of him.

“When you’re like this,” I whisper, “I have to remind myself.”