The room glowed low with half-melted candlelight, the shadows creeping like witnesses too spellbound to look away.
Seraphina stood at the edge of her bed, robe slung off her shoulders, silk clinging to the curve of her spine like it wanted to stay loyal—but she'd already betrayed it.
She didn't turn when she heard Rhys behind her.
Didn't move.
Didn't need to.
She owned the air now, and he was just learning how to breathe in it.
He reached for her slowly, like a man trying not to startle a god.
His fingers brushed her bare back, just above her waist—light enough to question if it happened at all.
She inhaled like he'd just answered a dare.
He bent to her shoulder, lips pressed there.
She turned to face him, calm and lethal.
He kissed her like she was the last good thing in a broken world—like his mouth had been waiting for hers since before he had a name. She pulled him closer with a hand in his hair and a command in her breath.
"You don't get to break me," she whispered.
"I wouldn't dare," he said, voice wrecked.
"Then kneel. And earn it."
He dropped.
Not because she asked.
Because he wanted to remember what it felt like to fall for something bigger than himself.
She laid back on the bed like a woman being worshipped exactly the way she deserved. One thigh exposed, head tilted, eyes half-lidded like a flame deciding who it wanted to burn.
He kissed his way up her leg—slow, reverent, almost trembling.
And when he finally laid over her, chest against hers, he didn't thrust. He prayed. His body moved like a storm held in by the thinnest silk—tension wrapped in skin and surrender.
Their mouths never stopped.
Their rhythm wasn't fast.
It was devastating.
He didn't make love to her.
He handed himself over like a man who didn't know who he was anymore—and didn't care.
And when he collapsed beside her, breath shallow and lips parted, she looked at him with nothing but quiet amusement.
Because she didn't say "I love you."
She didn't need to.
She'd already made him feel it—and refused to give it back.