Almost.
His knot swells further—not fully formed yet, but close, so fucking close to the point of no return.
We're both shaking.
Both gasping for air like we've been underwater for too long.
Staring at each other with expressions that are equal parts terror and wonder.
This is the moment.
The moment where we should pull apart, separate our bodies, protect ourselves from a bond that would complicate everything.
But neither of us moves.
We just stay frozen—me impaled on his cock, him buried inside me, his knot pressing insistently at my entrance like it knows exactly what it wants and is tired of waiting for permission.
"Seraphine," he breathes, and my name on his lips sounds like a prayer.
Like a promise.
The beginning of something that will either save us both or destroy us completely.
I need to move.
Need to lift my hips, separate our bodies, stop this before it goes too far.
The logical part of my brain—the part that's kept me alive this long—is screaming at me to pull away, to protect myself, to remember that bonds are permanent and I barely know him beyond ink on paper. But my body won't cooperate.
My thighs are shaking too hard, muscles gone liquid from the orgasm still rippling through me in fading waves.
And his knot—fuck, his knot is swelling at the base of his cock, pressing against my entrance with every small movement, threatening to lock us together in a way that can't be undone.
One-two-three-four.
My fingers tap against his chest—four beats, even number, safe.
One-two-three-four.
I try to count my breaths, but they're coming too fast, too shallow, panic and arousal mixing into something I can't name.
One-two-three-four.
The counting isn't helping.
Because I can feel him inside me—still hard, still pulsing with aftershocks, his knot growing larger with every second I stay impaled on him. My body is responding instinctively, producing more slick, my inner walls fluttering around his length like they're trying to coax that knot fully inside where it belongs.
Where it doesn't belong.
Where it absolutely fucking cannot go.
I force my eyes open—didn't realize I'd closed them—and look down at Sage.
He's already looking at me.
His green-gold eyes with their flicker of pink flakes are locked on mine with an intensity that steals whatever breathI'd managed to catch. There's something in his gaze that I recognize because I see it every time I look in the mirror—a depth of loneliness so profound it has its own gravity. The kind of isolation that comes from being fundamentally different, fundamentally broken, fundamentally unlovable in a world that demands perfection.
He sees me.
