“I know,” I say.
“You could change your mind,” he continues. “Tomorrow. Or when the councils turn colder. Or when the cost becomes clearer.”
“I already know the cost,” I answer. “I’m paying it whether we name this or not.”
“This isn’t how your Matriarchs would do it,” I whisper.
“No,” he says. “This is older. Primal. This is the easiest purest form. Calming bite. Before the rituals, this is how this was done. And has nothing to do with what the bond wants. It's about us deciding, choosing each other.”
“This isn’t about what the bond wants,” I add. “This is about what I want.”
His eyes flick to my throat, then back to my face. “Say it.”
“I want to be chosen,” I say. “Not because we’re bound. Not because it stabilizes magic or frightens councils. I want you to choose me knowing exactly what it means.”
Silence stretches, heavy and reverent.
“And if I do,” he asks quietly, “you won’t regret it?”
“I won’t,” I promise. “Not now. Not ever.”
Something shifts in him then, control giving way not to hunger, but to trust.
He steps closer, resting his forehead against mine. “If I accept this,” he murmurs, “it is not because you offered. It is because I want you. Fully. Without retreat.”
I close the last inch between us, my voice a whisper against his mouth.
“Then accept it.”
For a long moment, he doesn’t move.
Then he nods.
His golden eyes flare. “Is this your choice?”
“Yes.” The word is a sigh. “Make me yours.”
A groan escapes him, part reverence, part hunger. He doesn’t lunge. He descends. His lips find the frantic pulse at my throat first, kissing it softly, a benediction. His tongue traces a hot, wet path. I clutch at his shoulders, my fingers digging into the firm muscle there, feeling the strange, powerful junction where wing meets back.
Then I feel the sharp, exquisite prick.
It isn’t pain. It is a piercing, precise and deep sensation, followed by an immediate, shocking wave of pleasure. It radiates from the point of connection, a molten heat that floods my veins, coils low in my belly, and makes my thighs clench. My back arches off the bed, a moan ripping from my throat.
Oh, gods.
He drinks, and with each pull, the bond between us doesn’t just hum, it sings, a resonant chord that tunes my entire being to his. I feel his awe, his fierce, possessive joy. I feel my own pleasure echoing back to him, amplified. It is a feedback loop of sensation, utterly intimate, more profound than any physical joining.
When he finally seals the wound with a slow, tender lick, the world swims. I am boneless, aching, yearning. He pulls back, his lips stained crimson, his eyes blazing with a satisfied, dark fire. The mate bond settles into my soul, a permanent, golden thread.This isn’t the bond beginning. It’s the moment it becomes irreversible.
“I am yours,” I whisper, my own desire a frantic beat. I fumble with the ties of his tunic, my movements clumsy. He helps me, shrugging the fabric off, revealing the pale, sculpted expanse of his chest. My hands are everywhere, learning the planes of him, the coolness of his skin warming under my touch. He lays me back, his weight a delicious anchor.
“Mine,” he states, the word a fundamental truth.
“Yours,” I echo, my voice ragged.
He kisses me, and I taste my own blood, metallic and intimate, on his tongue. It is the most erotic thing I have ever experienced. His hands close over my breasts, his thumbs circling my nipples, which are already hard and aching. Sharp bolts of pleasure shoot straight to my clit, and I whimper into his mouth.
His wings spread above us before settling, their tips brushing the floor. His body covers mine, the hard length of his erection pressing insistently against my thigh through his trousers.
