“Maybe I am stupid. But at least I’m not blind.” She began walking toward me slowly as she spoke, one step after another, her voice steady even as her eyes shimmered.
“You’re the only person in my life who doesn’t pretend. I’d rather have one real moment with you than a lifetime of lies with them.”
She stopped right in front of my chest, looking up with those wide, desperate eyes.
I should’ve pushed her away. Should’ve protected her from myself. Instead, I took her face in my hands, thumb wiping the tear from her cheek like it belonged to me.
“We’ll both pay for this,” I murmured. “You know that, right?”
She nodded. “I’m willing to take the chance.”
And fuck me, I was already too far gone. Too addicted to her to do the right thing.
I kissed her.
This time it was slow. Deep. My hands cradled her jaw, her neck, drawing her closer like I needed the contact just to stay standing.
She melted into me, lips parting for more.
I lifted her gently, without the fury that had gripped me earlier. This time, it wasn’t about power. It wasn’t about dominance. It was something slower, heavier—something that threatened to unravel everything I thought I knew about control.
I carried her to my bedroom, never breaking the kiss, never loosening my grip.
She wanted the reaper. And the reaper wanted her just as fucking badly.
13
The First and the Last
—Kira—
He set me down on the bed and followed me there, his weight settling between my thighs, braced on his forearms like he was holding himself back by sheer will. His mouth stayed on mine—his tongue sliding against mine, retreating, returning, like he was tasting instead of taking. Every pause felt intentional, controlled, and it made my body ache.
My heart was racing so hard it felt loud in my ears. I was hyperaware of everything—his breath on my lips, the heat rolling off him, the tension locked in his shoulders—as if my nerves had been stripped raw and left exposed.
His hands slid up my sides beneath the hoodie, palms spreading over my ribs, thumbs pressing just enough to make me inhale sharply. He kissed me again, deeper, then pulled back to look at me—eyes dark, focused, hungry.
I swallowed.
When he lifted the hem of the hoodie and pushed it up slowly, the cool air brushed my skin and I shivered. His gaze tracked every inch he revealed, unblinking, like he was memorizing me.
“Red lace,” he murmured, almost to himself.
I felt exposed and powerful all at once. “I didn’t plan it,” I said, voice barely there.
He didn’t answer. His hand closed around my breast through the fabric, grip firm, thumb pressing until a sharp, electric jolt shot through me—and then, as if he caught himself, he loosened his hold, smoothing his palm over me instead. That contrast—claiming, then careful—made my breath stutter.
He pushed the bra down and bent his head, mouth closing around my nipple. Slow. Wet. The scrape of his stubble sent a shock straight through my spine and I arched into him, a broken sound leaving my throat. My fingers threaded into his soft hair, as if I needed the touch to ground myself while he pulled pleasure from places I hadn’t known could feel like this.
When his teeth grazed the sensitive curve of my breast, my breath caught—sharp, involuntary—then he kissed the spot again, softer this time, his lips lingering like an apology he didn’t know how to say out loud.
I watched him, dazed, heart trembling. This wasn’t how he’d been before. Last time, he made me choke on him—held me down, used me, didn’t even hesitate. But now? He was trying. I could see it in the way he hesitated. The way his hands, rough and capable of destruction, softened every time they touched me. He was holding himself back. Fighting some war beneath the surface I couldn’t fully understand.
“You don’t have to be gentle,” I whispered, heat flooding my face.
He froze for half a second. Then he lifted his head, eyes locking onto mine.
“I’m trying not to break you. Don’t make it harder,” he said quietly.
