Page 33 of North’s Claim

Her voice shudders. “You saved me, North. No one ever cared. I think no one even knew what he was doing.”

My voice drops to a growl. “No. Bullet had no idea. But he will eventually.” And when he does, there won’t be a hole deep enough for Myka to crawl into.

Her voice trembles. Her words cut. And I just listen. I let every fucking piece of her pain settle in my bones like shrapnel. I hold it all, because someone should have long before I came along, and when she finishes, her body starts to curl into itself like she’s waiting for rejection. Instead, I reach for her. She inches closer, heart in her throat, I can feel it in the tremble of her limbs, in the way her breath halts halfway up her chest. She’s nervous. I should stop. I should give her the space to breathe, to pull away but when her eyes meet mine, there’s no fear. Just fire and want.

I thread my fingers through the back of her hair and pull her in, crashing my mouth to hers like I’ve been starving for her because I have. This isn’t a kiss. It’s a fucking reckoning. A claim carved in hunger and need, in every sleepless night I’ve spent trying to hold myself back.

And she gives in like I’m the first breath after drowning.

Her lips part, soft and gasping. Her hands cling to my shoulders like I’m the only steady thing left in the world. Every sound she makes rips right through me. I take it all, her moans, her sighs, the way her thighs tremble as I pull her onto my lap.

Then I feel her: bare, hot, and slick.

No fucking barrier.

My cock throbs so hard I nearly lose it right here. She bites her lip, blushing and bold all at once. I roll my hips once, slow, dragging the thick ridge of my cock against her soaked heat. Her body jolts, a gasp hitching in her throat, and it feeds the monster inside me.

“This,” I growl, cupping the back of her neck, “is your doing. All of it.” I drag my mouth over hers. “And you’re fucking perfect, Nyxa. Don’t let anyone, or yourself, say otherwise.”

A tear slips down her cheek and hits my skin like fire. She leans back, never breaking eye contact, and slowly peels my shirt off her frame. One inch at a time.

My breath stalls in my lungs.

Fuck, Firefly.

Her skin glows in the moonlight. Soft curves, a body shaped by scars and survival. She’s fucking art, and she has no idea.

I sit up, ignoring the pain screaming through my torso, and press my mouth to her sternum. Then her ribs. Then each faint scar that’s ever told a story no one listened to.

She shivers.

“North…” she breathes, and her voice breaks on my name.

I grip her hips, lining myself at her entrance, and pause because this moment is more than just want. It’s trust and power. It’s hers to give.

And when she nods, small, brave, trembling, I press inside her.

Slow.

Deep.

Her breath catches and her nails dig into my shoulders as her body stretches around me, taking me inch by inch until I’m fully seated inside her.

Her head falls forward against mine, clutches me like I’m her anchor but I’m the one fucking drowning.

I hold still, trembling with restraint.

“Tell me to stop.”

“Don’t you dare,” she whispers back, tears still wet on her lashes. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

So I move.

And we find each other in the rhythm, her breath syncing with mine, her body arching, matching, meeting every thrust like she’s meant to be here. With me.

We don’t fuck.

We heal.