Page 146 of She Who Was Severed

From his coat, he pulls a strip of black cloth.

My breath catches.

“Do you trust me?” he asks, voice low.

“I’ve never trusted anyone else.”

His brow lifts. “Then let me show you what worship looks like.”

He steps in close and lifts the cloth. I don’t move. Just let him. He ties it over my eyes, slow and careful, like he’s done it before in his head. The fabric brushes my lashes. His fingers graze my cheek. Then darkness settles in—warm at first, then total.

His breath touches my temple.

I hear the shift of his boots on stone. Then—nothing.

Except him.

His hands at the hem of my shirt. Up, over, gone. His touch is measured, not hesitant. Reverent, not soft. He maps my skin like a prayer he’s repeated in silence a thousand times.

Then his fingers slide down my arms. He gathers my wrists, brings them together above my head. The cloth wraps around them next—firm, slow, deliberate. No tension. Just the kind of hold that says: you chose this.

And gods, I did.

Then—

A drop.

Wax. Hot. Clean.

It lands just below my collarbone, and everything inside me jumps. My breath stutters. My knees almost give. The heat doesn’t burn—it blooms. A slow ache that spreads outward, until I’m arching into it without meaning to.

Not pain.

Not exactly.

More like a claim. Like his fire remembered something mine tried to bury.

Another drop. Lower. It hits the peak of my breast—sharp, perfect, just enough to send a pulse through me that tightens everything low in my belly. My nipple hardens instantly, and I feel the rush between my legs like my body just opened.

His hand finds my hip, steadying me.

“You still with me?” he murmurs.

“More than ever,” I breathe—because gods, I am. Every inch of me is awake now, heat curling deep and low, my need bleeding into reverence.

He paints a trail of wax down my stomach. Slow. Sacred. Each breath I take is a surrender. The heat hardens as it cools, but the feeling stays—a memory carved into skin.

His hands follow. Then his mouth.

Gods. His mouth.

He kisses over wax and flesh with a kind of hunger that doesn’t rush. Like he wants to remember this in every life that comes after.

My hands try to lower without thought. He catches them. Laces our fingers. Presses them back above my head.

He’s not restraining me.

He’s holding me steady.