Page 118 of The Beast

I squirm until he lets me up, then I straddle him, his cock hard against my ass as I let my hands roam over his torso. Every scar, every ridge of muscle, every place that makes him gasp when I press my mouth to it after my hand maps the way. Not tender, but wild with teeth and hunger and need. To have him. And—oh, dear god, yes—to be had.

This isn’t tender. This isn’t controlled.

This is something else entirely.

He takes me completely apart. Every touch is electric, every kiss feels like a bruise. And when he finally thrusts inside me, I feel the last wall between us crumbling to dust.

We move together like we’re trying to crawl inside each other’s skin. Like if we get close enough, nothing can tear us apart again. His hands are everywhere—my hips, my breasts, my throat. Claiming. Possessing. And I give him everything, holding nothing back, meeting his intensity with my own.

When I shatter, his name tears out of me like a violent prayer. He follows moments later, his whole body shuddering, his face buried in my neck.

For a long time, neither of us moves. We just breathe together, tangled on the narrow cot, his weight pressing me into the thin mattress. I don’t mind. I want to feel him everywhere.

Eventually, he rolls to his side, pulling me with him so we’re facing each other. The wild light has faded from his eyes, replaced by something softer. Something almost peaceful.

“I love you,” he says quietly. “I loved you when I thought I hated you. And I’ll love you until there’s nothing left of me.”

“Then don’t let there be nothing left.” I trace my fingers along his jaw, feeling the bruise forming there. “Don’t let the beast consume you. Don’t let my father win.”

Something shifts in his expression. Sharpens.

“Is that what you’re afraid of? That I’ll kill him?”

“I’m afraid you’ll destroy yourself trying.” I press my forehead to his. “I just got you back, Gabriel. I can’t lose you again. Not to death. Not to prison. Not to the darkness.”

He’s quiet for a moment, his hand stroking slow circles on my back.

“I do want him dead,” he finally says. “Every time I think about what he did, what he would have done to you⁠—”

“I know.” I kiss him softly. “I know. But want and action aren’t the same thing. You can want him dead and still choose to let the courts handle it. You can be the beast and still decide what the beast does.”

He stares at me for a long moment. Then something in his face breaks open—not grief this time, but something else. Something that looks almost like hope. He pulls me closer, tucks my head under his chin, and I feel his chest rise and fall beneath my cheek. For this one moment, the beast is quiet. The darkness is at bay.

This is what we’re fighting for.

Us. A life we can build together.

I just have to hope he’s brave enough to choose it.