Page 15 of The Demon Kept Me

We've gone down at dusk to see for ourselves what the auger's been doing to the old timbers, and Malvek's reaching deep beneath the waterline to feel out a support when the current shoves a splintered board across his forearm. He doesn't so much as flinch — of course he doesn't, he's spent since the mill took me pretending pain is beneath his notice — but I see the dark blood welling through the flour dust on his skin, and I'm not having it.

"Up," I tell him. "Now. Before you bleed into the river and call it stubbornness."

"It's nothing."

"It's an open wound and you're covered in mud. Up."

He comes, grumbling, because he's learned by now that I don't lose these particular fights. Back in the warm sitting room with the fire drawing well, I sit him down on the mended chair — it groans under him, but it holds, I built it to — and I fetch the clean cloth and the small pot of salve and I take his great clawed forearm into my lap to see the damage.

It's long, but not deep. Already it's closing at the edges faster than any human wound would; demon flesh knits quick. Still, I clean it carefully, wiping the grit away, and he freezes under my hands the way he always does when I touch him, like he's afraid the smallest motion might frighten me off.

"You don't have to do this," he says quietly. It's what he always says.

"I know." It's what I always say. And then, because the fire is warm and the night is close and I am tired of us both hiding behind the same worn words, I add, "But I want to. I always want to. When are you going to believe that I mean it?"

His hand turns over in mine. Slowly. Claws curling in so they can't catch my skin, until his palm is open beneath my fingers.

"When I bought you," he says, low, "I told myself it was practical. A worker for the winter. Nothing more." His crimson eyes lift to mine, and there's no armor in them now, none of the careful distance he wears like a second apron. "I have been lying to myself for weeks, Wren. I dread the road every time a cart comes through that yard. I lie awake certain that one morning I'll wake and you'll be gone, off to some warmer town with softer company, and I'll go back to being the thing this village crosses the street to avoid. I have not been so afraid of anything in years as I am of losing you."

The fire pops. My heart is going so hard I'm certain he can hear it, with those sharp ears of his.

"I'm not going anywhere," I tell him, and my voice shakes. "Do you understand me? I've been passed hand to hand my whole life, sold and traded and never once asked what I wanted. And then a terrifying demon buys me out of the rain and gives me three rules and mends my boots in secret and weaves me a cloak the color of oak leaves, and never once, not one single time, makes me feel like something he owns." I press my hand flat to the broad warmth of his chest, over the slow heavy thunder of a heart far larger than mine. "I have never in my life felt safe with anyone, Malvek. Until you. I've never wanted to stay anywhere. Until here."

Something breaks open in his face — the last wall, the one he's held against me since the first rainy night — and he lifts his uninjured hand and cups my jaw with a tenderness that shouldn't be possible from a creature built to break things, the pad of one claw impossibly gentle against my cheek.

"Tell me to stop," he says roughly, "and I will. I'll never⁠—"

"Don't you dare stop."

So he doesn't.

He kisses me like a beast trying to remember how to be human, a desperate, starving heat that he tries so hard to leash. But the moment I fist my hands in his shirt and pull him down, his restraint cracks. I can feel the terrifying, raw power vibrating in his chest, a lethal strength entirely bent to gentleness, and the sheer care of it unstrings my knees more than roughness ever could. When we finally part, I am dizzy, panting and laughing against his mouth, while a low, rolling sound of pure wonder echoes deep in his throat.

"Upstairs," I whisper against his lips.

He scoops me up effortlessly, his massive arms cradling my thighs as I wrap myself around his towering frame. He carries me up the narrow stairs, the heavy thud of his boots rhythmic and deliberate, leading to the warm room above the wheel.

When he puts me on the bed, the firelight catches the markings on his dark skin, making them bleed a faint, molten gold at the edges. I reach up, tracing one glowing line right over his collarbone. He goes absolutely rigid.

"Does that hurt?" I ask.

"No." His voice drops, a deep baritone that shakes my ribs. "The opposite. It makes me want to tear this house down."

I work the leather apron off his broad shoulders, then the shirt beneath, exposing eight feet of pure muscle, silvered scars, and glowing chaos magic. When I place my flat palm to his chest, his heart is hammering.

He strips me with that same maddening care, treating my clothes like fragile silk, but when I am completely bare, his crimson eyes turn predatory. Behind him, his tail sweeps slow against my calf, heavy and warm, its thick heat making me shiver.

"You're certain," he growls, his gaze drilling into mine. "Once I am inside you, I will not stop."

"I’ve never been more certain," I breathe, pulling him down.

He hovers over me, bracing his immense weight on his forearms. He doesn't touch me with his hands yet; instead, he lowers his massive head and buries his face in my neck, his hot breath scalding my skin. Then, with excruciating slowness, he drags the flat, smooth side of one claw down the center of my chest, trailing between my breasts and down to my navel. The sheer control behind that sharp edge makes me arch into him, crying out as a heavy ache settles deep between my thighs.

He shifts lower, his massive knees parting my legs wide, pinning my thighs flush against the mattress. When his mouth finds my center, the broad, wet stroke of his tongue is devastating. He laps greedily at my heat, swallowing my whimpers, before sliding two thick, heavy fingers in deep. The stretch is massive, pulling my walls to their absolute limit as he hooks them upward, relentlessly milking my g-spot.

Simultaneously, the plush, warm tip of his tail slides between my lips from behind, pressing and grinding directly over my swollen clit in a heavy, rhythmic friction. Locked between the deep thrust of his fingers, the wet heat of his mouth, and the crushing pressure, the tension snaps. I scream his name into the dark, my pussy convulsing hard around his fingers, soaking his hand as I come apart.

He waits out the tremors, lapping up every drop of my release before rising over me. His markings are blazing a brilliant, blinding gold now, and the heat pouring off him fills the whole room.