Page 20 of Kingdom of Darkness and Dragons
"I'm so angry with you," I whispered against her cheek. "For lying, for not trusting me enough to tell me the truth. For making me fall in love with you when you knew it was impossible."
"I know," she whispered back. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"And I don't care." The admission came out fierce, desperate. "I should care. I should walk away right now and never look back. But I can't. I love you too much."
I kissed her again, pouring all of my confusion and anger and overwhelming relief into the contact. She responded immediately, her mouth opening under mine, her tongue meeting mine with an urgency that set my blood on fire.
This was madness. She was everything I couldn't afford to want—dangerous, illegal, a threat to everything I'd built here. But as her hands slid up my chest and into my hair, as she pressed closer until there was no space left between us, I found I didn't care about any of it.
"Tell me again," I demanded against her lips. "Tell me you love me."
"I love you," she breathed, and the words hit me like a physical blow. "I love you, Jalend. I've loved you for months, and I've been dying without you."
Something broke open in my chest at her confession, something that had been locked away and guarded since the moment she'd told me about the other men. The jealousy, the hurt, the sense of betrayal—none of it mattered now. She loved me. She had chosen to tell me the truth, had risked everything to give me honesty, and she loved me.
That was all I needed to hear. The words were a brand on my soul, burning away the last vestiges of reason. I backed her against the door, my body pressing hers into the hard wood, needing to feel every inch of her, to erase the weeks of cold distance between us. The kiss became a battle, a desperate,frantic attempt to devour her, to absorb her into my very being so I could never lose her again.
My hands moved from her face, down her neck, to the collar of her torn training tunic. I needed to see. To touch the truth of her. With a guttural growl, I ripped the rough fabric, tearing it away to bare her shoulder and the top of her chest. The network of silvery scars stood out against her skin, a map of the hell she had endured. They weren't ugly. They were beautiful. They were her.
I lowered my head, my lips tracing the raised line of a particularly vicious-looking scar just above her collarbone. She shuddered, a sob catching in her throat, but she didn’t pull away. I kissed each mark I could reach, each one a testament to her strength, a story of survival that humbled me to my core. This was the woman I loved. Not in spite of these wounds, but because of them. I tore at the laces of her torn training leathers, needing to feel her skin against mine, to erase the memory of the weeks we'd been apart with the reality of her here, now. I pushed her clothing aside, cupping her breasts in my hands as I kissed her again.
Her skin was soft beneath my hands, a stark contrast to the hardened ridges of scar tissue that crossed her ribs. She was all contradictions—unyielding warrior and yielding woman, broken and yet more whole than anyone I had ever known. My thumbs brushed over her nipples, and they hardened instantly, a silent, willing response that sent a fresh wave of heat through my veins.
Her breath hitched, a soft, broken sound. "Jalend..."
I silenced her with my mouth, moving from her lips to her throat, then lower, tasting the salt of her skin. I licked a path down her sternum, my tongue tracing the faint, silvery lines of her past. When I took one hardened peak into my mouth, she cried out, her fingers tightening in my hair, her hips arching against mine in a desperate, involuntary rhythm. I slid my hands up her bare legs, finding her undergarments under her leathertunic and dragging them down and off, before dropping to my knees in front of her.
Lifting her leather skirt, I slipped my arm under her leg, lifting it over my shoulder. The position was one of utter vulnerability for her, and complete devotion for me. Her dark curls clung to her flushed skin, her lips parted on a silent gasp. My gaze was fixed on the soft, dark hair between her thighs, and the delicate folds of skin that I had only dreamed of seeing, of tasting. This was the core of her, the part of her that had been violated and used, and I would worship it until she forgot any touch but mine.
I leaned in, breathing in her scent.
My tongue traced the soft inner skin of her thigh, and she gasped, her leg trembling on my shoulder. Then I found her, the heart of her heat, and tasted her for the first time.
She was salt and sorrow and a desperate sweetness that was all her own. A flavour of survival. A raw cry tore from her throat as my tongue delved deeper, learning the slick, wet secrets of her body. Her hands came down to fist in my hair, not to push me away, but to pull me closer, her hips beginning to move in a frantic, searching rhythm against my mouth. This was not about sex. This was worship. I was memorizing her, branding the taste of her onto my soul so that I could never mistake it for another, so I could never again forget who she truly was.
I devoured her, my mouth and tongue working with a desperate, frantic rhythm. I licked and sucked, tracing the slick folds of her, learning every ridge and valley. I wanted to erase every memory of pain she had ever known, to replace it with this—with a pleasure so overwhelming it left no room for anything else. She was sobbing my name, the words incoherent, broken. Her release came with a strangled shriek, her inner muscles clenching around my tongue as her body convulsed. I held her tight, swallowing every drop of her, tasting her victory.
When the tremors finally subsided, she sagged against the door, her legs shaking so badly I wasn't sure they could hold her. Slowly, I rose, pulling her into my arms. She was a wreck, her body trembling with the aftershocks of her release, her face streaked with tears. She looked undone, utterly vulnerable, and my heart cracked open for her.
With a low groan, I swept her into my arms and carried her to the bed. The bed was only a few steps away, and I fell onto it with her, landing half on top of her, our limbs tangling in the rumpled sheets.
I pinned her beneath me, my hands on either side of her head, and looked down into her eyes. They were dark pools of want and fear and a desperate, dawning hope that mirrored my own.
“I want all of you, Livia,” I growled, my voice rough with an emotion I couldn't name. “Every broken piece. Every scar.”
Her answer wasn't in words, but in the way she arched her hips against mine, a silent, desperate plea. Her fingers dug into my shoulders, pulling me down until our mouths crashed together again. I fumbled with the fastenings of my own trousers, my hands shaking with a need so profound it bordered on pain. I needed to be inside her, to fill the hollow space that had been carved into my chest these past weeks, to join our broken pieces into something whole.
When I was finally free, I positioned myself between her legs. She opened for me without hesitation, her eyes locked on mine, dark and wide and trusting. The sight of her, so utterly surrendered to me, almost broke me.
She guided me with her hand, her touch both hesitant and sure. There was no artifice, no games, just a raw, mutual need. I pushed into her slowly, watching her face, my own breath catching as her body yielded, stretching to take me. She was so tight, so hot. I could feel the faint tremor in her muscles as she accepted all of me, welcoming me home. A choked gasp escapedher lips, and my own breath hitched. Every lie, every secret, every moment of pain fell away, leaving only this truth.
For a long moment, I didn’t move, just stayed buried deep inside her, feeling the frantic beat of her heart against my chest. Her eyes were locked with mine, and in their depths, I saw everything—the gladiator, the slave, the survivor, the woman who had fought for every breath she’d ever taken. And I saw the love she held for me, fierce and terrifying and utterly real. It was a revelation, a stripping away of all the artifice until only the raw, undeniable truth of us remained. She was giving me everything, all the broken, beautiful pieces of her soul that she had guarded for so long.
I began to move, a slow, deep rhythm that was less about pleasure and more about possession. Every thrust was a vow, a promise to protect this impossible, broken woman who had stolen my heart. Her legs wrapped around my waist, pulling me deeper, her body arching to meet mine. She was with me in every movement, a perfect, desperate echo of my own need. The friction of our bodies, the slide of skin on skin, was an agony of bliss. I watched her face, the way her lips parted on a silent gasp, the way her eyes fluttered closed as the pleasure began to build.
This was more than forgiveness. It was absolution. A baptism in the heat of her body, washing away the weeks of doubt and anger. I drove into her harder, faster, chasing a release that was as much spiritual as it was physical. Her legs wrapped around me, pulling me deeper and I obliged. She cried out my name, a broken, beautiful sound that was both plea and praise. Her nails dug into my back, scoring lines of fire across my skin, and I welcomed the pain. I lowered myself down, needing to feel her whole body against mine, her breasts crushed against my chest, our skin slick with sweat, sliding against each other. I kissed her again, my hands tangling in her hair.
Her hips rose to meet my thrusts, a frantic, desperate rhythm that matched the hammering of my own heart. The world outside this room, with its politics and its lies, ceased to exist. There was only the woman beneath me.
