Chapter 25 My Woman

Chapter 25 My Woman
I didn't take the main stairs instead I remembered a narrow servant’s staircase near the laundry room from my brief, conscious wandering earlier.

My breath came in shallow, jagged hitches. The oversized hoodie felt too heavy on me, yet it was the only thing keeping the encroaching chill of the fever at bay. I reached the heavy oak side door. It was locked, but the key was sitting right there on the hook. He truly believed I was too broken to move.

The cold air hit me and I took a deep breath.

I stumbled into the night, the grass damp and freezing against my toes. I didn't head for the woods, I wasn't that suicidal, but toward the high stone perimeter wall that bordered the main road. If I could just reach the pavement, maybe a passing truck, maybe a stranger who didn't know about rituals or bloodlines...

I was halfway across the lawn when the world tilted.

A wave of nausea rolled over me, and the "mark" Azran spoke of flared. It felt like a hot iron branding the inside of my ribs. I gasped, collapsing to my knees, digging my fingernails into the dirt.

"Going somewhere, little one?"

The voice didn't come from behind me. It came from the shadows directly ahead.

Azran stepped out from the gloom of a weeping willow, his silhouette cutting a terrifying figure against the moonlight. He wasn't wearing his jacket anymore; his white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with tension. He looked less like a businessman and more like the warlord he claimed to be.

My eyes widened, trying to crawl backward. “Azran…”

In three strides, he was over me. He didn't grab me roughly; he reached down and hooked his arms under mine, hoisting me up until my feet dangled off the ground.

"I told you," he whispered, his face inches from mine, his eyes burning with a dark, predatory hunger. "I am the lesser of two evils. But you’ve pushed me past the point of being 'lesser.'"

"Let me go!" I thrashed, kicking at his shins, but it was like hitting granite.

He didn't say another word. He slung me over his shoulder like a sack of grain and marched back toward the house. I beat my fists against his back, screaming until my voice went hoarse, but he ignored me until we reached his bedroom.

He threw me onto the black satin sheets. The impact didn't hurt, but the finality of it shattered me. Before I could scramble to the other side, he was on the bed, pinning my wrists above my head with a single hand.

"You want to talk about rights?" he growled, his body a heavy, crushing heat over mine. "You walked into the woods. You let him mark you. And now you’re dying in my house, wearing my clothes, and trying to run into the arms of the man who wants to skin you alive."

"I'd rather be dead than be your cure!" I spat, though tears were blurring my vision.

"You don't get to choose anymore," he hissed. "If I don't claim what’s mine tonight, there won't be enough of you left to bury."

His other hand reached down, gripping the hem of the hoodie, his hoodie and dragging it up. The friction of the fabric against my sensitized skin felt like electricity. I tried to twist away, but he shifted his weight, his thigh pinning mine down, trapping me in the dip of the mattress.

"Azran, please," I whimpered, the defiance finally breaking into pure, raw fear.

He paused, his gaze dropping to my lips, then to the pulse jumping frantically in my throat. His expression softened, but not with mercy, it was the look of a man who had finally accepted his own darkness.

"You think this is just about a ritual, Elara? You think I’m doing this because I have to?" He leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of my ear. "I’ve wanted to erase his touch from you since the moment I saw those scratches on your legs. I’m not just balancing a bond. I’m destroying his ghost in your blood."

He let go of my wrists, but I didn't run. I couldn't. The fever had turned my bones to liquid, and the way he looked at me, with such terrifying, absolute possession, made a traitorous ache bloom deep in my stomach.  

His hand slid under the small of my back, arching me toward him. When his mouth finally crashed against mine, I moaned unconsciously. It was an invasion. It tasted of salt and sandalwood and a desperate, violent need.  

I tried to fight it for a second, my hands pushing against his chest, but then the mark inside me reacted. It was like a lock finding its key. A hum started in my chest, a resonance that drowned out my thoughts. My fingers curled into his shirt, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away.

He groaned into my mouth, a low, guttural sound of victory. He moved with a brutal efficiency, stripping away the remaining barriers until it was just skin against skin, the coolness of the satin sheets contrasting with the inferno of his body.

"Look at me," he commanded, pulling back just enough to see my face.

I opened my eyes, my breath coming in ragged gasps.

"I am the one saving you," he whispered, his eyes dark with a mixture of rage and desire. "Remember that when you scream my name. It isn't him. It’s me."

We were two broken things feeding on the only life we had left, each other. There was only the weight of him, the fire in my blood, and the terrifying realization that I was no longer running. I was falling.

The world began to blur at the edges, the grey walls of the room spinning into a vortex of shadows and fever. My lungs felt too small for the air I was trying to pull in, and my heart was a frantic drumbeat against my ribs. The exhaustion from the escape, the terror, and the rising heat in my blood finally took their toll. My head fell back against the pillows, my eyes rolling as the darkness started to pull me under.

But Azran wasn’t letting me drift.

"Don't you dare close your eyes."

He wasn't gentle. There was no room for tenderness in the war he was fighting within my body. He grabbed the thick fabric of the hoodie, the one I’d stolen to hide in, and bunched it up in his fists. His fingers found my breasts through the heavy material, his grip bruising and proprietary. He pinched my nipples hard between his thumb and forefinger, the sharp bolt of pain through the fabric forcing a jagged gasp from my throat, dragging me back from the brink of unconsciousness.

I whimpered, my hands flailing weakly against his shoulders, but he was an anchor of pure, aggressive heat.

"Look at me," he demanded again, his knee forcing my legs wider, pinning me into the mattress.

His hand slid down, heavy and certain, cupping me firmly. The shock of his palm against my center was like a jolt of electricity. He wasn't light about it; his fingers pressed deep, claiming the space, asserting a dominance that made my breath hitch in a way that wasn't just fear anymore. It was a terrifying, primal response to the sheer force of him.

He shifted, his weight crushing me into the black satin, and for a moment, I saw the man truly, not the protector, not the savior, but the beast who had finally caught his prey. As the last of my strength flickered out and the darkness finally claimed me, the last thing I felt was the possessive, bruising grip of his hands, ensuring that even in sleep, I knew exactly who owned my breath.