Chapter 74 - Taken and Known

Chapter 74 - Taken and Known
Chapter 74 - Taken and Known

Jaquelyn

He hadn’t even drawn his next breath before she kissed him again, hard and deep, still tasting her blood on his lips. Her body felt alive in a way it hadn’t since turning — hot, vivid, immediate. There was no room for memory or fear, no echo of the Council or what came next. Just him. Just now.
She slid her hand down the center of his chest, following the path of ink and old scars, letting her nails drag lightly across the muscle beneath. He shivered under her touch, restraint beginning to slip, tension coiling in his arms where he gripped the bedding, a low sound vibrating in his throat — not quite a growl, but close.
He shifted beneath her, and when she rocked her hips forward in response, the pressure sent heat lancing up her spine. Her breath caught, sharp, and he responded instantly — hands locking onto her waist, grounding her as she kissed along his jaw, then lower, down his throat, until her mouth hovered over the place she’d just fed from. The skin there was healing fast, still warm, still marked by her.
His hands slid beneath her shirt, slow at first, then with more certainty. She lifted her arms in answer, and he pulled it over her head, letting it drop to the floor without ceremony. His eyes darkened as he looked at her — no hesitation, no shock — just that steady, molten heat that made her feel bared in ways that had nothing to do with nudity.
When he sat up and pressed his mouth to the center of her chest, her hand shot to his hair, gripping tight. She leaned back to give him room, breath shallow as he kissed between her breasts, then lower, his mouth dragging down her ribs and along the slope of her stomach with a reverence that made her legs tremble.
She shifted, impatient now, hips moving with restless intent as she tried to get closer, but her pants clung stubbornly to her hips, resisting every motion and keeping him just barely out of reach. He followed her movement, rolling her gently onto her back and settling between her legs with care — but the press of fabric still lingered between them, unwelcome and unrelenting. Their bodies aligned with a precision that felt inevitable, but as he rocked against her, her moan tangled with a frustrated hitch, her legs wrapping around his hips despite the damn barrier that still refused to yield.
He reached down, fingers curling under the waistband of both her pants and underwear, and began to ease them down together — slow, deliberate, reverent. She lifted her hips in silent permission, letting him strip the last barriers away in a single, fluid motion. Her legs brushed his shoulders as he moved, the fabric whispering down her calves, forgotten the moment it left her skin. She helped where she could, clumsy with urgency, breath shallow, eyes fixed on him as he settled back between her thighs. His mouth returned to her skin as his fingers parted her, slow but sure, finding the slick heat already waiting for him. She gasped again, sharper this time, her back arching as his thumb circled with maddening care.
"Please," she breathed — not weak, not pleading — just true. He rose just enough to strip away the last of his own barriers, the sound of fabric slipping away lost beneath her breath— then his hips pressed to hers, hot and unshielded, and every breath left her at once.
He didn’t tease.
He pressed into her with one smooth thrust, slow but complete, his breath catching as her body took him in. She bit her lower lip, fingers digging into his shoulders as the stretch slid from sharp to perfect, settling into a fullness that made her dizzy.
He stilled, forehead pressed to hers, as though grounding them both. She kissed him again, and that was all it took. He began to move.
Each thrust was deliberate, deep, dragging sensation through her like fire chased by velvet. Her nails scored his back, her mouth found his shoulder, and the rhythm built between them — not frantic, but consuming. Her body met him with every motion, every push and retreat, as though they had always known how to fit.
She whispered his name once, and something inside him broke. He groaned low in his throat, his pace faltering for a breath, then redoubling — more desperate now, more raw.
She shattered around him with a cry she couldn’t hold back, her body clenching tight, pulling him deeper into her as everything fractured into light and heat and nothing but him. He followed a breath later with a sound like he was coming undone, his head buried in her neck as he spilled into her, shaking.
They lay tangled in silence, skin to skin, the world gone still.
No words.
No need.
Just breath, weight, and the way his hand never left her skin.
She stayed still for a long moment — not because she couldn’t move, but because she didn’t want to. His body remained warm against hers, his breath slow and even now, grounding her in a silence that didn’t feel empty. It felt earned.
She turned slightly, propping herself on one elbow, and looked down at him. Really looked. Not just at his face, but all of him.
The light caught along the curve of his shoulder, casting half his body in shadow. Her fingers traced the ink winding across his chest, the scars that interrupted it, the quiet history etched into skin he never offered lightly. Her hand moved slowly, reverently, gliding over his sternum and the ridges of old wounds that had never quite faded. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just watched her with eyes dark and unreadable.
She touched his jaw next, then the arc of his cheekbone, the faint lines at the corners of his mouth. Her thumb brushed his bottom lip — slow and soft — and he let her. His expression didn’t change, but something in his body did — a loosening, a quiet permission.
She smoothed her palm over his face like she was trying to memorize the shape of him. Not just what he looked like. What he felt like. The weight of his presence beneath her hand.
“You’re beautiful,” she said, barely more than a whisper. Not for effect. Not for him. Just because it was true.
Still, he heard it. His eyes softened. His hand, still resting at her waist, slid up her side in answer.
And she let herself breathe him in again, eyes never leaving his face.
But the stillness didn’t last.
A sound cut through it — not loud, but wrong. Not in this room. Not in this hour. It wasn’t just sound. It was anger — vast, old, and rising from somewhere close enough to make the walls feel too thin.
He stilled beside her.
She sat up.
The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful. It was sharp.
And just like that, the world began to push back.