Chapter 190 – The Cross and the Breath
Ronan
The cabin holds its breath as Eli stands bare, the firelight licking up his sides like a thing that yearns to taste what its touching.
His scent threads the air. A sharp, dizzying mix of wolf, sweat, and the raw bite of wanting. I feel it crackling against my ribs, an ache that isn't pain, a hunger that doesn't know where it ends, or accepts that it never will.
When I return from checking the perimeter, he’s already circling the cross, fingers ghosting over the stained wood as if it’s holy.
“Are you going to make me ask?” he purrs. I don't answer, knowing there’s no need. His pupils are blown wide, skin flushed from pacing, from wanting, and that brat-slick mouth of his is already curling up in a familiar challenge.
“Alpha,” he says, dragging it out like it tastes good. “I’m bored.”
I stalk toward him, slow and measured, moving the way a predator moves when it knows the prey wants to be caught.
“No war to fight,” he continues, watching my chest rise. “No terrified allies to soothe. No noble declarations. Just me, bouncing off the walls while you play paperwork king.”
The moment I press a hand flat to his chest, he goes instantly still.
“You want to be used,” I murmur. “Say it.”
He leans in and his lips brush my throat, his voice is threadbare with need. “I want to be used. Hard. I want to be reminded who I belong to.”
I grip his jaw, tilting his face up until his neck stretches like an offering. “Strip. Now.”
He sheds his clothing fast, with a needy efficiency that proves his obedience is bone-deep, regardless of how sharp his clever mouth might be.
The cross waits behind him, bolted to the cabin floor, the black-stained wood holds leather straps fastened wide. It isn't a tool for punishment, it’s a frame for reverence.
I guide him to it with steady movements, taking my time because worship doesn't require speed.
He steps back into the cuffs willingly, arms raised, wrists secured, legs parted and bound. I check every strap twice, tightening them until they bite just enough. Eli's breathing grows harder and shallower the more trapped he becomes.
I drag my thumb across the taut leather securing his left ankle, testing the anchor point. The cuffs are thick and they press deep enough into his skin to leave a perfect red ridge.
He’s spread wide, vulnerable, exposing everything the cross demands of him. He shifts, a small, involuntary movement of his hips, and I read it for what it is. A shudder of both fear and relief that the choice is now entirely out of his hands. I lean in, my breath hot on the sensitive skin behind his ear. "Now, you belong completely to me and the wood," I state, my voice a low rumble just for him.
I palm his thigh and the muscle jumps under my touch.
“Fuck. Please.”
I step back to take him in. His skin is gold where the fire hits him, all pale skin and angles, soft in some places, hard in others.
His cock is already half-hard, twitching under my gaze, and the collar gleams at his throat, catching the light. The bond thrums beneath my skin and his need sings down the line like lightning waiting for a place to ground.
I start with touch, just my hands, palms, knuckles, and fingertips, mapping him, pressing into old bruises and fresh hunger.
I savor the slick heat rising off his skin, running my palms up the inner line of his ribs, feeling the sharp intake of breath. The firelight turns the pale expanse of his belly to molten bronze, and I feel the shiver when my knuckles drag across the line of hair leading down to his groin.
I moan when I drag a nail down his stomach, pressing just hard enough to leave a white track that immediately turns pink.
My mouth finds the curve of his shoulder, and I sink my teeth into it, whining softly against his skin as I scent him deeply.
This is the language of ownership. Teeth and pressure, scent and salt. I mark him slowly, bite after bite, not to wound, but to decorate. Each bruise a deep note in a song only we know the words to. I trail my tongue over the sharp line of his hip bone, down to the soft, trembling flesh of his inner thigh, reminding him how exposed he is.
He starts to pant. “Harder, Ronan. I can take it.”
I press two fingers into his mouth. “That’s not what this is.”
His tongue curls around them like he’s made to obey, his teeth scraping faintly against my skin in a familiar, desperate plea. My other hand strokes down his chest, brushes the tip of his cock, then leaves him untouched again, a carefully calculated torment. He groans low, an unhappy sound that sparks my own rising rut.
I turn my attention below, slicking my fingers with the already present moisture between his thighs. I push two inside him without warning. His entire body arches, a helpless, glorious motion, and he curses violently, his breath hissing out.
I don't stop. I scissor him open slowly, pressing deep, feeling the resistant heat of him yield. When I find the spot that makes him shiver like a string plucked hard, I press my thumb over his collarbone and hold him still, grinding my fingers into the sensitive flesh.
“Ronan-” His voice cracks like lightning, the plea ripping out of him. “Please. Fuck. Need you. In me. Right. Fucking. Now!”
I bare my teeth against the side of his throat, rut-thick and half-feral. “Say it again.”
“Need you.” His voice breaks, high and shaking. “Need you inside. Need to feel… Need you to take me. Make me yours, fuck, just-”
I don't give him the rest. I grab his hips and drive into him in one long, claiming thrust.
The sound he makes is animal. Beautiful. Terrified of how good it feels.
I still for a heartbeat, feeling the clutch of him around me, the way his body knows me even when his mouth tries to outpace his surrender. Then I start to move.
Hard. Deep. Endless.
Each stroke hits the spot inside him that makes his knees want to give even when they’re already restrained. His head knocks back against the wood, neck arched, body twitching with every brutal, measured thrust.
“You were made for this,” I rasp into his ear. “Made for my cock, for this cross, for being ruined until you forget your own name.”
He’s sobbing now. Drowning in sensation.
His cock leaks untouched, straining against the edge of release, and I don't touch him. Not until he begs like he means it and regrets ever calling me boring.
“Please,” he whispers, voice frayed. “Alpha. Please. I’m yours. Just, fuck, please let me come.”
I slide a hand down to his throat again, my grip tightens on his neck, just shy of restriction, feeling the desperate, erratic rhythm of his heart beating against my thumb.
The moment he breaks, voice cracking, body shuddering, every word trailing into stammered praise, I give him what he needs. My hand curls around him, tight and fast.
He comes with a cry, his entire body locks against mine as his pleasure crashes through the bond. Hot, pure and radiant.
I thrust through it, riding him through the storm, my teeth clenched as the wave drags me under too.
Release punches through me like a beast uncaged. I bury myself deep, spilling into him with a growl so low it shakes the walls of the cabin, the heavy pressure of the knot sealing the joining. We hang suspended, the glorious ache of being completely full and claimed radiating between us.
For long minutes, we don't move. We can’t, locked together as we are, but we also don’t want to. Our breath is the only sound in the room. Labored, messy and real, just like us.
I finally ease out slowly, fingers already unbuckling the straps, catching him as his weight slumps forward. He’s boneless, spent, eyes glazed and lips parted like he’s forgotten how language works.
I gather him into my arms and lift him like something precious pulled from ritual fire, and carry him to the bed.
Every touch is gentle and reverent. The kind of reverence that’s earned through trust and suffering.
I lay him out and clean him gently, using warm water on a soft cloth to wipe away the sweat, spit, blood and semen covering him. He doesn't speak, just watches me with wide, raw eyes.
I press meat into his hand, and he eats without argument, small bites, the ritual simple and sacred. The bruises on his body are already blooming, my marks, my proof that he belongs to me. I trace them with a reverence I don't offer gods.
He hums, eyes fluttering in exhaustion. “You’re not boring,” he mumbles.
“No,” I agree. “I’m yours.”