Scraps of fire

His lips graze my neck, and my knees betray me. I’m standing, but my body has already surrendered. The haze of every past encounter crashes back—hunger, need, the ache that only he can pull from me.

I can’t hold back. My hands lace behind his neck, dragging him down until his mouth crushes mine. Sparks detonate. He spins me onto the mattress, tugging at my dress with maddening slowness. My patience breaks. I push him down, straddling him, grinding until the zipper splits and I take all of him inside me.

He flips me over, devouring me piece by piece, driving into me with brutal strokes that leave no space for restraint. His eagerness is pure possession.

Ecstasy devours us. From half-dressed to undone, we are stripped of everything but raw desire.

And then—his voice. Cold. Distant.

“Get dressed. Leave.”

The words cut sharper than claws.

“What?” My voice shakes.

“Sex is over. You can go.”

I wait for him to smirk, to pull me back, to soften. He doesn’t. The shower hisses, drowning my silence.

I last longer than I should before anger cracks me open. I storm into the bathroom. He catches me, dripping, water-slick skin pressing mine. His hands claim me again, greedier, hungrier, as though nothing had just happened. We collide, brutal and breathless, fighting and feeding in the same breath.

⸻

Later, after leaving his bed, I lie awake through a night that feels endless. His words loop in my skull: Get dressed. Leave. Why hasn’t he marked me? Why does he keep me hidden? The questions chew through me until dawn.

By morning, I’m back at his door. He opens it, surprised. “Hey… you’re here?”

“I couldn’t sleep. I had to see you.”

He licks his lips, smirking. “Couldn’t wait to get more sugar? Come here.”

I pull back. “Stop. Please.”

He frowns. “Why, babe?”

“When are you going to make me your mark?”

His face hardens. “I told you. You’re not mine. I can’t mark you.”

The words slam into me. “Not yours? After everything?”

He leans closer, voice cruel. “Even if I don’t mark you, your body will still answer to me. No one else will want you like this. Only I can give you what you crave.”

The arrogance scorches me. I slap him. “You promised. You said soon. That the council wouldn’t allow it yet. That what we share is sacred.”

The truth sinks like poison: I was never sacred. I was hidden because I meant nothing.

Still, desperation claws its way out of me. “I’m pregnant.”

His answer is ice. “I won’t be involved.”

The sound breaks me.

⸻

Days bleed together. My head pounds with voices: used, discarded. Nights are short, filled with endless why’s. Why didn’t I leave the first night—when I bled for a man who saw me as nothing but flesh? Why not the second, the third, the ninth?

But I stayed. Even when some part of me knew… he would never mark me.

Being one of nine daughters, every step of my life has been measured against the future of Luna. How do I tell my father, my law-bound mother, that I’ve been defiled—and not even marked?

⸻

By the third night of silence, I break. I return to his door. My fist hovers, but the door swings open before I knock.

Varyn stands there, shirtless, damp hair dripping down his temples. His eyes widen, then narrow. “You again.”

“I had to see you.” My voice trembles, though I force it steady.

He leans against the frame, arms crossed. “You don’t listen, do you?”

“You don’t understand.” I step closer, heart in my throat. “You’ve ruined me, Varyn. My body, my heart—they’re yours. And you pretend it means nothing.”

His jaw tightens. His eyes darken with that dangerous hunger I know too well.

“I told you,” he says, low, steady. “Even if I don’t mark you, you’ll always answer to me. Why fight it?”

Tears sting but I refuse to let them fall. “Because I want more than scraps. I want to be yours. Not your secret. Not just your body. Yours.”

For the first time, he doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t say a word. He studies me, cold and calculating, as though weighing whether I am worth keeping—or worth destroying.