Page 245 of Emylia

Because even now, when he was offering me his soul, I couldn’t give him certainty. I couldn’t promise forever.

But I could give him this.

I could give him now.

I stepped forward, heart thundering, my fingers threading into his hair—soft and wild beneath my touch. His breath caught, but he didn’t pull away.

Didn’t dare.

I guided his lips to mine—slowly, deliberately—tasting him, claiming him, like I’d waited lifetimes just to know the shape of this moment. His mouth met mine with quiet urgency, and the world around us vanished—the cave, the silence, everything.

All that existed was this: his mouth, my hands, and the fire blooming low and hot beneath my skin.

He touched me like I was sacred. Like I was already slipping through his fingers. And maybe I was. Because every kiss, every whispered breath against my skin begged—Choose me. Stay.

But I wasn’t sure if I could.

So I gave him everything else.

My body. My fire. My heart, splintered and trembling and still his.

“I love you,” I choked, the words torn from my ribs. “I’m so sorry I can’t give you more.”

He kissed the apology from my lips, his eyes burning into mine.

“You’ve already given me everything.”

His hands slid down to my waist, lifting me effortlessly. My legs wrapped around him without thought—instinctive, possessive, like he was already mine and I couldn’t bear to let go. I felt the shape of him—solid strength, barely restrained desire.

Heat.

Power.

Emotion wound so tightly it could snap.

And the way he held me…

Gods. It undid something in me.

This wasn’t just lust. This was everything we’d never said.

Then he claimed my mouth—and the world fell away.

It wasn’t soft.

It was a collapse.

It was surrender.

And I had no idea where it would end—only that I needed it to keep going.

He moved before I could speak, carrying me like I was something hallowed. Like he’d waited years to earn the right. His grip was sure, every step a promise carved from need. Magik thickened the air around us. Candlelight flickered through the mist, catching on our skin—casting halos of gold and ghost-light.

He lowered me to the rug like I was his everything, something worth protecting. His hand braced beside my head. His thigh pressed between mine.

And the weight of him—Gods, the weight of him—settled over me like gravity had finally chosen a home.

Clothes clung to my skin, slick and stubborn, tracing every curve like a lover’s touch–like it ached to be ripped away. My breath came in shallow, broken waves.

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