Page 44 of Hollowed

And I answered:

“Then die in me.”

And he did.

Not in flesh.

In vow.

In silence.

In surrender.

I didn’t want sleep.

I wanted to be touched. Again. Differently.

I wanted to be kept.

But not with bruises this time. Not with bite marks or binding or vows carved into the soft places between my thighs. I wanted his breath in my mouth. I wanted the hush that came not after fucking—but during. That unbearable stillness when two bodies stopped moving but didn’t stop needing.

I lay on the robe, curled on my side, watching him. The fire had long since burned low. Shadows flickered across the floor like hands reaching for something they would never hold.

He hadn’t left me. He hadn’t risen.

But he hadn’t touched me again either.

He was breathing harder than he should have been. Like the restraint had cost him. Like every second he stayed seated and not inside me pulled skin from his bones.

I turned to him slowly.

“Are you punishing me?”

His head lifted.

“No.”

“Then why does this feel like silence I haven’t earned?”

He stood. Crossed the room.

He didn’t answer.

Just knelt.

One knee between mine. One hand at my throat.

Not pressing.

Just reminding.

“Because I want to be gentle.”

His voice scraped across the top of my chest.

“But I don’t know how.”

I blinked.

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