Page 69 of Hollowed

His hair had come loose in the night, strands curling damply at his temple. His jaw was slack with sleep, mouth slightly parted. It made him look younger. Not softer. Just more real.

His chest bore the marks of my hands.

His neck, the faint echo of my teeth.

His hips, the bruises where I had gripped him when he fucked me with reverence.

I should have felt powerful.

But what I felt instead was claimed.

Because even now, with his eyes closed, with his body lax and his mind deep in whatever dreamless place he’d fled to, he didn’t look like a man who had taken something.

He looked like a man who had finally been given something back.

Me.

I slid my hand to his wrist.

Held it.

Not tightly. Not like a chain.

Just enough to feel the pulse beneath my thumb. Just enough to prove to myself that he was still warm. Still alive.

His fingers curled reflexively. Not into a fist. Into mine.

I bit back the sound that rose in my throat.

It wasn’t a sob.

It wasn’t pleasure.

It was something heavier. Something born from the ache of having what I didn’t think I could keep.

His hand flexed again, this time with intention. He pulled me tighter against him, his breath deepening. Still not awake. Still dreaming.

But it was me he reached for.

Me he sought even in sleep.

And that—that wrecked me more than any vow.

Because I knew now.

He wasn’t keeping me.

He was holding on.

And I was the only thing left he hadn’t let go of.

I pressed my mouth to the back of his hand.

Whispered his name like a benediction.

He stirred.

Didn’t open his eyes.

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