Page 130 of Bound By Song

Fairy lights glow along the headboard. Candles flicker on every surface, casting golden shadows. The bed is layered in soft new blankets. Yet more nesting materials.

Everything I didn’t even know I needed.

I turn to thank him and he’s already behind me, fingers trailing up my spine.

“Lie down,” he murmurs.

I do.

His hands find my shoulders first – kneading, soothing, exploring. He works every muscle with reverence, every knot of tension unwinding under his touch. My towel loosens as he moves lower, and I don’t stop him. I can’t.

His lips brush my bare spine. Once. Twice. Then again. His scent fills the air – darker and wilder than I’ve ever known it, sparking something deep inside me.

I shift beneath him, hips arching. Needing more.

“Xar…” I whisper.

“Tell me what you want, omega.”

His voice is a whisper against my skin, but it crashes through me like thunder.

I shiver, not from cold, but from howseenI feel in that moment – like he’s looking past my skin, past the uncertainty, into the core of me.

“I want this,” I murmur, voice low. “You. But not just because of my heat.”

His hands are still against my back. I half-turn, tugging the towel higher around myself, suddenly shy.

“I need you to know,” I say, forcing my gaze to meet his, “this isn’t the heat talking. I’m not…desperate. Not yet. Iwantthis. I wantyou. Because I choose you.”

For a moment, Xar just stares at me – like he’s memorising the shape of my confession.

Then he exhales, slow and reverent, like I’ve just handed him the most precious thing in the world.

“I don’t deserve you,” he says, his voice rough. “But I’m going to spend the rest of my life trying.”

He reaches for the hem of his shirt and pulls it over his head in one fluid motion. My breath catches. His body is all hard lines and strength, tattoos curling over his skin like inked stories I want to read with my mouth.

I reach for him before I can stop myself, fingertips brushing over a faded scar on his ribs. He flinches – but doesn’t pull away.

“What happened?” I ask softly.

“Motorbike accident when I was nineteen,” he says, eyes searching mine. “Tried to outrun a storm. Didn’t quite make it.”

I trace the scar gently. “And now you run into storms instead.”

His smile is slow, crooked. “Only if you’re at the centre.”

He touches the edge of my towel. “Can I?”

My throat tightens, but I nod.

His hands are warm, sure, as he peels the towel away. He takes his time. Doesn’t rush or grope or claim. Just looks.Sees. One hand comes to rest on my hip, the other sliding up to cradle my jaw.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs. “And you don’t even know it.”

I do, maybe. A little. Now. Thanks to them telling me. Showing me.

Right now, with him looking at me like that – I feel like I could believe it.

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