Chapter Sixty-Four
● Midnight Confessions
I woke to warmth.
Not the burning of the aphrodisiac—something softer. Something that came from outside rather than within. Gentle pressure on my cheeks. The whisper of fabric against my skin.
My eyes fluttered open.
The room was dim, lit only by the city's glow through the curtains. And there, leaning over me, was Rowan.
He was dabbing at my face with something soft—a cotton pad, damp and cool. Removing the remnants of the night. The makeup Sophia had helped me apply hours ago. The evidence of dancing and wine and being alive.
I blinked up at him, my mind still hazy with sleep and the fading buzz of alcohol.
"Rowan?"
"Shh." His voice was low, gentle—gentler than I'd ever heard it. "Go back to sleep."
But I was awake now. Awake and watching as he continued his careful work—cleaning my face with a tenderness that didn't seem possible from those hands. Those hands that had broken down doors, thrown punches, gripped me in fury and darkness.
Now they held cotton pads and touched me like I was made of glass.
I watched him set the pad aside. Watched him move to my feet, his fingers finding the straps of my heels. He unfastened them slowly, carefully, sliding each shoe off and setting them beside the bed.
"You're taking care of me," I whispered.
He didn't respond. Just reached for the hem of my dress.
His fingers hesitated there—just for a moment, just above my knee. Then he began to ease the fabric upward, slowly, carefully, his eyes fixed on what he was doing rather than on me.
I should have been afraid.
After everything—after that night, after his hands on me in ways I hadn't wanted—I should have been terrified.
Instead, something warm and reckless bloomed in my chest.
"Ah," I breathed, a smile curving my lips. "Look who is taking care of me!!"
He glanced up at my tone.
"My cute handsome hubby! Hehe..."
My cheeks flushed—whether from the wine or his attention, I didn't know. But I was staring at him, really staring, taking in the sharp lines of his face softened by the dim light.
"You love me," I announced.
He stilled.
"Admit it already, honey!"
"Aira—"
"You do." I reached for him, clumsy and clingy, my fingers finding his shoulders, his neck. "I know you do. You just won't say it."
He didn't pull away.
Didn't move at all.
I pressed closer, my lips finding the warm skin of his neck. Kissing him there. Soft at first, then hungrier, my body remembering things my mind had tried to forget.
He made a sound—low, rough, barely controlled.
"Please stay." The words tumbled out between kisses. "Don't leave me alone again."
"Aira—"
"I promise I won't remember anything." I pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. "I won't hold it against you. I won't—I won't use it. Just stay. Please."
His jaw tightened. His hands came up to my shoulders—not pushing, not pulling. Just... holding me in place.
"Don't do this to me, wife."
"Please stay." Tears prickled at my eyes—drunk tears, honest tears, tears I couldn't control. "Love me."
I pulled him down with me.
We fell together onto the bed, me beneath him, him above me, the position achingly familiar. But this time was different. This time, I wanted him there.
I kissed him.
He didn't respond.
I kissed him again, harder, desperate.
Nothing.
I pulled back, confusion and hurt swirling in my chest. "Rowan?"
He looked down at me, and what I saw in his eyes broke something open in me.
Desire. Yes. Burning there, unmistakable.
But also fear.
Fear of himself. Fear of hurting me. Fear of becoming the man he'd been that other night.
"I can't do it, Aira." His voice was raw, stripped of all control. "I can't hurt you again."
"You won't—"
"I can't be gentle." The words came out broken. "You know that. You know what I am. What I'm capable of. If I start—if I let myself—" He closed his eyes, pain written across his face. "I can't be gentle with you."
"Rowan—"
"I can't." He started to pull away. "I won't do that to you again. I won't—"
"If you don't," I heard myself say, "I'll go to someone else."
He froze.
The words hung in the air between us—reckless, cruel, absolutely guaranteed to wound.
I didn't mean them.
Not really.
But I was drunk and desperate and so tired of being pushed away.
The change in him was instant.
His eyes went dark—darker than I'd ever seen them. Something possessive and primal rose behind his control, consuming it completely.
"You won't," he said.
It wasn't a question.
"Then stay."
He stayed.
---
What happened next wasn't gentle.
I didn't want gentle.
I wanted him—all of him, the darkness and the hunger and the parts he tried so hard to hide. I wanted to be wanted, truly wanted, even if that wanting came with teeth.
We collided.
Lost in each other.
His hands were everywhere—claiming, possessing, marking. I matched him, kiss for kiss, touch for touch, giving as good as I got. The wine made me brave. The loneliness made me reckless. The love—because it was love, even if he wouldn't say it—made me willing to burn.
I don't know how long it lasted.
Time meant nothing.
There was only him. Only us. Only the dark and the heat and the way we fit together like two broken things finally finding their match.
At some point, the world started to fade.
My eyes grew heavy. My body went limp, pleasure and exhaustion pulling me under.
I was dimly aware of him still moving above me—still hungry, still wanting, still taking.
I tried to stay awake.
I tried.
But sleep pulled me down, and the last thing I heard was a sound I'd never heard before.
A laugh.
Low. Breathless. Almost disbelieving.
He laughed.
And then, somewhere in the darkness, he kept going—until finally, finally, he collapsed beside me.
---