Chapter 280: Willing and able 1

MARGUAX

I lied.

The words sat in my throat like stones, heavy and smooth, blocking any truth from slipping past. Étienne stood in the doorway, his shoulders still dusted with the afternoon light that had followed him up here, and I watched him brush his hand through his hair, watched the way his fingers caught on tangles he was too tired to care about.

"She hasn’t called back," I told him. My voice came out flat, stripped of the panic that had been clawing at my ribs since Shanelle hung up the phone. "I tried her twice more. But... Nothing."

He crossed the room in three strides, the bed dipping as he sat beside me. His thigh pressed against mine, warm and solid, and I felt the urge to lean away from that warmth as sharply as I felt the urge to crawl inside it and never leave.

"She’s probably just processing," he offered, but his eyes narrowed as he studied my face. "Margaux, you’re shaking."

I looked down at my hands. They were trembling, the fingers curled into my palms so tightly that half-moons of white showed where my nails bit into skin. I hadn’t noticed. I forced them flat against my knees, pressing down until the bones ached.

"She’s not processing," I whispered. "Something’s wrong. I felt it when she hung up. She sounded too certain. Too calm for my liking."

"Your friend is capable. She can handle herself."

"Chris is capable too," I snapped, then immediately regretted the sharpness when he flinched back. I softened my voice, or tried to. "I’m sorry. I just... I can’t stop seeing it. All of it. The war. The... threads. Everything ending."

He reached for my hand, and I let him take it, though every instinct screamed at me to pull away. His thumb traced circles across my knuckles, slow and methodical, the gesture of a man trying to soothe a spooked animal.

"Come back to me," he murmured. "Whatever is happening in your head right now, come back."

I stared at our joined hands. The thread between us was still there, pulsing with that sickly gold light, and I wondered if he could feel it too, if the temperature of the air dropped for him when he looked at it. Probably not. The threads had always been mine alone to see, my own private curse.

"I don’t know how," I admitted.

He shifted closer, his other hand coming up to cup my jaw, tilting my face until I had no choice but to meet his eyes. They looked nearly pure gray today, the color of storm clouds over water, and they held mine with an intensity that made my breath catch.

"Feel this," he instructed, his thumb brushing along my cheekbone. "Feel my hand on your face. Feel the bed beneath you. Hear my voice. You’re here. With me. Not in whatever future you’re imagining."

His palm was rough against my skin, calloused from years of training, fighting and surviving, and I leaned into that roughness, chasing the friction of it. The gold thread swayed between us, casting a pale light across his collarbone where his shirt had opened at the throat.

"What if the future I’m imagining is real?" I asked.

"Then we face it together," he replied, his voice dropping lower. "But regardless, you do not have to worry about it today. Not right now. Right now, it’s just us. Just this room. Just this moment."

He leaned in, and I met him halfway. His mouth found mine, soft at first, questioning, and I answered by opening for him, by letting his tongue sweep past my lips and chase away the taste of coppery fear that had been lingering there. He kissed me like he was searching for something, like he could map the inside of my mouth and find the coordinates back to sanity.

I climbed into his lap without breaking the kiss, my knees settling on either side of his hips, my fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck. He made a sound against my mouth, something between surprise and approval, and his hands moved to grip my waist, holding me steady.

"Margaux," he breathed when we finally broke apart, his forehead resting against mine. "We don’t have to do this. You’re grieving. You’re scared. I don’t want to take advantage of that."

I pulled back enough to see his face, to watch the way his pupils had blown wide and dark, to see the flush spreading across his cheekbones. He was hard beneath me, I could feel him through the layers of our clothes, but his hands remained still at my waist, respectful even as his body betrayed him.

"I need this," I told him, and my voice didn’t sound like my own. It sounded older. Desperate. "I need to feel alive. I need to feel you. Please, Étienne. Don’t make me beg."

His jaw tightened, a muscle jumping there as he searched my eyes. "You’re sure?"

"Yes," I whispered, and I was. I had never been more sure of anything in my life.

He moved then, his hands sliding up under my thighs to lift me, carrying me back against the pillows as he rolled us over. The weight of him settled over me, familiar and right, and I arched up into it, seeking the pressure of his chest against mine. He kissed my throat, his teeth grazing the tendon there with just enough pressure to make me gasp, and I felt his hesitation dissolve, replaced by something fiercer.

"Tell me if you want to stop," he muttered against my skin, his hands already working at the buttons of my blouse.

"I won’t," I promised, and I meant it.

He stripped my clothes away with an efficiency that spoke of urgency, his own following quickly after until we were skin to skin, the heat of him burning against me like a brand. I traced the scars on his chest, the ridges of old wounds that mapped his history across his body, and I kissed each one, tasting salt and soap and the unique scent of him that I had memorized in the months we’d been together.

"You’re beautiful," he told me, his voice rough as his eyes traveled over me, darkening with every inch they catalogued. "Goddess, Margaux. You’re killing me."

"Good," I whispered, and I pulled him down to kiss me again.

There was nothing gentle about it this time. His mouth was demanding, hungry, and I matched him bite for bite, my nails digging into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks. I wanted marks. I wanted proof that I had been here, that he had been mine, that this had happened before the end came.

He prepared me with his fingers, his touch careful even as his breathing grew ragged, and I writhed against him, impatient, my body already slick and ready. When he finally pushed inside me, it was with a slow, steady pressure that made my vision blur at the edges. I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and we both groaned at the sensation of being joined.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice strained.

I opened my eyes. He was braced above me, his arms trembling with the effort of holding back, his gaze locked on mine with an intensity that felt like it could stop my heart. The gold thread glowed between us, wrapping around his arm, around my throat, binding us together in a web of light that only I could see.

"Stay with me," he whispered, beginning to move.