Chapter 7: Chapter 7
The worn springs of the couch groaned softly as Ethan shifted his weight, the only sound besides the distant, wet hiss of tires on rain-slicked pavement six floors below. Morrigan lay nestled against him, the oversized black t-shirt rucked up slightly, exposing the stark line where smooth, pale flank met the ravaged landscape of her torso. Her breathing had steadied since the panic, a slow, shallow rhythm against his side. The frantic terror had receded, leaving behind a hollowed-out exhaustion that seemed to sink her deeper into the cushions.
He hadn’t planned it. One moment his hand was resting lightly on her hip, an anchor point. Then his thumb moved. Just a fraction. Tracing the border. Where the cool, undamaged skin met the rough, waxy texture of the burn scar tissue, still shiny under its dried layer of lotion. The contrast was brutal. Unforgiving. His thumb swept again, a slow, deliberate stroke along that jagged frontier.
Morrigan stiffened. A tiny intake of breath. Not pain. Alertness.
"Easy," Ethan murmured, the word rough in the quiet apartment. His hand didn't stop. It slid upwards, palm flattening now against the unmarked skin of her lower back, feeling the subtle dip of her spine beneath the thin cotton. His fingers spread, exploring the curve of her waist, the flare of her hip. The touch was deliberate, almost… investigative. Mapping unfamiliar territory. His other arm was still draped loosely around her shoulders. He felt the tension humming beneath her skin, the wariness of a creature expecting pain.
"Don't," she whispered, the sound barely audible, muffled against his shoulder. Not a command. A plea.
"Don't what?" His voice was low, gravelly. His hand continued its slow journey, sliding around her side now, skirting the edge of the worst scarring, fingertips brushing the lower curve of her ribs. He could feel the rapid flutter of her heartbeat against his palm. "Hurt you?" He dipped his head, his lips brushing the ragged edge of her singed hairline near her temple. "Or touch you?"
She didn't answer. She trembled. Not the violent shakes of before, but a fine, constant vibration, like a plucked wire. His palm slid lower, over the plane of her stomach, the skin there taut and miraculously smooth. He traced the subtle concavity, the faint ridges of muscle beneath. Then, carefully, he let his fingers drift upwards again, tracing the lower edge of her ribcage, skirting the angry red ruin where her wings should have erupted. The air between them thickened, charged with a tension that had nothing to do with fear.
"Never seen anything like this," he breathed, his mouth hovering near her ear. His hand slid back down, smoothing over her hip, his thumb finding the sensitive crease where her thigh met her body. She gasped, a tiny, choked sound. He pressed the pad of his thumb there, a gentle, insistent pressure, feeling the heat radiating through the fabric. "Not the burns." His voice dropped to a husky rasp, thick with something Morrigan hadn't heard directed at her since… since before. "The rest. The way you feel."
His hand moved again, slipping beneath the loose hem of the t-shirt at her hip. His fingers, calloused and warm, slid against bare skin. Cool, smooth skin. He traced the curve of her hipbone, the dip of her waist, moving higher, skimming the edge of the scarred territory without crossing into it. His touch was reverent. Possessive.
"Like silk over steel," he murmured, his breath hot against her neck. His fingers brushed the underside of her breast, feather-light, avoiding the damaged tissue above. "Strong. But yielding." He pressed a kiss, hard and brief, just below her ear. "When you let go."
Morrigan’s breath hitched. A confusing rush of sensations flooded her: the shock of being touched with such focused desire, the phantom ache of her missing wings, the shame of her ravaged body on display, and beneath it all, a treacherous, undeniable pull towards the heat of his hand, the low thrum of his voice. This was not the desperate, life-sustaining pull of feeding. This was different. Deeper. More dangerous.
"Ethan…" His name was a strangled whisper.
"You think I want you broken?" His hand slid fully under the shirt now, cupping the weight of her scorched breast. His thumb stroked over her nipple, already taut and sensitive. She arched involuntarily, a silent cry forming on her lips. He caught it with his mouth, kissing her deeply, swallowing the sound. It wasn't gentle. It was claiming. When he pulled back, his eyes were dark, intense, fixed on hers in the gloom. "You're wrecked. You're gorgeous." His thumb circled her nipple again, a slow, deliberate torment. "Look at you. Letting me. Trusting me. That's what gets me." He dipped his head, his lips trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down the column of her throat, towards the unscarred slope of her shoulder. "More than any perfect skin." He bit down gently, a possessive nip that sent a jolt straight through her core. "More than any fucking wings."
His other hand, the one that had been resting near her shoulder, slid down her arm, then inward, tracing the edge of the burns across her abdomen with a feather-light touch that made her flinch and gasp simultaneously. It wasn't pain. It was an overload. He traced the map of her suffering, not with pity, but with a raw fascination that felt like worship. His lips followed the path of his fingers, planting searing kisses along the borderlands of ruin and grace, murmuring against her skin.
"See this?" His mouth hovered over a particularly thick ridge of scar tissue near her ribs. "Survival." He kissed it. "This?" His finger traced a deep, puckered valley. "Strength." He laved it with his tongue, a hot, wet stroke that made her cry out, her fingers digging into the fabric of the couch. "All of it." His voice was thick, muffled against her skin as his mouth moved lower, skirting the worst damage, finding the unmarked skin of her belly. He pressed a kiss just below her navel. "You. Surviving. Needing." His hand slid lower, slipping beneath the waistband of nothing – only the shirt separated her skin from his touch. His fingers found the heat between her thighs, stroking through the soft curls. "Giving in."
Morrigan gasped, arching off the couch cushion. His touch was electric, igniting pathways she'd thought cauterized shut. His mouth followed, replacing his fingers, hot and demanding. The shock of it – the intimacy, the sheer carnal focus – shattered her remaining composure. There was no room for pride, for shame, for the ghost of wings. There was only sensation, overwhelming and relentless. His tongue, his lips, the scrape of his stubble against her inner thigh, the low growl vibrating against her core as he tasted her. It was a claiming far deeper than any bite. He worshipped her broken body with his mouth, finding untouched places and igniting them, tracing the borders of her wounds as if they were sacred boundaries.
His fingers joined his mouth, two slipping inside her, curling, finding a rhythm that matched the relentless pressure of his tongue. Her hips bucked, her back arched impossibly, a choked sob tearing from her throat. Not pain. Not fear. A surrender so profound it felt like annihilation. He held her down with one strong arm across her hips, relentless. The sensations built, coiling tighter and tighter, a pressure threatening to crack her open. The city noise faded, replaced by the wet, rhythmic sounds of his mouth on her, her own ragged breaths, the frantic thudding of her own pulse in her ears.
"Ethan!" It was a plea, a command, a raw sound ripped from the ruins of her pride.
He didn't stop. He intensified. His fingers, his tongue, working her towards an edge she hadn't known existed since her fall. The coil snapped. White fire exploded behind her eyes, tearing a ragged scream from her throat that echoed off the cluttered walls. Waves of pure, obliterating sensation crashed through her, shaking her to the foundations. Her body convulsed under his relentless hold, every nerve ending screaming.
Slowly, the waves receded, leaving her trembling, utterly spent. He lifted his head, his lips glistening, his eyes holding hers with a fierce, possessive intensity that stole her breath anew. He withdrew his fingers slowly, then leaned up, planting a hard, claiming kiss on her mouth, letting her taste herself on his tongue.
He pulled back just enough to speak, his voice rough, triumphant, echoing the words he’d whispered before, now forged in the fire of her release. "See? Perfect." He traced a finger, damp and warm, along the edge of a deep burn scar on her collarbone. His gaze locked on hers, unflinching. "All of you. Especially this." His thumb brushed her lower lip, smearing a tear she hadn't realized had escaped. "The way you break. For me."
Morrigan stared up at him, her vision blurred, her body still humming with aftershocks. The vulnerability wasn't just exposed now; it was celebrated. Laid bare and declared the most potent thing about her. The realization hit her like a physical blow, leaving her silent, trembling, and utterly exposed in a way no amount of physical damage ever had. The distant city traffic roared in her ears, a counterpoint to the frantic pounding of her heart.
The distant city traffic roared in her ears, a counterpoint to the frantic pounding of her heart. Ethan’s gaze held hers, fierce and unwavering, his thumb still tracing her lower lip. The aftershocks of her climax still vibrated through her, a profound, unsettling echo in the hollows Bonnie Hood had carved. Silence stretched, thick and charged, broken only by their ragged breathing and the relentless hum from the street below.
Morrigan swallowed hard, the taste of salt and herself lingering. Shame warred with a terrifying, burgeoning need. She looked away, focusing on a pizza stain on the ceiling plaster. "It’s absurd," she whispered, her voice rough, unused. Ethan’s thumb stopped moving, waiting. She forced her eyes back to his. "Utterly, mortifyingly absurd."
She took a shuddering breath. "That ambush… Bonnie Hood’s filthy claws…" Her hand fluttered weakly towards her ravaged chest, then dropped. "It was… annihilation. Worse than death." A tremor ran through her, not entirely unpleasant this time. "But you… dragging me out of that alleyway dumpster…"
Her gaze locked onto his, blazing with sudden, desperate intensity. "Like some… some pathetic fairytale princess plucked from the dragon’s maw." The words tumbled out, raw and unfiltered. "It terrifies me, Ethan. This weakness. This dependence." She shifted her hips, pressing herself harder against the hand still resting possessively low on her belly. "But Maker help me…"
A low, guttural sound escaped her, almost a growl. "The thought of you rescuing me… that…" Her legs shifted, parting deliberately. She arched her spine off the worn couch cushion, a sharp gasp escaping her as the movement pulled at tender, weeping flesh. "It makes me… uncontrollably… wet."
Her hands, trembling, grasped the hem of the oversized black t-shirt. She pulled it upwards, exposing the horrific landscape Bonnie Hood had left: blistered, angry red flesh, weeping patches of yellow pus, the ruin where proud wings once anchored. "Look," she commanded, her voice thick with desire and defiance. "Look at what she did. Touch it."
Ethan’s breath hitched. His eyes widened, flickering from the raw wounds to her desperate, burning gaze. "Morrigan…" he started, caution warring with the heat her confession ignited.
"Touch me," she insisted, her voice dropping to a husky rasp. She guided his hand upwards, pressing his palm flat against the searing heat and slick mess of her ravaged left breast. A choked moan escaped her lips, part pain, part overwhelming arousal. His fingers instinctively curled, a feather-light caress over the blistered curve. "Yes… like that."
Her head fell back, exposing the long line of her throat. "Feel it? The ruin?" Her hips rolled against his other hand still resting low. "And feel this? The fire you light?" She gasped again as his thumb brushed a weeping edge. "You make me moan, Ethan. You make me scream. You make me… come." Her eyes snapped open, locking onto his with fierce adoration. "After that…"
A tear escaped, tracing a path through the grime on her cheek. "Thank you," she breathed, the words thick with emotion. "For pulling me out. For… for seeing me. For making me feel… like this… again." She arched higher, offering her ravaged body like a sacred, broken altar. "My rescuer."
Ethan stared, transfixed. The scent of antiseptic cream mingled sickeningly with the metallic tang of pus and the heady musk of her arousal. His palm burned where it touched her ruined flesh, the heat radiating into his bones. Her confession, raw and terrifyingly honest, echoed in the cramped apartment louder than the traffic below. He saw the desperate need warring with ancient pride in her eyes, felt the tremors running through her offered body.
He leaned down slowly, his lips hovering inches above the weeping blisters. His breath ghosted over the inflamed skin. "Okay," he murmured, the word rough but impossibly tender. He didn't kiss the wound. Instead, he pressed a firm, deliberate kiss onto the unmarked skin just below her collarbone. "Gotcha." His hand slid gently from the ravaged breast, leaving a faint smear. "Now, let's get you cleaned up before this gets infected. Again." His thumb brushed her hipbone, a silent promise beneath the practicality.
Ethan slid off the couch, his knees popping softly as he moved towards the cluttered kitchen counter. He grabbed the familiar plastic first-aid kit, the one with the cracked lid and dwindling antiseptic supplies. The sharp scent of iodine instantly cut through the lingering musk of sex and burnt flesh as he opened it. "Gotta keep you from rotting before I get back," he said quietly, dampening a cleanish-looking washcloth under the tap. The water hissed loudly in the quiet apartment.
Morrigan stayed on the couch, the worn fabric scratching her bare skin where the t-shirt rode up. She watched him approach, the damp cloth glistening. A tremor ran through her, anticipation mixing with the familiar dread of contact with her ruined flesh. Ethan knelt beside the couch, his expression unreadable, focused. He gently pressed the cool cloth to a cluster of weeping pustules high on her left ribcage, near the edge of the horrific napalm scarring. She hissed, muscles tightening involuntarily. "Easy," he murmured, his touch surprisingly steady, dabbing carefully at the oozing yellow fluid. The sting was sharp, immediate.
Seeing his focus, the way his brow furrowed in concentration, Morrigan saw her opening. A calculated gamble sparked in her bruised mind. Play the wounded bird. Make him feel powerful. Needed. She forced her voice into a low, trembling whisper, laced with remembered terror. "It started… with my wings," she began, flinching as the cloth touched another raw patch. "Sudden. Brutal. Like a chainsaw hitting bone." She closed her eyes, summoning the memory not just for him, but as a shield against the cleaning pain. "Machine gun fire ripped through them. Felt like… like someone tearing velvet curtains apart with hooks."
She paused, feeling Ethan’s hand hesitate slightly on her skin. Was he listening? Was it working? She pressed on, her voice gaining a raw edge. "Tried to get airborne. Flapped… useless things. Dragging me down." She gasped sharply as Ethan probed a deeper wound, her fingers digging into the couch cushion. "Then… Bonnie’s rocket. First one… slammed right here." She gestured weakly towards the mangled flesh between her ravaged breasts. "Knocked the breath clean out of me. Fire and shrapnel… shredding silk and skin."
Ethan’s movements became slower, more deliberate. He didn’t look up, but his silence felt heavy, attentive. Morrigan pushed further, weaving vulnerability into the horror. "Was trying… trying to crawl away. Hide behind a dumpster. Crawling, I left myself wide open." She let her voice crack, a tear escaping despite herself – was it all performance? Or was the trauma bleeding through? "She came at me from behind. I was on all fours, thighs apart and ass lifted, I must have made a delicious target. Another rocket… lower." She shifted her hips slightly. "Hit… hit me right… there. Between my legs." She forced a ragged sob. "Burned… inside. Couldn’t even scream properly. Just… whimpered."
She opened her eyes, searching Ethan’s face. His jaw was clenched tight. "Thought… maybe if I stopped fighting?" Her voice dropped to a desperate whisper. "Just… went limp. Played dead. Hoped… submission… would make it stop." Another flinch as Ethan cleaned a particularly deep, weeping wound near her hipbone. "But Hood…" She spat the name. "She just… laughed. That sound." Morrigan shuddered violently, the memory visceral. "Then… the spray. Thick. Sticky. Smelled like… gasoline and rotten eggs."
She looked directly at Ethan, willing him to see the damsel she was painting. "Napalm," she breathed. "Covered me. Head to toe. Saw her… Bonnie Hood… grinning." The image burned brighter than the memory of the flames. "She made me wait for it. Stood there grinning at me as I looked up at her, completely at her mercy. That sadistic fucking smile… right before she flicked the lighter." She mimicked the motion weakly with her trembling fingers. "Flick. Then… just… fire. Everywhere. Eating me alive." She let the silence hang, punctuated only by her ragged breathing and the wet sound of the cloth on her wounds. "That’s… that’s how she broke me. Before you found me."
Ethan finally lifted his gaze. His eyes weren't filled with the rapturous lust she'd hoped for. Instead, they were dark pools of something far more complex – fury, yes, but also a profound, aching sorrow. He stared at her ruined face, the ravaged body he was meticulously tending. "Jesus," he breathed, the word thick and raw. He dropped the soiled cloth onto the stained carpet. His hand, trembling slightly now, reached out, not to clean, but to gently cup the unharmed side of her jaw, his thumb brushing away another tear track. He didn't speak. He just stared, the silence stretching thin and taut between them, filled with the unspoken weight of her horrific story and the terrifying intimacy of his touch on her scarred skin.
Ethan’s thumb lingered on her tear track, the silence a physical weight pressing down. His eyes, dark with a storm of fury and sorrow, held hers, stripping away the last shreds of her performance armour. Morrigan felt exposed, the raw truth of her suffering hanging in the air like smoke, far more potent than her calculated vulnerability. His hand dropped from her jaw, knuckles brushing the side of her neck where smooth skin met the edge of ruin.
He stood abruptly, the sudden movement jarring in the stillness. Turning away, he stalked towards the kitchen sink, his shoulders tense beneath the worn t-shirt. The sound of water gushing from the tap was loud, aggressive. He scrubbed his hands hard with cheap soap, the scent of antiseptic briefly overwhelming the lingering musk of antiseptic cream and her own arousal. Water splashed onto the counter, droplets catching the weak afternoon light filtering through the dirty window overlooking the bustling street below.
"Knew she was brutal," Ethan said finally, his voice raw, not turning around. He shut the water off with a sharp twist. "Didn't know she was that fucking sadistic." He grabbed a slightly cleaner dish towel, drying his hands with rough, angry motions. "Making you wait. Watching."
Morrigan stayed frozen on the couch, the damp cloth Ethan had used lying cold against her hip. His anger was palpable, radiating off him like heat, but it wasn’t directed at her. It was a protective fury, a shield forged in the fire of her recounted agony. The realization loosened something tight and terrified within her chest. "She relished it," Morrigan whispered, the words tasting like ash. "The power. The absolute... degradation."
Ethan spun around, leaning back against the counter, crossing his arms. His gaze swept over her – not flinching from the burns, but seeing her within the wreckage. "Playing dead," he stated, a strange understanding dawning in his eyes. "That wasn't just survival instinct, was it? That was strategy. Ancient predator strategy. Play possum. Wait for the moment." A flicker of respect, stark and unexpected, crossed his face.
Morrigan blinked, stunned. No one had ever seen that in her submission. "Yes," she breathed, a spark of her old self flaring briefly. "A gamble. It failed." The spark dimmed. "The fire… it took everything."
He pushed off the counter and walked back towards her, the anger banked but still simmering beneath the surface. He didn’t pick up the cloth. Instead, he knelt beside the couch again, his eyes level with hers. "You’re still here," he said, his voice low and intense. His hand reached out, hovering for a moment before his fingers brushed the fringe of green hair clinging stubbornly to her scalp, avoiding the worst scarring. "Still fighting. Still you." His touch was feather-light, impossibly tender on the ravaged skin at her temple. "Even after… that."
His thumb traced the sharp line of her cheekbone, down to the corner of her mouth. The intimacy of the gesture, coming after the horror she’d just vomited up, stole her breath. It wasn’t pity. It was recognition. Acknowledgment of the creature still existing within the ruin. She leaned into his touch, a tiny, involuntary movement, seeking the solid warmth of his palm against her damaged skin.
"Ethan," she murmured, his name a plea for something she couldn't name.
His gaze dropped to her mouth, then lower, over the landscape of scars and intact skin, down to where the oversized shirt tented over her hips. The atmosphere shifted, thickening with a different kind of tension, heavy and electric. The fury, the sorrow, the shared understanding – it all coalesced into a raw, consuming heat. His hand slid slowly, deliberately, from her cheek, down the column of her throat, skirting the edge of the napalm scarring on her collarbone. It continued over the relatively smooth plane of her stomach, making her muscles quiver.
He paused at the hem of the shirt bunched around her waist. His eyes locked with hers, a silent question blazing in their depths. Not asking permission for care, but for something far more dangerous. Morrigan’s heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat echoing the distant city pulse. Fear warred with a desperate, clawing need that had nothing to do with sustenance.
She didn’t speak. She lifted her hips slightly, a minimal, unmistakable invitation. Her breath hitched as his fingers hooked into the worn cotton, slowly, slowly easing it upwards. The cool air of the apartment hit her bare skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat radiating from his gaze as it traveled down her body. Past the horrific scarring across her torso, over the curve of her hip, down to the junction of her thighs.
The burns encroached even here, angry red and taut, marring the soft, dark curls. But at the very center, untouched by fire, glistening with her own desperate arousal, lay the vulnerable, swollen flesh. Ethan’s breath audibly caught. His hand trembled slightly as he reached out, not towards the damaged outer skin, but towards that untouched core.
He hesitated, his fingertips hovering a breath away. Morrigan held her breath, her entire being focused on that point of potential contact. Would he recoil? Would the damage repulse him? Or would he see only her need?
His touch, when it came, was unbearably gentle. A single finger brushed the very edge of her, testing the softness hidden within the crisped, scarred folds. A jolt of pure sensation rocketed through her, sharp and sweet, making her gasp, a sound that was almost a sob. His finger slid lower, achingly slow, parting her, finding slick, untouched heat. The contrast was shocking – the rough, damaged periphery yielding to unbelievable softness, wetness, a desperate invitation.
"God, Morrigan," Ethan breathed, his voice thick with awe and a hunger that mirrored her own. He traced her opening, the tip of his finger barely dipping inside, encountering only yielding warmth. The gentleness was excruciating, a torment that promised everything.
She couldn’t hold back. The dam broke. A tiny, broken sound escaped her, raw and needy, carrying all her fear, her desire, her impossible trust. "Take me, lover," she pleaded, the words barely a whisper, yet echoing like a command in the charged silence. "Please."