Chapter 4: Baptism by Fire
The deep, resonant chiming of a grandfather clock somewhere in the penthouse finally pierced the haze of their sleep. Anya stirred, her body a symphony of pleasant aches. Legend’s arm was still a possessive weight around her, his face peaceful in slumber, the sharp angles softened.
She watched him for a long moment, the reality of the last twelve hours settling over her like a heavy, exotic fur. This man. This stranger who called himself Shadow in the underworld and had rewritten her entire existence in a single night.
Before she could fall back into the trap of her own thoughts, his eyes opened. There was no groggy transition. He was just… awake. Instantly aware. His dark gaze focused on her, and a slow, possessive smile curved his lips.
“Morning, kitten.”
He didn’t ask how she slept. He simply knew. He shifted, rolling over her, caging her beneath him once more. He nuzzled her neck, inhaling deeply. “You smell like me.” He sounded profoundly satisfied.
He kissed her, a slow, deep claiming that left her breathless, then swung his legs out of bed in one fluid motion. “Come on. Shower.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He just scooped her up, sheets and all, and carried her from the bedroom. She gasped, her arms instinctively looping around his neck. “I can walk, you know.”
“I know,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “But I like carrying what’s mine.”
The bathroom was a cavern of veined marble and polished brass. It was immense, larger than her entire apartment. A massive claw-foot tub dominated one corner, but he walked them straight into the walk-in shower. It was a glass-walled room, its ceiling also glass, showing the pale, early morning sky. He set her on her feet on the warm, heated floor and turned the dials.
Water erupted from multiple showerheads—a rainfall from above, powerful jets from the walls. Steam quickly filled the space, clouding the glass, turning the world into a warm, private cocoon.
He reached for a bottle, pouring a thick, amber liquid into his palms. The scent of sandalwood and vanilla filled the steam, rich and expensive. “Turn around,” he murmured.
His hands were on her back, slick and warm, working the soap into a lather. He massaged her shoulders, his thumbs digging into the tight muscles, then slid his palms down the length of her spine, over the dimples in her lower back. He worshipped her curves with a focused intensity, his hands gliding over the swell of her hips, the full rise of her ass. He spent an inordinate amount of time there, kneading the flesh, his touch both clinical and deeply intimate.
“So perfect,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. “All this softness. Made for me.”
He turned her to face him, his eyes dark and unreadable in the steam. His soapy hands slid over her collarbones, down to her breasts. He cupped them, his thumbs circling her nipples until they pebbled into tight, aching points. He washed every inch, his touch reverent. He dropped to his knees before her, his hands sliding down her stomach, through the dark curls between her legs.
She shivered, the sensation of his sure, possessive hands on her most intimate flesh sending a jolt straight to her core. Her breath hitched.
He looked up at her, his expression sharpening at the sound. “You cold, kitten?”
She shook her head, unable to speak.
His eyes flashed with dark understanding. He rose, water sluicing down the hard planes of his chest. He backed her up until her shoulders met the cool, wet marble of the shower wall. The contrast of the cold stone against her heated skin made her gasp.
He pinned her there with his body, his hands framing her face. “This isn’t about being cold, is it?” he whispered, his voice a low thrum beneath the drumming water. “It’s about this.” He pressed his hips forward, his hard length digging into her belly. “It’s about me being inside you again.”
He hooked one of her legs over his arm, opening her to him. He entered her in one smooth, relentless thrust, filling the empty, aching space he’d left inside her. Her head fell back against the marble with a soft thud, a moan torn from her lips.
“This is your ritual now,” he growled against her ear, his hips setting a slow, deep, punishing rhythm. The water cascaded over them, plastering his dreads to his shoulders, her curls to her back. “Every morning. I wake you. I wash you. I worship this body.” Thrust. “And then I remind you who it belongs to.” Thrust.
His pace quickened, his grip on her thigh tightening. “You’ll get used to the feeling of me inside you. You’ll crave it. You’ll wake up wet for me, aching for this.”
He drove into her, again and again, the sound of their bodies slapping together echoing in the steamy chamber. Her cries were swallowed by the roar of the water and his mouth on hers. Her climax crashed over her, a wave of pleasure so intense it felt like pain, her muscles clamping down around him, milking his own release from him with a guttural roar.
He held her there for a long time, both of them panting, supported by the wall and his body. Finally, he pulled out, his hands gentle as he guided her back under the spray, rinsing the soap and the evidence of their coupling from her skin.
He turned off the water and wrapped her in a towel so plush it felt like a cloud. He led her to the large, ornate mirror over the double sinks. The steam was clearing, revealing their reflection. Him, a towering, powerful figure behind her. Her, nestled against him, her face flushed, her eyes dazed, a new purple mark blooming on her neck.
He met her gaze in the mirror, his hands resting on her hips. “See that?” he said, his voice quiet, final. “That’s what forever looks like.”
He picked up a wide-toothed comb from the counter and began to gently work it through her wet, tangled curls, his touch impossibly tender after the ferocity of their joining. The quiet snick of the comb was the only sound.
“I have to go out today,” he said, his eyes on his task. “Business. You’ll stay here. Matthias will be outside the door. If you need anything, you tell him.”
The statement was casual, but the meaning was absolute. She was not to leave. Matthias was a jailer. This opulent bathroom, this entire penthouse, was a gilded cage.
He finished with her hair, letting the curls fall in a damp, dark cascade down her back. He turned her to face him, his expression unreadable.
“Be good for me, kitten.” It wasn’t a request. It was a command.
He kissed her forehead, a benediction and a brand, then left her standing there, staring at her own reflection in the mirror, a changed woman in a room full of steam and ghosts.
The reflection held a stranger’s eyes, wide and dark with a confusion that felt like fear, or maybe its thrilling opposite. She touched the mark on her neck, a precise, blooming ache that seemed to pulse in time with the memory of his body claiming hers against the marble. The steam had dissolved, leaving the cavernous bathroom feeling sterile and exposed, the opulent tiles cold beneath her bare feet.
Wrapping the towel tighter around herself, she pushed the heavy door open and stepped back into the bedroom. The city sprawled beyond the glass, bathed in hard morning light, a world that now seemed impossibly distant.
Legend stood near the bed, already pulling on dark, tailored trousers that hugged his lean hips. His back was to her, a canvas of mahogany skin and defined muscle, a landscape of power and violence she had now traced with her own hands. He moved with an unnerving, silent efficiency.
He shrugged into a crisp white shirt, the fabric stark against his skin, and began buttoning it with deft fingers. His eyes caught hers in the reflection of the window, a silent acknowledgment that speared through her.
“I have nothing to wear,” she said, her voice small in the vast quiet. The remnants of her sexy cat costume were a shredded memory on this same floor.
He finished with the buttons, his gaze sweeping over her from head to toe, taking in the towel and her damp curls. A slow, knowing smile touched his lips. He walked to his closet and returned holding a simple black t-shirt.
“Arms up, kitten.”
She obeyed, dropping the towel. The soft, expensive cotton whispered over her skin as he pulled the shirt down over her head. It drowned her, the hem brushing her mid-thigh, the sleeves falling past her elbows. It smelled profoundly of him—sandalwood, clean sweat, and that dark, unique spice that was his own scent.
He smoothed the fabric over her shoulders, his hands lingering. “This will do for now.” His voice was a low rumble, possessive and final. He tucked a damp curl behind her ear. “I’ll have a proper wardrobe brought in for you while I’m out. Everything you need.”
He turned and walked toward the bedroom door, a king departing his domain. He paused at the threshold, glancing back at her standing there, swimming in his clothes, branded by his touch, utterly and completely his.