Chapter 7: The Coffee Truce
The deep, throbbing ache lingered for two days. It was a blunt, physical reminder that sat low in Wren’s body, a counterpoint to the luminous, complex chords of her bonds. She moved through her routines at the print shop with a focused quiet, the memory of Xaden’s visit a closed room in her mind she wasn’t ready to enter. Maren asked no questions, just pushed a fresh mug of tea toward her every few hours.
On the morning of the third day, the knock came. It wasn’t Liam’s familiar tap. It wasn’t the declarative strike of Xaden’s anger. This was three hesitant raps, followed by silence.
Wren opened the door, a towel in her hands from drying the breakfast dish.
Xaden stood on the narrow landing. He looked stripped. No armor, just dark trousers and a grey linen shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows. His hair was damp, as if he’d just washed. In one hand, he held a paper cup from the bakery down the street, a tiny wisp of steam escaping the sip-hole. In the other, a small, messy bunch of wildflowers—yellow hawkweed and purple clover, tied with string.
His amber eyes found hers, and the usual iron control was gone. In its place was a raw, unsettled vulnerability that made her breath catch.
“Hi,” he said, his voice rough.
She didn’t move, the damp towel clutched in her fist. The scent of caramel and coffee wafted from the cup.
He swallowed, his gaze dropping for a second before forcing itself back up. “I’m… I’m sorry. For how I left. For how I…” He trailed off, the words seeming inadequate. He extended the coffee and flowers. “I remembered the caramel. And the extra shot.”
She took them, her fingers brushing his. The coffee was almost painfully hot. The flowers smelled of sun and field dust.
“Can I come in?” he asked. Not a demand. A request.
She stepped back.
He entered, filling the small space with his presence, but carefully, like he was trying not to displace the air. He watched as she set the coffee on the table, found a chipped mug for the flowers, filled it with water. The ordinary actions felt monumental.
Finally, she turned, leaning against the sink. “Why?”
He ran a hand through his hair. “Because I fucked up. Not just the other night. For years. I was so focused on keeping everyone alive, on the strategy, on Violet’s goddamn signets, that I… I stopped looking at you. I assumed you were just there. A constant. My mistake.” He took a step closer, his eyes tracing her face. “The thought of you muting the bond… it felt like a limb being severed. And then finding you here, with Liam, with Deigh already in your skin…” He shook his head. “I handled it with the tact of a panicked bull.”
A faint, unexpected twitch of her lips. “That’s an understatement.”
A ghost of a smile touched his mouth, then vanished. “I know. And I’m sorry. For letting my fear control me. For taking you like that, without asking, without… care.” The word ‘care’ seemed to cost him. “It wasn’t about you. It was about my own failure. And I took it out on you.”
Silence stretched, thick with everything unsaid. The bond between them, still tender from its brutal re-opening, hummed with his regret. It felt different from Liam’s solid comfort or Deigh’s primal certainty. This was cracked glass, painstakingly being glued back together.
“I liked the intensity,” she said quietly, the admission surprising her as much as him. His eyes widened. “Not the… location. Or the lack of asking. But the rawness of it. It felt… honest. For the first time in years.”
A complex emotion flickered across his face—remorse, understanding, a dark heat. “It was honest,” he agreed, his voice dropping. “But it was also selfish. And you deserve more than my emotional fallout.” He closed the final distance between them, his hands coming up to cup her face. His thumbs stroked her cheekbones with a tenderness that made her throat tight. “I’m staying the weekend. If you’ll have me. No war councils, no emergencies. Just… this. You.”
He leaned in and kissed her. It was nothing like the conquest at the door. This was a slow, searching press of lips, an apology and a question. He tasted of mint and regret. Her hands came up, fisting lightly in the soft fabric of his shirt, not pushing away, not pulling closer. Just holding on.
When he broke the kiss, he rested his forehead against hers. “Let me try again. Properly.”
She exhaled, a shaky breath. “Okay.”
They moved to the small, worn sofa. He sat, pulling her down so her back was against his chest, her legs stretched out alongside his. He reached for the remote, flicking on the small screen mounted on the wall. Some historical drama filled the space with sound and light, a meaningless buffer.
His arm wrapped around her, his hand splaying over her stomach. His other hand came up, his fingers slowly, gently, combing through her hair. He was warm and solid behind her. For a long while, they just sat, the movie a colorful blur. His touch was hypnotic, undemanding. It was the sheer normalcy of it that undid her. This simple, domestic closeness was something he’d never offered, had never seemed to have the capacity to consider.
As the film droned through a courtroom scene, his hand slid from her stomach, up her side, his fingers tracing the line of her ribs through her thin sweater. He found the sensitive skin of her inner arm, stroking softly. Then his fingertips brushed the side of her breast.
Her breath hitched.
“Wren?” His voice was a low rumble against her ear.
“Hmm?”
“Can I make you feel good?” The question was earnest, stripped of arrogance. “However you want. However fast or slow. I just… I want to touch you. Without the anger.”
The directness, the vulnerability in the request, sent a shiver through her. She nodded, turning her head to look at him. “Yes.”
He shifted, easing them both off the couch and onto the rug before the cold hearth. The afternoon light slanted through the window, gilding the dust motes. He knelt before her, his eyes holding hers as his hands went to the hem of her sweater.
“Lift your arms.”
She obeyed. He drew the soft wool up and over her head, tossing it aside. Her plain cotton bra followed, the clasp giving way under his practiced fingers. The cool air pebbled her skin. His gaze was a physical caress, drinking in the sight of her bare breasts, the curve of her waist.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, the words simple, stark. “I don’t think I ever told you that.”
He bent his head and took one peaked nipple into his mouth. Not a harsh suck, but a slow, wet pull, his tongue circling the taut bud. A soft moan escaped her. His other hand palmed her other breast, his thumb rubbing back and forth in a rhythm that matched his mouth. The dual sensation, so focused, so deliberate, was already stoking a deep, steady heat.
He lavished attention on one breast, then the other, until she was arching into his mouth, her fingers tangled in his hair. He kissed his way down her sternum, his tongue dipping into the hollow of her navel, making her muscles jump. His hands went to the button of her trousers, flicking it open, drawing the zipper down with a slow, grating sound.
“Lift your hips,” he murmured against her stomach.
She did. He peeled her trousers and underwear down her legs in one smooth motion, leaving her completely bare on the woven rug. He sat back on his heels, just looking, his gaze heavy and heated. She felt exposed, but not ashamed. Seen.
He nudged her thighs apart with gentle hands. The cool air touched her most intimate skin, already slick with anticipation. He leaned down, his breath washing over her folds, warm and moist. He didn’t plunge in. He nuzzled, his nose grazing her soft curls, inhaling deeply.
“You smell incredible,” he growled, the sound vibrating against her.
Then his tongue touched her. A single, long, slow lick from her entrance all the way up to her clit. It was an exploratory stroke, savoring. She cried out, her hips lifting off the rug.
“Xaden…”
“I’ve got you,” he murmured, and then his mouth was on her in earnest.
This was not a rushed performance. It was a dedicated feast. He licked into her, tasting her, his tongue broad and flat against her sensitive flesh. He circled her clit, varying the pressure—soft flicks, then firm, swirling strokes. He would pull back to kiss her inner thighs, to nip lightly at the soft skin, then return with renewed focus. He was learning her, memorizing her responses.
When she was writhing, her heels digging into the rug, he pushed two fingers inside her. They slid in easily, coated in her wetness. He curled them, searching, and found that spongy spot deep within. He pressed, a steady, rhythmic pressure, as his mouth zeroed in on her clit.
The dual stimulation was unbearable. Her back arched, a broken sound tearing from her throat. “Right there… don’t stop…”
He didn’t. He sucked her clit into the heat of his mouth, flicking his tongue over the hard little nub while his fingers pumped in and out, crooking to drag perfectly against that spot with every thrust. The coiling tension in her belly wound tighter, tighter, a spring about to snap.
“I’m gonna… Xaden, I’m…”
He redoubled his efforts, his fingers driving deeper, his mouth sucking harder. The orgasm ripped through her with violent, shocking intensity. Waves of pure, white-hot pleasure crashed over her, her entire body seizing. She screamed, her vision blurring, her inner muscles clenching rhythmically around his thrusting fingers. He worked her through it, gentling his mouth but not stopping, licking and suckling until the sensations tipped into overwhelming and she weakly pushed at his head, gasping.
He withdrew his fingers, kissed her trembling inner thigh, and crawled up her body. He kissed her deeply, letting her taste herself on his lips and tongue. The kiss was possessive, but now it was a possession born of service, of knowing he’d given her this.
He held her as she shook, tucking her against his side. His own arousal was a hard, pressing line against her hip, but he made no move to address it.
“That was just the start,” he whispered into her hair, his hand stroking her back. “This weekend is for you. However you want me. However you need me. I’m not leaving until you’re sure of it.”
She curled into him, the complex, aching chords of her bonds settling into a new, more harmonious arrangement. The fractured glass was still there, but now it was held together with something stronger than fear. It was held with intent.
Outside, the sun began its descent, painting the maps on her walls in tones of gold and fire. For the first time, the quiet in the room felt like a promise, not an absence. And she believed, in the warm, secure circle of his arms, that he was finally, truly, looking.
The warmth of his body and the lingering echoes of her climax lulled her into a hazy half-sleep. His fingers continued their idle journey along her spine, mapping vertebrae through her skin. The movie’s credits rolled in silent, scrolling lines.
“I should get that fire going,” he murmured, his lips moving against her hair.
“In a minute.”
He chuckled, the sound a soft vibration through his chest. “Demanding.”
“You offered a weekend. I’m collecting.” She tipped her head back to look at him. The harsh angles of his face were softened in the dimming light. “I’m starving.”
“The coffee wasn’t enough?”
“You burnt off all those calories.”
His amber eyes darkened with pleasure at the blunt acknowledgment. “Right. Food.” He shifted, sitting up and pulling her with him. “What’s the protocol? Do I brave the bakery again, or are you coming with me?”
The thought of being seen with him in the small town, in the mundane act of buying bread, sent a nervous thrill through her. “I’ll come. I need air.”
They dressed in a comfortable quiet. He pulled on his shirt while she found clean trousers and a sweater. He watched her brush her hair, his gaze reflecting a simple appreciation that felt entirely new. He held the door for her.
The evening air was crisp, carrying the scent of woodsmoke and the distant ocean. The cobblestone streets were quiet. A few neighbors nodded, their eyes lingering on Xaden with a mixture of recognition and curiosity. He didn’t seem to notice, his attention fixed on the uneven stones at her feet.
“Step here, it’s loose,” he said, his hand finding the small of her back.
At the bakery, the bell tinkled. Anya, the baker’s wife, beamed from behind the counter. “Wren! And you’ve brought a friend.”
“This is Xaden,” Wren said, the name feeling significant on her tongue in this context.
“The one who bought the entire caramel latte stock this morning,” Anya said with a wink. “We figured. What can I get for you two?”
They bought a still-warm loaf of rye, a wedge of sharp cheese, and two meat pasties. Xaden paid, refusing her coin with a shake of his head. “My weekend,” he reminded her softly.
Walking back, the paper-wrapped package warm under his arm, he was closer. His shoulder brushed hers. “They like you here.”
“It’s peaceful.”
“It is.” He was quiet for a block. “I can see why you came back. It’s a good place to… recalibrate.”
“Is that what you’re doing?” she asked.
“Trying to.” He looked straight ahead. “I’m not good at it. Calm. I run on conflict. This?” He gestured loosely at the sleepy street. “This is foreign territory.”
Back in the apartment, he built a fire with efficient skill while she set out plates on the low table. They ate on the rug, the flames painting dancing shadows on the walls. He told her about the mind-numbing bureaucracy of the new border councils, imitating a tedious trade minister with shocking accuracy. She laughed, the sound surprising her.
He told her about Sgaeyl’s contempt for the proceedings. They measure land in parchment. We measure it in wingbeats. He spoke of his own frustration, the slow grind of peace feeling sometimes more exhausting than war.
She spoke of the print shop, of Maren’s stubbornness, of Rowan’s latest drama. She did not mention her parents. That felt like a different conversation, a heavier stone to turn over. For now, this was enough. This easy, wandering talk over crumbs of cheese and crust.
He cleared the plates. When he returned from the small sink, he stood before her, the firelight carving him out in gold and shadow. The casual ease of the evening condensed into a single, potent point.
“You said you liked the intensity,” he said, his voice low.
Her pulse quickened. “I did.”
“But it was wrong. The way I went about it.” He knelt in front of her. “Tell me what you want now.”
She reached for the hem of his shirt. “I want you out of these clothes. I want to look at you.”
A sharp exhale escaped him. He pulled the shirt over his head, revealing the hard planes of his chest and stomach, the scars, the dark ink of his relic. He stood to shed his trousers and underwear, kicking them aside. He stood fully naked before the fire, utterly unselfconscious, his cock half-hard already.
Her gaze traveled over him, a slow, deliberate inventory. “Now you,” he said, the words rough.
She stood, pulling her sweater off, then her trousers. She left her underwear on, a thin barrier of black cotton. He closed the distance, his hands settling on her hips, thumbs hooking into the waistband.
“These too.”
She let him slide them down. His knuckles brushed her thighs. The air, warmed by the fire, touched her newly-bared skin. He backed her up until her calves hit the edge of the sofa.
“Sit.”
She did, leaning back. He knelt again, pushing her thighs apart. He just looked, his breath gusting hot against her damp curls. The visual of him, a battle-hardened rider on his knees between her spread legs, was profoundly erotic.
“You’re so fucking wet,” he observed, his voice thick. “Just from talking. From eating cheese.”
“From you looking at me like that.”
He leaned in and licked her, a slow, filthy, open-mouthed stroke that made her jerk. He didn’t use finesse this time. He ate her with a focused hunger, his tongue plunging into her entrance before flattening against her clit. He sucked, hard. His fingers dug into the flesh of her thighs, holding her open.
“Oh god, Xaden.”
“Tell me,” he demanded against her, his tongue still working. “Tell me what you like.”
“Harder. Use your fingers. Inside.”
He complied instantly. Two fingers speared into her, crooking upward. A third joined, stretching her deliciously. He fucked her with his hand, his palm grinding against her clit with every deep thrust. His mouth was merciless, sucking and licking. The combined sensation was overwhelming, a crude, magnificent assault.
“You like that? You like my fingers fucking this pretty cunt?”
“Yes. Don’t stop.”
“I won’t. Come on my face. Let me feel it.”
The command, the raw depravity of it, tipped her over. Her orgasm smashed through her, a blunt-force shock that tore a ragged scream from her throat. Her hips bucked wildly against his holding hands, against his relentless mouth. He rode it out, gentling only when she became oversensitive, his tongue lapping softly as she trembled.
He rose, his lips and chin glistening. He kissed her, letting her taste herself. He was fully hard now, his cock pressing insistently against her stomach.
“Bed,” he growled. “Now.”
They stumbled to the narrow bed. He laid her down, following her, covering her body with his. The weight of him was anchoring. He reached between them, guiding himself to her entrance. The broad head pressed, stretching.
“Look at me,” he said.
Her storm-gray eyes locked on his gold-flecked ones.
He pushed in, a slow, relentless invasion that filled her completely. She gasped, her nails biting into his shoulders. He held there, buried to the hilt, letting her adjust. Sweat beaded on his temple.
“Okay?” The word was gritted out.
“More. Move.”
He withdrew and thrust back in, setting a deep, measured rhythm. It was intense, but controlled. Each drive was deliberate, punching the air from her lungs. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.
“Is this good?” he breathed into her neck, his hips never faltering.
“So good. Harder.”
He obeyed, his pace escalating. The bedframe knocked against the wall. The sounds were obscene: skin slapping, her broken moans, his guttural groans. He shifted, hooking an arm under her knee, lifting it, opening her wider. The new angle made her see stars.
“Right there, oh fuck, right there!”
He hammered into that spot, his control fraying. His breaths came in ragged pants. “You feel me? You feel how deep I am?”
“Yes! I feel you.”
“This cunt is mine. Say it.”
“It’s yours.” The admission unleashed something in him. His thrusts became punishing, wild. The pleasure built, a terrifying crescendo. She could feel his own climax coiling, a tightness in his muscles.
“Come with me,” he demanded, his voice shattered. “Now, Wren.”
It was the use of her name that did it. She shattered, her inner walls clenching around him in violent waves. He shouted, his hips stuttering as he poured into her, heat flooding her core. He collapsed, his weight driving her deeper into the mattress, his face buried in her neck.
For long minutes, only their heaving breaths filled the room. The fire crackled. Slowly, he softened and slipped from her body. He didn’t roll away. He shifted to his side, gathering her against him, her back to his front.
His arm banded around her waist, his hand splaying possessively over her lower belly. He kissed her shoulder.
“Stay just like this,” he murmured, his voice already thick with impending sleep.
She nodded, her body humming with satisfaction, her mind quieter than it had been in years. Through the bond, she felt Sgaeyl’s distant, satisfied rumble and Nyxari’s cool, approving brush against her consciousness.
Outside, full dark had fallen. The weekend stretched ahead, a protected space of touch and talk and silent understanding. And deeper in the background, like a calendar page waiting to be turned, was the promised family dinner at her mother’s house tomorrow—a different kind of battlefield altogether. She pushed the thought away, focusing on the steady, repentant beat of Xaden’s heart against her back, and slept.