Chapter 17: Chapter 17
The silence of the commander’s study still clung to her as she walked, a brittle shell around the new, raw understanding. The castle corridors felt different now, the stone not just old, but complicit. Her body ached in a symphony of specific pains: the deep throb in her lower back, the pleasant, used soreness between her legs, the ghost of his grip on her hips. She touched the pocket where the river stone lay. A piece of the truth. Not all of it.
She didn't go to the barracks. Her feet, of their own volition, carried her down a narrower, quieter hallway, one reserved for senior officers' quarters. The air here was cooler, stiller. She stopped before a door identical to all the others, except she knew it was his. No sound came from within.
She raised her hand. Knocked. Twice, firm.
A moment of silence, then the sound of a latch. The door opened inward.
Levi stood there, backlit by a single, strong lamp on a bare desk. He’d changed again, into a simple black undershirt and loose trousers. His hair was damp, his face freshly scrubbed, but the shadows under his eyes were profound. He looked at her, his expression unreadable, but he didn't seem surprised. He stepped back, a silent invitation.
She entered. His room was a study in severe order. It smelled of lemon oil and leather, with the faintest underlying trace of the same soap from her skin. Every surface was bare and gleaming. The bed was made with a precision that defied human use, corners sharp enough to cut. A single bookshelf held manuals and tactical journals, arranged by height. It was the room of a man who controlled his environment absolutely, a stark contrast to the violent loss of control he’d exhibited against her wall just hours before.
He closed the door. The click was final. He leaned back against it, arms crossed, watching her. Waiting.
The words she’d practiced in her head evaporated. The speech about understanding, about choice, about the map on her father’s wall—it all sounded like childish noise here, in this temple of brutal efficiency. So she said the only true thing left.
“I spoke to him. The commander.”
Levi’s eyes narrowed slightly. A flicker of something dark—possessiveness, suspicion—crossed his face. “And?”
She took a breath, her gaze steady on his. “He said it’s okay to… continue… whatever we were before.”
The silence that followed was thick enough to swim in. Levi didn’t move from the door. His grey eyes bored into her, dissecting the phrase, tasting its implications. His voice, when it came, was low and dangerous. “He gave you permission.”
“No.” She shook her head, the messy braid swaying. “He said the objective was your survival. That’s complete. What follows is between us and the consequences. He can only assess the new landscape.” She paraphrased Erwin’s cold calculus, hating how clinical it sounded. “It wasn’t a blessing. It was a tactical forecast.”
A muscle ticked in Levi’s jaw. He pushed off the door and took a step toward her, then another, until he was within arm’s reach. The air between them crackled. “So you came here to deliver a status report? To tell me the commander has noted the variable?”
“I came here,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper, “because I wanted to. Permission or no permission. Landscape be damned.”
He searched her face, looking for the lie, the manipulation, the shadow of Erwin’s strategy. What he found seemed to both satisfy and infuriate him. He reached out, his fingers not touching her skin, but hooking lightly under the collar of her uniform jacket. “This is still a fucking terrible idea.”
“I know.”
“It complicates everything.”
“I know that, too.”
“You’re still reckless. And your back is fucked.”
A small, defiant smile touched her lips. “So don’t bend me over a wall.”
The words hung in the lemon-scented air, a direct challenge, a raw callback. His controlled mask slipped completely. In its place was a hunger so stark it stole her breath.
His hand fisted in her collar and he pulled her to him, crushing his mouth to hers. This kiss was different from the first. It wasn’t just frantic need; it was focused, deliberate, a claiming that had been given a perverse form of clearance. He tasted like black tea and resolve. His other hand came up to cup her jaw, his thumb stroking the line of her cheekbone with a startling tenderness that contradicted the fierce possession of his mouth.
He walked her backward, his lips never leaving hers, until the backs of her knees hit the rigid edge of his perfectly made bed. He broke the kiss, his breathing already ragged. “Lie down. On your stomach.”
The order was pure Levi, but the heat in his eyes transformed it. She complied, lowering herself carefully onto the stark white coverlet. The linen was cool and crisp against her flushed skin. She heard the soft rustle of his clothing, the shift of fabric, then the weight of him settling over her, not on her, his knees bracketing her hips, his hands sliding under her.
His fingers made quick work of her jacket fastenings, then the buttons of her shirt. He pushed the fabric off her shoulders, baring her back down to the waistband of her trousers. His touch was clinical at first, assessing the bandage the medic had applied. He traced its edges with a feather-light touch that made her shiver.
Then his fingertips brushed the bare skin of her lower back, just beside the bandage. His touch changed. It became a slow, deliberate stroke. He leaned down, and she felt his lips press against the nape of her neck, then the sharp point of her shoulder blade. His kisses were soft, almost reverent, a shocking contrast to the man who had taken her against a wall.
“This is where you carry it,” he murmured, his lips moving against her skin. “All the tension. All the impact.” His hands slid around her sides, his palms rough and warm against her ribs, his thumbs stroking the sensitive skin just beneath her breasts. “You’re a mess, Sage.”
“You’re one to talk,” she breathed into the coverlet, arching slightly into his touch.
A low hum vibrated against her back. His hands moved to the fastening of her trousers. He tugged them down, along with her underwear, his movements efficient but not rushed. The cool air hit her exposed skin, followed immediately by the heat of his body as he settled more fully over her, his erection, hard and insistent, pressing against the cleft of her ass through his trousers.
He propped himself up on one elbow, his other hand roaming her body—the curve of her waist, the swell of her hip, the back of her thigh. He squeezed the muscle there, a firm, possessive grip. “You came to my room,” he said, his voice a rough whisper in her ear. “After everything. Knowing what I am. What this is.”
“I know what it is,” she whispered back, turning her head to the side. Her cheek was against the clean, starched linen. “It’s you. And me. And this.”
That seemed to be the answer he needed. He shifted, and she heard the sound of his trousers being shoved down. Then the broad, slick head of his cock was nudging against her, not at her entrance, but sliding through the wetness already gathered there, stroking her folds from behind. He teased her, rubbing himself against her clit, making her gasp and push back against him.
“Levi, please…”
“Please what?” he growled, his breath hot on her ear. “Use your words. You’re good with those.”
“Fuck me,” she said, the obscenity loud in the pristine room. “Just fuck me, Levi.”
With a grunt, he positioned himself and pushed inside her in one slow, inexorable thrust. The fullness was breathtaking, deeper this way, with her hips tilted. He buried himself to the hilt and held there, letting her adjust, his body trembling with the effort of his restraint.
Then he began to move. It was a different rhythm—slower, deeper, more grinding. Each stroke dragged against a spot inside her that made stars burst behind her eyelids. His hand slid under her, fingers finding her clit, rubbing in tight, perfect circles in time with his thrusts. The dual stimulation was overwhelming, a coil of pleasure winding tighter and tighter with every roll of his hips.
The bed, for all its precision, began to creak a soft, rhythmic protest. The sound was obscenely loud in the quiet room. Levi’s breathing grew harsher, his thrusts losing their measured pace, becoming more urgent, more desperate. He bent over her, his chest pressed against her bandaged back, his lips against her ear.
“You feel that?” he panted, driving into her. “That’s me. That’s all me. Not a fucking strategy. Not a variable. This.”
“Yes,” she choked out, the pleasure building to a terrifying peak. Her fingers clutched at the coverlet, twisting the flawless linen. “God, yes, Levi…”
“Come for me,” he commanded, his voice guttural. “Come on my cock. Let go.”
His words, the filthy, raw command of them, combined with the relentless friction of his fingers and the deep, pounding fullness of him, shattered her. Her orgasm ripped through her, a silent, screaming wave that clenched around him, milking his length in violent pulses.
The feel of her tightening around him tore his control away. He slammed into her one last, final time, his body shuddering as he emptied himself inside her with a choked, ragged groan that was half her name. He collapsed onto her, his weight a welcome anchor, his face buried in the hair at the nape of her neck.
For long minutes, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing and the slow settling of the bed. He was still inside her, softening. The smell of sex, musky and intimate, rose to mingle with the lemon and leather, a permanent violation of his sterile space.
Eventually, he rolled off her, lying on his back beside her. She turned her head to look at him. His eyes were closed, his chest still rising and falling rapidly. The harsh lines of his face were relaxed, but not peaceful. They never were.
Without opening his eyes, he reached out and found her hand, his fingers lacing through hers. The gesture was so simple, so unexpectedly tender, that her throat constricted.
“The landscape has changed,” he said quietly, staring at the ceiling.
She squeezed his hand. “I know.”
“It’s going to be a fucking nightmare.”
“Probably.”
He turned his head then, opening his eyes. The grey was stormy, conflicted, but utterly focused on her. “I don’t do this. I don’t get… involved.”
“You are now,” she said, a statement, not a challenge.
He looked at her for a long, long moment. Then he brought their joined hands to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles, a gesture so profoundly unlike him it felt like a seismic shift. “Yeah,” he said, the word a surrender. “I am.”
The silence after his admission was vast, but not empty. It was filled with the scent of their sweat on his clean sheets, the distant, hollow knock of a pipe in the castle walls, the rapid, slowing beat of her heart against her ribs. His thumb traced absent circles on the back of her hand, a minute, repetitive motion that felt more intimate than anything that had come before.
Sage turned onto her side to face him. The movement pulled a wince from her; every muscle protested.
“See?” he said, his voice a low rasp. “Fucked.”
“Worth it,” she breathed, and meant it.
A corner of his mouth twitched, the ghost of something that wasn’t quite a smile. He shifted, rising up on an elbow to look down at her. His free hand came to her face, pushing a strand of damp hair from her forehead. His gaze was a physical weight, searching, cataloging. “You’re here,” he said, as if confirming it for himself.
“Where else would I be?”
“Anywhere smarter.”
She laughed, a short, breathy sound. “Never been my strong suit.”
His expression darkened, but not with anger. It was something more possessive, more resolved. “No. It hasn’t.” He leaned down and kissed her, slowly this time. It was a kiss of acknowledgment, of a decision made. When he pulled back, his eyes had taken on a new, simmering intensity. “The first time was about the flare. About the ridge. This time…” He let the sentence hang, his hand sliding from her face down the column of her throat, over the swell of her breast, coming to rest on her hip.
“This time is about the landscape,” she finished for him, echoing Erwin’s cold term but infusing it with heat.
“Fuck the landscape.” His fingers dug into the flesh of her hip. “This time is because I want you again. Now.”
The raw demand in his voice sent a fresh jolt of arousal straight to her core, which still throbbed from his earlier possession. She could feel him hardening again against her thigh. “So take me,” she challenged, her voice husky.
He moved with a sudden, fluid purpose that belied his earlier exhaustion. He rolled, pulling her with him until she was straddling his hips. The white coverlet was a rumpled battlefield beneath them. He looked up at her, his hands settling on her waist. “You’re in charge. Your back.”
She understood. Control, for her comfort. A concession she hadn’t expected. She rose up on her knees, positioning herself above him. She guided him inside, sinking down with a slow, gasping exhale. The fullness was exquisite, a deep, stretching ache that was already familiar and yet new. She began to move, a rolling grind of her hips that made his eyes slam shut and his jaw clench.
“Look at me,” she said.
His grey eyes opened, blazing with a need that mirrored her own. He watched her, his gaze dropping to where their bodies joined, then back to her face. His hands slid up to her breasts, thumbs rubbing over her nipples until they were hard peaks. “You’re greedy,” he muttered, his hips lifting to meet her downward stroke.
“You made me this way.”
He swore, a filthy, beautiful word, and sat up in one abrupt motion, wrapping his arms around her to crush her against his chest. The change in angle was profound, driving him even deeper. He took over the rhythm, bouncing her on his lap, his mouth hot and desperate on her neck, her shoulder, her mouth. The bedframe gave a sharp, protesting creak with every thrust.
It was overwhelming, a crescendo building too fast. She could feel the coil of another orgasm tightening, but she wanted more. She wanted all of him, in every way. She broke the kiss, panting against his lips. “Levi. Wait.”
He stilled instantly, his body rigid with tension. “What? Did I hurt—”
“No.” She kissed him, swallowing his concern. “I want… I want you to try something else.”
He pulled back just enough to search her face. His eyes were wary, questioning. “What?”
She took a shaky breath, the words feeling clumsy. “I’ve never… you know. The other way.”
Comprehension dawned, followed by a flicker of stark surprise. He was utterly still for a long moment. “Why?”
“Because it’s you,” she said simply. “And I don’t want there to be a part of me you haven’t touched.”
A tremor went through him. He lowered her gently onto her back, his movements suddenly deliberate. He reached for the small, plain drawer in his nightstand. The inside was as meticulously organized as the rest of the room. He withdrew a small vial of oil. “This isn’t for that,” he said, his voice rough. “It’s for my blades. But it’s clean. It’ll work.”
The practicality of it, the sheer Levi-ness of having a multi-purpose oil at hand, made a hysterical laugh bubble in her throat. She swallowed it. She nodded.
He warmed the oil between his fingers, his eyes never leaving hers. His touch, when it came, was a revelation of patience. He traced the tight furl of muscle, his fingertip slick and circling, applying gentle, unrelenting pressure. He watched her face, reading every flinch, every sigh. “Breathe,” he murmured. “Just breathe. It’s just my finger.”
She forced her muscles to relax, exhaling slowly. The intrusion was strange, a sharp, burning stretch, but not painful. He worked his finger in slowly, to the knuckle, then held it there, letting her adjust. His other hand stroked her inner thigh, a soothing counterpoint. “Okay?” he asked, the word gruff.
“Yeah,” she breathed. “It’s… okay.”
He began to move his finger, a slow in-and-out that gradually softened the resistance. He added a second finger, the stretch becoming a deep, full ache. A strange, indirect pleasure began to bloom, radiating from that forbidden place through her whole pelvis. She moaned, arching her back off the bed.
“There?” he asked, his voice thick.
“Yes. God, yes.”
He crooked his fingers, brushing a spot that made her see white. She cried out, her hips bucking. He removed his fingers, and the sudden emptiness was a shock. He poured more oil into his palm, slicking himself thoroughly. The sight of him, glistening and painfully erect, made her mouth go dry.
He positioned himself, the blunt head pressing where his fingers had been. He met her gaze, his own eyes wide, almost vulnerable. “This will hurt,” he stated, no sugarcoating. “At first. Tell me to stop and I stop. Immediately. Do you understand?”
“I understand.”
He pushed forward, a millimeter at a time. The burn was intense, a searing stretch that felt impossible. She gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders. He froze, his entire body shaking with the effort of holding back.
“Breathe, Sage,” he gritted out, his forehead damp with sweat. “Just breathe through it.”
She focused on his voice, on his eyes, on the feel of his hands gripping her hips, anchoring her. She exhaled, forcing her body to yield. He pressed deeper, an inexorable, gradual invasion until he was fully seated inside her. The feeling was profound, a fullness so complete it bordered on pain, but beneath it was a shocking, dark intimacy.
He didn’t move. He leaned down, kissing her deeply, swallowing her whimpers. “You’re taking me so well,” he whispered against her lips, a raw praise that unspooled something in her chest. “So fucking tight. Every part of you.”
He began to move, a shallow, careful rocking of his hips. The initial burn began to subside, transmuting into a deep, thrilling friction. Each slow stroke dragged against that secret, sensitive place inside her, building a pleasure so intense it felt illicit. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, a silent plea for more.
He obliged, his thrusts gaining confidence, deepening. The slick, wet sound of their joining was obscenely loud. He fucked her with a focused, relentless rhythm, his eyes locked on hers, watching her unravel. The pressure built, a coil of heat winding tighter and tighter in her belly, fed by the filthy, perfect friction and the sheer taboo of the act.
“Levi, I’m gonna…” she choked out.
“Come,” he commanded, his voice breaking. “Come on my cock. Let me feel it.”
His words were the final trigger. Her orgasm detonated, a silent, shattering convulsion that clamped around him, milking his length in rhythmic pulses. The intensity wrenched a broken sob from her throat.
The violent clenching of her around him was his undoing. With a guttural cry, he drove into her one final, deep time and spilled himself, his release hot and claiming in the deepest part of her. He collapsed atop her, his weight a solid, comforting pressure, his face buried in her hair.
Long moments passed, filled only with the sound of their ragged, mingled breaths. He was still inside her, softening. Slowly, carefully, he withdrew. He fetched a clean cloth, dampened it with water from his pitcher, and cleaned her with a tenderness that made her eyes sting. He cleaned himself, then disposed of the cloth.
He came back to bed, pulling the ruined coverlet over them. He drew her into his side, her back against his chest, his arm a heavy band across her waist. His lips brushed the juncture of her neck and shoulder.
“The landscape is fucking ruined,” he muttered into her skin.
She smiled in the dark, placing her hand over his. “Good.”