Chapter 15: Eighteen
He was breathing hard, his hands shaking slightly where they gripped her waist, like he wasn't sure if he should be touching her—but couldn't help it either.
Then he said it.
Soft.
Quiet.
Almost like it didn't matter.
"Today is my eighteenth birthday."
Seraphine stilled.
Her fingers curled into his chest.
Eighteen.
Today.
Her lashes lowered as she took him in—his features, his voice, the timing.
It clicked.
Everything clicked.
She tilted her head, her voice cool and confident, like she was stating a fact already written in stone.
"You're Kian Fenix."
His eyes widened—just a fraction—and his lips parted.
But he didn't deny it.
"Yes."
Her smile curved, slow and dangerous.
Of course he was.
The boy beneath her—the only one who had ever kissed her like he wanted nothing but her, not her power—was him.
The perfect son.
The ghost in the shadows.
The real heir no one dared speak of.
She leaned closer until their lips brushed, but didn't kiss him yet.
"What do you want," she murmured, "as a birthday present?"
He stared at her, breathless.
"You've already given me one."
She raised a brow, intrigued. "Oh?"
He nodded, his voice rough with honesty.
"You."
Her eyes darkened at that.
He'd said it so simply, without hesitation. And it lit something dangerous in her—something possessive and territorial.
She kissed him.
Hard.
His arms wrapped around her like he couldn't get close enough. His lips moved against hers—clumsy but desperate, full of raw emotion he didn't know how to hide.
Her hand slid into his hair again, pulling just enough to make him gasp, and then she deepened the kiss, letting him drown.
She bit his lower lip, just enough to sting.
He moaned.
She smiled against his mouth.
She kissed down his jaw, to his throat, and then bit him again—harder this time, sharp enough to leave a mark. A real one.
He gasped and held onto her tighter.
He kissed the base of her neck with open-mouthed reverence, his fingers trembling against her waist, and when he leaned forward to bury his face in her throat, something inside her stilled.
she pushed her fingers into his hair and yanked his head back, exposing his throat.
He gasped.
Her lips met his neck again. A kiss. Then a bite.
He moaned—sharp and guttural—his hands digging into her thighs, but he didn't push her away. Didn't ask questions. He didn't need to. Because if she knew who he was and still touched him like this, still kissed him like she was claiming every inch of him, it could only mean one thing.
She didn't care about who he was.
Only that he was hers.
And as he kissed her collarbone, shy and desperate, still marked with the aftermath of her earlier bites
And then, in a low voice, almost like it slipped out—
"My older half-brother drugged me."
Her lips paused over his skin.
A beat of silence.
Then a low laugh—soft and wicked.
"You should be grateful to him then."
He blinked, surprised.
She pulled back just enough to look at him, her eyes gleaming.
"If he hadn't drugged you," she said, voice like velvet, "you wouldn't have left that ballroom. And if you hadn't left… I wouldn't have entered."
She leaned in again, brushing her lips over his.
"I was about to leave, you know."
A kiss.
Slow.
Burning.
She whispered against his mouth, "We met because he drugged you."
He exhaled like he'd been hit.
And then she kissed him again.
He kissed her back—no hesitation this time, no second thoughts. His hands explored her back, her waist, the curve of her neck, until she straddled him fully again and pinned him with her gaze.
"Now," she murmured, dragging her nails lightly down his chest, "I'll give you your real birthday gift."
He swallowed hard.
She leaned down, biting his throat again—deeper.
This time, it would last.
A love bite that would bruise and linger, proof of what he belonged to now.
Hers.
She marked him again—under his collarbone, on his chest, his shoulder.
Each one deliberate.
Each one permanent.
He arched into her, moaning softly, his body burning under every bite.
"Eva…" he whispered.
She looked up, her lips stained from him.
"I'll make sure you never forgets what tonight was," she whispered.
He didn't speak.
He only kissed her again
Hard.
Messy.
He pulled her down into him like he was drowning, and she let him. Her hand slid to his jaw, guiding him as their mouths collided—wet, frantic, uneven. He was unpracticed but desperate, all instinct, no hesitation.
Her tongue brushed against his and he moaned—low and broken. His hands slid up her back, tentative, searching.
"God, Eva," he breathed against her lips, between kisses, "I don't even know what I'm doing."
"You're doing just fine," she murmured back, smiling as she kissed him again, slower now. Deeper.
She bit his bottom lip.
He whimpered.
She kissed down his neck again, her hair falling like a curtain between them as she moved to his collarbone, where she left another love bite, then another, just below the first.
He was shaking under her.
And still begging for more.
Her tongue soothed where her teeth had hurt. Her nails dug into his hips.
And for the first time in his eighteen years—
He belonged somewhere.
With her.