**Chapter 7: Ember**
The night had settled like a bruise across the Colorado sky, purple and tender. Sadie stood at the window of Jace's loft, watching the last light leak from the horizon, her fingertips pressed to the cold pane. Behind her, she could hear the low thrum of Jace moving through the kitchen—cabinet closing, glass set down, boots scuffing the floor. Each sound was a tether, pulling her back to earth. She hadn’t realized how long she’d been dissociating until she felt the heat of his body behind her.
“You’re shaking,” he said, low, like he didn’t want to startle her.
She looked down. Her hands were trembling. She curled them into fists, nails biting crescents into her palms. “I didn’t notice.”
Jace stepped closer. Not touching. Never touching unless she asked. That was the rule he’d carved into himself like a commandment. But she could feel the warmth of him, the way the air shifted when he was near. It was like standing next to a forge—safe, if you knew how to hold your hands.
“I made tea,” he said. “The kind with honey and that shit you like. Lavender or whatever.”
She almost laughed. Almost. “You hate floral anything.”
He shrugged, the sound of leather creaking. “I hate the taste of your nightmares more.”
Her breath caught. She turned then, slowly, and looked at him. Really looked. The man was a wall of muscle and ink, all hard lines and scarred skin. His beard was longer than when she’d first arrived, darker than his sandy hair, and his eyes—those glacier-blue eyes—were watching her like she might shatter if he blinked wrong.
She had been here three weeks. Three weeks of sleeping in his bed while he took the couch. Three weeks of him checking locks twice, three times. Of him standing guard outside the bathroom door when she showered. Of him saying *you’re safe here* in a hundred different ways without ever saying the words.
Tonight, something felt different. Like the air had thinned. Like her skin had shrunk.
“I don’t want tea,” she said.
His brow furrowed. “You need to sleep. You didn’t sleep last night.”
“I don’t want to sleep either.”
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Then nodded, slow. “Okay. What do you want?”
She stared at him. The question should have been simple. But it wasn’t. Not for her. Not when every choice had been stolen for two years. Not when her body had been a battlefield, her voice muffled by a hand over her mouth, by fists, by fear.
She stepped forward. One step. Then another. Until her bare feet were on the worn rug and her chest was inches from his. She tilted her head back. Her heart was a trapped bird, beating against her ribs.
“I want,” she started, then stopped. Her throat closed. Her eyes burned.
Jace didn’t move. Didn’t breathe, it seemed.
“I want to choose,” she whispered. “I want to choose what happens to my body. I want to stop flinching every time someone moves too fast. I want to stop feeling like I’m still his.”
His jaw clenched. She saw the war in his eyes—rage and restraint. “You’re not his.”
“I know that up here,” she said, tapping her temple. “But my body doesn’t know it yet.”
He swallowed hard. “Tell me what you need.”
She reached up, slowly, and placed her hand on his chest. The heat of him soaked into her palm. His heart was thunder. She could feel it through the cotton of his shirt.
“I need you to touch me,” she said, voice shaking. “But only if you want to. Only if I can say stop and you’ll stop. Only if I can say more and you’ll—”
He caught her hand in his, gentle but firm. “I’d cut off my own hands before I hurt you.”
She believed him. That was the terrifying part. She hadn’t believed anyone in so long. But this man—this brutal, beautiful man—had built a fortress around her. Not to keep her in, but to keep the monsters out.
“I trust you,” she said, and the words felt like stepping off a cliff.
His eyes fluttered shut. When they opened, they were raw. Stripped.
“Say it again,” he rasped.
“I trust you, Jace.”
He exhaled like she’d punched him. Then he lifted her hand to his mouth and pressed his lips to her knuckles. Not a kiss. A vow.
“Then let me give you back to yourself,” he said.
*
He didn’t sweep her into his arms. Didn’t pin her to the wall. Didn’t take control. Instead, he led her to the couch and sat, pulling her down beside him. He let her set the pace. Let her breathe. Let her shake.
She climbed into his lap, knees on either side of his thighs. Her hands found his shoulders. She could feel the steel of him, the coiled power restrained beneath skin. But his hands stayed on his own legs, curled into fists, waiting.
She leaned in. Brushed her lips to his. Just once. A test. He didn’t move. She did it again, longer this time. Her lips parted. His breath mingled with hers. She tasted whiskey and something darker. Something like safety.
She pulled back. “Touch me.”
His hands lifted, slow as rising smoke, and hovered at her waist. “Here?”
She nodded. He settled them on her hips, fingers splayed. The weight of them was grounding. Real. She pressed her forehead to his.
“I’m scared,” she admitted.
“I know, baby. Me too.”
She laughed, watery and broken. “You’re not scared of anything.”
“I’m terrified of breaking you.”
She took one of his hands and moved it to her chest, over her heart. “You can’t break what’s already cracked. But maybe… maybe you can help me glue the pieces back together.”
His thumb stroked along her collarbone, reverent. “Tell me if it’s too much.”
She kissed him again, deeper this time. Her tongue slid along his lower lip. He groaned, low and helpless, and she felt it between her thighs like a spark. She rolled her hips, just a little. The friction made her gasp. He was already hard beneath her, but he didn’t thrust up. Didn’t grab. He let her move. Let her take.
She reached down and pulled her shirt over her head. No bra. She hadn’t worn one in weeks—too triggering. His gaze dropped to her breasts, and the hunger in his eyes was scorching, but he didn’t touch. Not until she took his wrists and placed his palms over her.
His hands were calloused. Scarred. Warm. He cupped her like she was sacred. Thumbs brushed her nipples, and she arched into the touch. It wasn’t just pleasure—it was reclamation. Every stroke said *this is yours now*. Every sigh said *you choose*.
She reached for the hem of his shirt. He let her pull it off. His chest was a map of violence—bullet scars, knife tracks, ink that told stories she hadn’t learned yet. She leaned down and kissed a jagged line over his ribs. Then another. His hand threaded into her hair, not pushing, just holding.
She stood. Took his hand. “Come to bed.”
*
The loft’s bedroom was sparse. A king bed with dark sheets. A dresser. A mirror. A single lamp that cast gold across the room. She led him in and stopped at the foot of the bed. Turned to face him.
“Take off your jeans,” she said.
He did. No hesitation. The denim hit the floor. He stood in black boxer briefs that left nothing to imagination. His cock strained against the fabric, thick and heavy. She stared. Not because she was afraid—but because she wanted to look. Wanted to *see*. Wanted to remember what desire felt like when it wasn’t poisoned.
She hooked her thumbs into her own waistband. Pushed her leggings down. No panties. She stepped out of them. Naked. Vulnerable. His gaze moved over her like fire, but he didn’t move. Waited.
She climbed onto the bed. Lay on her back. Opened her arms.
“Come here.”
He crawled over her, holding his weight on his forearms. She could feel the heat of him, the length of his erection pressed to her belly. She spread her thighs, and he settled between them. Still, he didn’t push. Didn’t take.
She reached down and wrapped her fingers around him through the cotton. He groaned, eyes squeezing shut.
“Sadie…”
“I want to feel you,” she said. “All of you. But I need to go slow.”
He nodded. “We’ve got all night. We’ve got forever, if you need it.”
She tugged the waistband down. He helped, shoving the boxers off. Then he was naked, too. She looked her fill. He was beautiful. Ruthless and raw. The head of his cock was flushed and wet. She traced a vein with her thumb, and his hips jerked.
She guided him to her entrance. Not inside. Just the tip. Just enough to feel the heat. She was already slick—her body remembering what her mind had tried to forget. That this could be good. That she could want.
“Look at me,” she said.
His eyes opened. Locked on hers.
“I’m going to say yes,” she whispered. “And I’m going to keep saying it. I want you inside me. But I need to be on top.”
He rolled them without breaking contact. She straddled him again, this time with nothing between them. She reached down and aligned him. Sank down, inch by inch. Her breath broke. His jaw clenched.
She was tight. It had been so long. And he was thick. She paused, let her body adjust. His hands found her hips again, grounding her.
“You okay?” he asked, voice shredded.
She nodded. “More than okay.”
She took him to the hilt. Full. Stretched. *His*. And hers. She began to move, slow rolls of her hips. He let her set the rhythm, even though she could see the effort it cost him—his abs flexed, his thighs hard as iron beneath her.
She leaned forward, braced her hands on his chest. Rode him with long, deep strokes. Every thrust was a reclaiming. Every moan a prayer. She felt the orgasm building—not the sharp, panicked clench she’d learned to fake, but something slow and blooming. Real.
His thumb found her clit. She gasped.
“Yes,” she breathed. “Right there.”
He circled it, steady and sure. Her hips jerked. Her thighs trembled. She was close. So close.
“Jace—”
“Let go, baby. I’ve got you.”
She came with a cry that didn’t sound like fear. It sounded like freedom. Her body clenched around him, wave after wave, and he groaned like it was killing him not to follow. But he didn’t. Not until she collapsed onto his chest, shaking, and whispered, “Now. Come inside me. I want to feel you.”
He rolled them again, tucked her beneath him. Thrust deep, once, twice—and then stilled, buried to the hilt. She felt the pulse of him, the heat flooding her. He groaned her name like a benediction.
*
After, he stayed inside her. Didn’t pull away. She wrapped her legs around his waist, her arms around his neck. They were sweat-slick and shaking, and she had never felt more whole.
He kissed her temple. “You okay?”
She smiled against his neck. “I’m mine again.”
He pulled back just enough to look at her. “And mine.”
She nodded. “Yours. Because I choose to be.”
He tucked her into his side, draped the blanket over them. She listened to his heartbeat until it slowed. Until hers matched it.
Outside, the wind howled. Inside, the ember caught. Burned. And did not go out.