storyone14
"You don't understand," he mutters, his voice low, nearly a growl. "What it means to be mine."
"Then show me," you challenge, lifting your chin.
A muscle jumps in his jaw. He's torn between something dark and something soft-two warring forces inside him, both drawn to you. And then, just like that, restraint shatters. One hand slides into your hair, the other grips your waist, pulling you flush against him. The warmth of him, the strength-it steals your breath.
"Violet," he murmurs against your skin, like a prayer or a warning.
"I'm not afraid of you, Elijah," you whisper back.
That's all it takes. His lips crash into yours, not gentle, not hesitant-desperate. Like he's been starving for this, for you. And gods, maybe you've been starving, too. You tangle your fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, and he groans, deep and rough, like he's finally given in to something he's fought for too long.
There's no going back from this. No pretending this was a mistake. Because Elijah doesn't do things halfway. And neither do you.