Eight

The cold air of the room bit at my skin, but it was nothing compared to the chill of Draco's expression. 

He stood there, the leather belt dangling from his hand like a coiled serpent, his grey eyes dark and unreadable. 

I felt exposed—not just because the towel was pooled at my feet, but because for the first time, the power dynamic between us had shifted into something sharp and dangerous.

"Hands," he repeated, his voice dropping an octave.

I hesitated for a heartbeat before slowly raising my hands, palms out, as I leaned back against the cold stone wall. 

My heart was drumming a frantic rhythm against my ribs. This wasn't the boy who had hugged me on the stairs or whispered that I smelled like home; this was the Malfoy heir, molded by Lucius's iron fist, trying to reclaim a sense of control in a world that was rapidly spiraling out of his grasp.

"You think you can just scream at me? Push me in front of my mother?" he hissed, stepping back into my personal space. 

He trapped me against the wall with his body, his hands bracing on either side of my head. "I spent all day trying to protect you, Elizabeth. I practically begged my father to keep your name out of His mouth".

"And look where that got us," I whispered, my voice trembling despite my attempt at defiance. "I'm marked, Draco. Just like you".

His jaw tightened, the muscles jumping beneath his pale skin. He looked down at the Dark Mark on my forearm, then back to my eyes. 

The anger seemed to flicker, replaced momentarily by a raw, jagged grief.

"I know," he choked out. Suddenly, the "lesson" he was trying to teach me vanished. He pressed his forehead against mine, his breathing ragged. "I can't lose you to this. If you fail your task... if He decides you're not useful...".

I reached up, my fingers finding the familiar soft hair at the nape of his neck. "I won't fail. I'm an Astaroth, remember?".

But as I said it, the weight of my real lie sat like lead in my stomach. The Dark Lord hadn't asked me to fix a cabinet. He had asked for something much darker, something that required me to walk a path even Draco couldn't follow.

"Promise me," Draco murmured, his lips brushing against mine, "no more secrets. No more lies. It has to be you and I against everyone else".

I looked into those silver eyes that I loved more than my own life and felt the salt of a fresh tear prickling. "Only us," I lied, the words tasting like ash.

He kissed me then—not with the dominance he had tried to project moments ago, but with a desperate, clashing hunger, as if he could pull the truth out of me or hide me away inside himself where the world couldn't reach. I pulled him closer, my skin humming against his, desperate to drown out the voice of the Dark Lord still echoing in the back of my mind.

He gasped for air, looking at me. Then, his look darkened.

"Hands," he commanded again, his voice a low vibration that made the fine hairs on my neck stand up.

I obeyed, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird as I raised my arms against the cold stone. He stepped into my space, his bare chest radiating a heat that contrasted with the chill of his hands when they finally found my waist. There was no belt now, only the raw, jagged need of a boy who felt the world slipping through his fingers.

"You're mine, Liz," he hissed against the skin of my throat, his teeth grazing my pulse point. "Not His. Mine."

He didn't wait for an answer. He lifted me effortlessly, my legs locking around his hips as he backed me into the wall. 

The kiss was bruising, a collision of teeth and tongue that tasted of salt and suppressed terror. I pulled at his hair, needing the pain to ground me, needing to forget the black ink burning on my arm. 

He groaned into my mouth, a sound of pure surrender, before carrying me to the bed.

As he moved over me, the darkness of the room seemed to vanish, replaced by the electric friction of our bodies. 

Every touch was an anchor. He navigated my body with a frantic intensity, his hands gripping me as if I might vanish if he let go for even a second. 

When he finally slid inside me, the breath left my lungs in a broken sob. I arched off the sheets, my fingers digging into the pale muscles of his back, pulling him deeper, wanting to drown out the memory of the Dark Lord's voice with the rhythm of Draco's name.

The pace was relentless, a desperate race against the dawn and the tasks that awaited us. I watched his face—the way his jaw clenched, the way his eyes stayed locked on mine, searching for the girl he'd grown up with through the fog of war. 

In the final, shattering moments, he buried his face in the crook of my neck, his body tensing as he stayed deep inside me, claiming every part of me as his own.

The frantic energy bled out of the room, leaving only the sound of our ragged gasps. Draco didn't pull away. He collapsed softly against me, his forehead resting against mine as a fine sheen of sweat glued our skin together.

"I've got you," he whispered, his voice barely a breath as he pressed a lingering, tender kiss to my brow. "I've got you, lovely.".

He trailed his lips down to my temple, then my nose, his touch now as soft as it had been violent moments before. 

I reached up, my hand trembling as I wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead, my thumb tracing the line of his damp blonde hair. We lay there in the quiet aftermath, limbs tangled and hearts slowing in unison.

Slowly, his weight shifted as he rolled onto his side, pulling me back against his chest so we were tucked together like two bookends. His arm draped over my waist, his fingers idly brushing the skin just above my Mark, a silent promise of protection.

"Sleep, Liz," he murmured into my hair, his breath warm and steady.

I closed my eyes, matching my inhales to the slow, heavy rise and fall of his chest. For a few hours, the lies were silent. There was no cabinet, no Dark Lord, and no war—only the rhythmic, humming peace of his breathing and the scent of home.

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Sorry for the wait. I hope you enjoyed this chapter.  –G