The next morning, the manor library was once again a battlefield.
This time, the enemy was paperwork.
Not the polite kind, either—no neat piles of contracts or tidy folders you could slap into a cabinet and pretend you'd dealt with. This was warfare: stacks of printed diagrams, hand-drawn cultivation matrices, annotated rune sheets, and pages of "Ren Ming's casual handwriting" that somehow managed to look relaxed while still being terrifyingly confident. Some papers were pinned with paperweights. Others had been taped to the table. A few had been stabbed with a pen like they'd committed personal crimes.
At the center of the storm sat Sona Sitri.
Glasses on. Kuoh uniform immaculate. Hair tied back so nothing could get in her way. Shoulders square. Expression calm in the way a judge was calm right before delivering a sentence.
She looked like she was about to cross-examine the universe.
Ren leaned against a shelf nearby, coffee in hand, watching her stare down a particular page as if the page had insulted her family. Her fingers tapped a rhythm on the table—measured and precise, the only visible sign of her impatience with her own understanding.
"You're glaring holes in my art," he remarked.
Sona jumped slightly—because even when you're the Sitri heiress, being caught mid-obsession was still embarrassing—then composed herself, pushing her glasses up with a sharp little motion that was pure Sona.
"I am not glaring," she protested. "I'm… thinking."
Ren's mouth curved. "That's my line."
He set his coffee down, pulled out a chair, and sat beside her like he belonged there—which was the problem. He always looked like he belonged anywhere. Your library. Your battlefield. Your life.
"Show me what's bothering you," he said.
Sona hesitated.
Only for a heartbeat. A pause so brief most people wouldn't have noticed. But Ren did. Ren noticed everything.
Then she slid a set of diagrams toward him.
They were her own reconstructions of the Myriad Epoch True Self Canon's first layer—a lattice of Soul Palaces, chaos refinement pathways, the Anima spark's pressure zone between worlds, and the earliest skeletal outline of a Primordial Tree that would one day bear Dao Fruits like stars. The lines were clean. The labeling was meticulous. The margins, however…
The margins were merciless.
Her handwriting was tight and precise, each note a small surgical incision: questions, corrections, objections, alternate models, risk estimates, a few underlined phrases that looked like she'd wanted to fight Ren personally for making something "inelegant."
Ren made a soft sound of approval. Not exaggerated. Not patronizing. Just… pleased.
Sona's ears went faintly pink.
"In this part," she said, tapping between the first and second Soul Palaces, "you describe the Anima spark as an emergent phenomenon formed from tension between differing energy patterns."
She adjusted her glasses, eyes narrowing like she was pinning a suspect to the table.
"But when I applied the same principle to Tsubaki and Saji, their reactions were different in ways your notes don't fully explain. I think there's a third variable."
Ren's eyebrows rose.
"Oh?" His voice held amused interest. "Alright. Hit me."
Sona inhaled slowly, like she was about to present a thesis.
"I suspect… mental frameworks. Belief structures."
Her tone grew steadier as she spoke. Once Sona began to lay out an argument, she didn't stumble. She didn't wander. She marched.
"Tsubaki's Anima resonance shifted sharply when she confronted her loyalty conflict—between her clan's shadow and her loyalty to me. Saji's shifted around his self-worth and guilt. Their Soul Palaces responded not just to energy differences but to…" she hesitated, then chose the most accurate phrase anyway, because that was who she was, "…narrative tension."
Her cheeks flushed faintly at her own excitement, as if she was annoyed with herself for caring this much.
"I think the Canon isn't just refining energy," she finished. "It's refining stories. Forcing people to reconcile who they think they are with what they actually want."
For a moment, Ren didn't speak.
He just stared at her—quiet, intent, like he was looking at something rare.
Sona's fingers tightened around her pen.
Then Ren grinned, slow and bright, like sunrise breaking through clouds.
"You know," he said, "out of everyone I've taught so far… you're the first one who phrased it that way."
Sona blinked. "…Is that good?"
"It's great." He leaned back, one arm draping over the chair with relaxed confidence that made it infuriatingly easy to forget he was the kind of man who could stare down gods without blinking. "Most people chase the shiny parts. More power. More Palaces. Bigger techniques. You're staring at the equation under the equation. The 'why' behind the 'how.' That's the kind of thinking that builds new layers."
Her ears turned red.
"I just… dislike incomplete systems," she muttered. "If I am to apply this to my peerage, I must understand the risks and variables."
Ren chuckled softly. "Of course you do."
He reached over and gently took her diagram—not from her, not like he was claiming it. More like he was acknowledging it.
"Alright," he said. "Let's simplify it."
He pulled a fresh sheet closer and began to redraw part of the matrix. His lines were smooth and quick, not careless—confident. He distilled her complexity into shapes that were still precise but clearer, as if he was clearing fog off a window.
As he worked, the air around his fingers subtly changed.
Not visually, not with flashy aura—Ren didn't need to flex like that in a room with someone like Sona. But the feeling shifted. Like the world itself was paying attention to his pen. Like concepts were being asked to sit down and behave.
"You're right," he said, tapping the place between the first and second Soul Palaces. "Anima sits at the intersection of energy and self-concept."
He paused, then glanced at her with a grin that was more modern than this old library had any right to handle.
"Think of it like the story you tell yourself that's so strong it makes your power obey. My art just… turns up the heat. It makes that story sweat."
Sona watched his hand move, unable to tear her eyes away. Not because she was mesmerized by technique—though she was—but because this was the first time she'd ever seen something so alien to Devil society treated like it could be made orderly.
"You make it sound so simple," she said quietly.
"That's the goal," he replied. "The Dao's supposed to get clearer the closer you get, not more confusing. Complication is just fear wearing nice clothes."
He set the pen down and turned fully toward her.
"Look," he said, voice easy but steady, "if you start seeing patterns I missed—if you come up with new ways to stress-test the Canon, or tweak the merit laws for your people—don't keep it locked in your head."
Sona stiffened. "I wouldn't—"
"I'm not accusing you of hoarding," he cut in gently, not letting her spiral into defensiveness. "I'm saying: if you want to share your findings, or you build something new and want to try it, go for it. I won't mind. I'd be an idiot not to listen."
He smiled, softer now, like he was speaking to her instead of Kaichou.
"I trust you, Sona. I've seen how you think. How you treat your peerage. How you balance duty and kindness. If you tell me you've found a better structure somewhere, I'm taking it seriously."
The words landed like a stone dropped into still water.
Sona's fingers tightened around her pen… then slowly relaxed. The tightness between her brows eased by a fraction.
"…Trust is not something people usually offer so freely to me," she admitted. "Not in this way. They… respect my position. Fear my status. Or they rely on my work ethic without seeing me as…"
Her voice trailed off, and for the first time since Ren had met her, Sona looked like a young woman instead of a perfect heir.
Ren didn't hesitate.
"As a woman," he finished calmly. "Not just the Student Council President. Not just the Sitri heiress. But an actual person with her own wants and fears."
Sona swallowed. Her throat bobbed.
"…Yes," she whispered.
Ren's chuckle was quiet, almost fond.
"Then let me be clear," he said. "Whenever you want to talk—cultivation, politics, family expectations, or just how much you want to throw Saji out a window—I'll make the time. No pressure. No appointments. Just knock."
Her eyes widened behind her glasses.
"You… will?" she asked, disbelief slipping through her composure.
"Obviously." Ren's tone made it sound like the simplest thing in the world. "I like talking to sharp people. And you're cute when you get flustered about equations."
Sona sputtered, color flooding her cheeks.
"I-I am not—!"
"Too late," he said, amused. "Observation recorded."
Her indignation held for exactly two seconds… and then it cracked into reluctant laughter.
The sound was small. Real. And it startled her, like she hadn't realized she could still make that noise without earning it through work.
Something inside her settled, like a new piece clicking into place in the elaborate puzzle of her life.
For the first time, the Myriad Epoch diagrams in front of her didn't feel like a foreign invader in her orderly world.
They felt like tools she could shape.
And somewhere deep inside her Soul Palace—still incomplete, still forming—something warm stirred.
Not power.
Not demonic prestige.
Something closer to permission.
...
That afternoon, the library gave way to the manor's secondary training hall.
The space was wide and clean, built like a classroom and a battlefield had reached an uneasy truce. Shelves of manuals lined the walls. Whiteboards were covered in diagrams—some in Devil magic script, some in Ren's alien Dao-script that looked like the universe had learned calligraphy, and some in Norse runes that felt ancient enough to have teeth.
A wall of windows overlooked the garden, where sunlight pooled on trimmed grass and stone paths like nothing in the world could ever go wrong.
In the center of the hall stood Rossweisse.
Valkyrie armor replaced by a blouse and skirt, she still carried the air of a woman perpetually braced for impact—shoulders tight, jaw set, eyes flicking between the floating runic constructs around her and the notes in her hand.
Even dressed like a normal teacher, she looked like she expected the sky to fall and was already calculating how to hold it up.
Around her, glyphs hovered—some pure Norse, some pure Dao, and some shaky hybrids that tried to be both and failed.
Ren watched as one of the hybrids destabilized.
It stuttered between his Dao-script and her runes, flickering like a candle in a storm, then fizzled into harmless sparks.
Rossweisse winced. "Ah. Again," she muttered, already raising her hand to reconstruct it.
"Pause," Ren said.
She froze mid-cast.
Not because she was afraid of him.
Because the tone of his voice made it clear he wasn't stopping her—he was saving her time.
Ren stepped up beside her, studying the half-formed pattern.
"You're over-correcting on the conversion," he said. "You don't need to force the Myriad Epoch structure to mimic your old spellwork. Let it sit underneath like scaffolding."
He tapped the air where the rune had failed, and his fingertip left a faint afterimage—like the space itself had been marked.
"Your runes can do what they always did," he continued. "They'll just be anchored to a Soul Palace instead of free-floating."
Rossweisse exhaled, tension slipping out in a controlled release.
"It feels… wrong," she admitted. "Like I'm cheating. Cutting corners. Valkyrie training emphasizes precision and discipline. These shortcuts…"
"They're not shortcuts," Ren said, calm as ever. "They're upgrades. You're not ignoring the old foundation; you're reinforcing it. Big difference."
He glanced at her, the corner of his mouth lifting.
"And even if it was cheating?" he added. "So what? The people trying to kill you don't care how hard you studied. They just care whether their attack lands."
Rossweisse stared at him for a second.
Then her lips twitched, the closest thing she had to a smile when she wasn't sure she was allowed to be happy.
"You have an infuriating way of making sense," she said.
Ren grinned. "Thank you."
He reached out, fingers resting lightly on her wrist—careful, visible, nonthreatening. A touch that asked permission instead of taking it.
"Again," he said. "But this time, let the Canon handle the energy recycling. You just draw the rune. Trust the Palace to keep you from bleeding power."
Rossweisse swallowed, then nodded.
She raised her hand.
And this time she didn't fight the new structure.
She traced a familiar Norse glyph in the air—lines steady, curves exact, the rune forming with the clean confidence of someone who had carved it into her bones through years of discipline. Normally, she would have reached outward, grabbed ambient magic, and forced it to obey.
Now, she let her Soul Palace pulse.
The Myriad Origin loop caught the flow, recycled the waste, fed it back into her core with brutal efficiency—turning what used to leak away into fuel.
The rune flared.
Not violently—cleanly.
Stable. Bright. More potent than before.
Rossweisse's eyes widened.
"It's… smoother," she whispered. "The strain is less than half."
"Exactly," Ren said, like he'd been waiting for her to say it. "You've been working twice as hard as you needed to for years. No wonder you were exhausted."
Rossweisse stared at the glowing symbol.
Her throat tightened.
"…If I'd had this… back then…" she started.
Then she bit the words off, jaw clenching around them.
Ren didn't push.
He knew what "back then" meant.
Assignments piled on without gratitude. Being Odin's dependable one. Being the one who always did the work and never got to be the choice. Being a valkyrie who held up someone else's glory until her arms shook—and then being told to keep holding.
Silence sat between them.
Not awkward.
Honest.
Then Ren broke it gently.
"Rossweisse," he said.
She looked up, eyes wary.
"If you want any position around here," he said calmly, "you've got it."
She blinked. "Position?"
"Teacher. Researcher. Guardian. Accountant. Official 'person who yells at Serafall when she sneaks sweets into the training hall.' Anything." He shrugged, casual like this wasn't a life-changing offer. "If you want to stand by my side instead of just dropping in for lessons, the door's open."
He held her gaze, voice turning a shade more serious.
"I'd have to be an idiot not to trust you," he added. "You're meticulous. You care. You've been protecting people who didn't appreciate it for a long time. I'm not wasting that."
Those words hit deeper than any compliment about her beauty ever could.
Rossweisse's fingers clenched around her notes, knuckles white.
"You… trust me that much?" she asked quietly. "Even knowing my record? I have failed at guarding a god. I have… complicated feelings about my own worth as a warrior."
Ren stepped a little closer, keeping his hands where she could see them.
"I'm very patient," he said. "Whatever stress you're carrying? Throw it at me. Talk it out. Snap at me when you need to. I'd rather see you angry and honest than smiling while you drown."
Rossweisse's vision blurred for a moment.
"You say that like it's easy," she whispered.
"It's not," he admitted. "But I'm good at shouldering weight. Comes with cultivation. Comes with being me."
His smile was warm and steady—so annoyingly sincere it almost hurt.
"Let me carry some of yours," he said. "You don't have to do everything alone anymore."
Rossweisse let out a shaky breath that turned into a laugh halfway through.
"You really are dangerous," she said. "Not just in battle."
Ren's grin turned lazy. "Flattery. Careful. I might get used to it."
She rolled her eyes—because that was safe. But her shoulders lowered. Her movements loosened. When they went back to work, she asked more questions. She offered more of her own ideas, hybrid rune-cultivation defenses that would have sounded insane to any normal magus.
Ren listened.
He corrected without belittling. He praised without making it weird. He teased without crossing the line.
And slowly, Rossweisse began to breathe like someone who wasn't waiting for the next disappointment.
By the time evening shadows stretched long across the training hall, she realized—startled—that she'd gone hours without thinking about being "just a disposable secretary" or "the valkyrie who got left behind."
With him, she was a peer.
Someone worth trusting.
Someone worth keeping.
...
That night, Ren let the day slow.
The manor was quieter than it had been in weeks. The wards hummed like a second heartbeat under the walls. Outside, Kuoh's lights glittered in the distance, human life continuing in blissful ignorance of the supernatural pressure building behind the scenes.
He found Rias in the garden.
She was sitting on a bench under the old tree, crimson hair spilling over her shoulders like a banner even in casual clothes. The soft glow from the house painted her profile in warm light, turning her into something both regal and heartbreakingly human.
She looked up as he approached, lips curving automatically.
"You've been busy," she said.
The amusement in her voice was real, but there was something else under it—relief. Pride. A small hunger for his attention that she didn't try to hide from him anymore.
"Kuroka was practically glowing this morning," she continued, counting off like she'd been paying closer attention than she wanted to admit. "Sona locked herself in her room muttering about 'variables.' And Rossweisse kept looking at me like she wanted to say something and then ran away."
Ren chuckled and sat beside her.
"Just my daily life," he said. "I'm naturally drawn to workaholics and traumatized women."
Rias snorted. "And somehow make them laugh."
He leaned back, eyes on the night sky.
"You, too," he said softly.
Rias blinked, caught off guard. "Me?"
Ren turned his head slightly, his gaze settling on her like a hand placed gently over a wound.
"You carry your house, your peerage, the weight of that old engagement, the expectations of a whole Underworld…" He spoke the truth plainly, without dramatics—because he didn't need to dramatize Rias Gremory's life. "And you still find time to worry whether everyone else is okay."
He paused.
Then he added, quieter:
"You deserve someone who takes care of you, too."
Rias's throat tightened.
"That someone being you?" she asked, teasing tone thinner than usual.
Ren's smile held warmth and certainty.
"Obviously."
He reached over and took her hand, thumb stroking the back of it in slow, soothing circles. His touch didn't claim. It reassured. It reminded her she wasn't alone in her own story anymore.
They sat like that for a while.
Talking about small things and big ones.
The next Rating Game—the politics around it, the way Devil society had begun to shift after recent shocks, the way younger devils were suddenly aware that the old rules weren't as solid as they'd been taught. Rias spoke carefully, as she always did, weighing implications. Ren listened like he wasn't bored by politics but by the needless cruelty behind politics.
At some point, the conversation faded into comfortable silence.
Rias turned, searching his face.
"Ren," she said.
He hummed, eyes still on the stars.
"I love you."
No theatrics. No desperation. Just simple, clear words that felt heavier than any oath.
Ren's eyes softened.
"I know," he said gently. "And I love you, too."
He leaned in.
The first kiss was unhurried—lips meeting with the ease of two people who had done this many times and still found something new in it each time. Her fingers curled in his shirt. His hand slid up to cradle the back of her neck, steadying her like she mattered more than the entire weight of her title.
The second kiss deepened.
The world narrowed to warmth, breath, the faint resonance of their Soul Palaces—her Throne of Ruin blazing quietly behind her heart like a royal seal, his Nine Palaces an unshakeable foundation.
Ren broke away only long enough to murmur against her lips, "Let's go inside."
They did.
Hands clasped. Steps unhurried. Passing through the halls like the house itself was holding its breath for them.
Her bedroom was exactly as she liked it—rich curtains, soft carpet, a bed large enough to belong to a noble but still personal enough to feel like a sanctuary. Lit by a single warm lamp, it cast long shadows and turned the edges of things gold.
Rias let go of him long enough to slip her robe off, letting it pool at her feet—soft sound in the quiet room. She wasn't shy. Not with him. She was deliberate.
Ren's eyes didn't just see her—they recognized her.
He stepped forward and brushed the backs of his fingers down her arm, tracing the line of her shoulder with the tenderness of someone mapping a beloved landscape.
"You're so beautiful," he said, voice low enough to vibrate in her bones.
Rias shivered.
Then she reached out and began unbuttoning his shirt with practiced care, like a ritual she'd come to love.
"You always say that," she teased, but her smile was soft.
"Because it's always true," he replied.
She pushed the shirt off his shoulders, fingers ghosting over the planes of his chest, the quiet strength in him that was more than muscle.
"You always feel like..." Rias hesitated, pressing closer, breathing him in—spice and warmth and something inexplicably Ren, "...like home."
Ren's hands slid down her back in a slow, possessive arc, fingers splaying wide at her hips. "Funny," he murmured against her collarbone, teeth grazing but never biting. "I was just thinking you feel like the center of every battlefield I've ever won."
He lifted her then, effortless, her feet leaving the floor as if gravity had simply decided she belonged in his arms. She gasped, a small, shocked laugh, her arms instinctively wrapping around his neck.
"And I," he continued, carrying her the few steps to the bed, "am done fighting for the night."
He laid her down as if she were something precious. Her hair spilled across the dark sheets like wine.
Then he lowered himself over her, elbows bracketing her head. He didn't rush. He looked—eyes tracing every line of her face.
"Rias," he said, her name a quiet prayer.
She reached up and brushed a stray strand of hair from his forehead.
"Make me forget everything but you," she whispered.
Ren smiled—a real, unguarded smile that made her chest ache with how much she adored it.
"Gladly."
He lowered himself to her, lips finding hers again, and the last of the space between them vanished. His kiss was deep, slow, tasting of promises and nights like this one. He wasn't just kissing her—he was memorizing her, learning the small sigh she made when he bit her lower lip, the way her body arched when his palm slid down her ribs to settle at the curve of her waist.
"Tell me," Ren murmured against her mouth, fingers tracing lazy patterns on her skin, "what do you want?" His voice was rough, low—not demanding, but curious, as if every whisper between them was a thread strengthening the bond between them.
Rias exhaled, fingers tightening in his hair. This. The way he asked, the way he listened—like her pleasure was another language he wanted to master.
She arched beneath him, breath hitching as his teeth grazed her pulse point. "Everything," she gasped, "but slower."
A smirk curled Ren's lips as he pulled back just enough to see her face, his thumbs brushing the flushed skin of her cheeks. "Patience, Princess?" he teased.
Her answering laugh was breathless, warm. "Not patience," she corrected, dragging him back down. "Savored."
Her gown was a whisper of silk, a crimson waterfall pooled around them. He untied it with slow reverence, his knuckles brushing the dip of her waist, tracing the constellation of her beauty marks with the tips of his fingers. He worshipped her with touch, with the focused attention that made her feel less like a noblewoman and more like the only woman in the universe who mattered.
When he finally bared her to the warm light, he didn't speak. He simply looked, his expression shifting from playful adoration to something deeper—something like awe. It was in the slight furrow of his brow, the way his lips parted, a silent testament to the power she held over him.
"Your eyes," she whispered, her own going wide at the raw emotion she saw there. "They always look at me like I'm… everything."
"You are," he answered, bending to press a kiss to her sternum. "Not the Gremory heiress. Just Rias. My Rias."
He moved lower, mapping her with his lips—her breasts, the flat plane of her stomach, the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. Each touch was a question, and she answered with the cant of her hips, with the soft, breathy moans that filled the room like music. He paused, breath hot against her core, looking up at her from between her legs.
"Here?" he asked, a teasing glint in his eyes even as his thumbs stroked the soft skin there, promising so much more.
Her fingers tightened in the sheets, knuckles white. "Please," she begged, the word breaking on a sob of need.
He gave her what she wanted, his mouth claiming her with a slow, deliberate pressure that made her back arch off the bed. He wasn't just tasting her—he was reading her, learning the rhythm of her body, the way her breath hitched when he flicked his tongue just right, the way her thighs trembled when he added a finger, then another, curling them in a way that made stars burst behind her eyelids. Her world narrowed to the sweet, relentless pressure of his mouth, the slide of his fingers, the deep, possessive rumble of his name from her own lips as she shattered around him.
He stayed with her through it, lapping gently as she came down, her body languid and pliant beneath him. When he finally moved back up her body, he kissed her deeply, letting her taste herself on his tongue. The intimacy of it was a fresh wave of heat, another kind of surrender.
"Ren," she whispered, her hands tracing the hard lines of his back, the taut muscles of his shoulders. "Now. I need you."
"I'm yours," he promised, positioning himself at her entrance. He paused, his forehead resting against hers, their breaths mingling in the charged space between them. "Always."
He entered her in one slow, seamless glide, filling her so completely, so perfectly, that it was less an invasion and more a homecoming. He stilled, giving her a moment to adjust, to feel the profound rightness of their connection.
"Move," she urged, her legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him deeper.
He did. He set a pace that was both tender and demanding, a slow, deep rhythm that built a fire in her veins, every stroke a reaffirmation of their bond. He was strong, powerful, but he held back, his control a testament to how much he cherished this, cherished her. He watched her face, his gaze dark with love and desire, drinking in every expression of pleasure that crossed her features.
"Tell me," he rasped, his thumb finding her clit, circling it in a maddening, perfect rhythm. "Tell me how it feels."
"It feels like—" Rias gasped as he angled deeper, his hips rolling with deliberate precision. Her nails scored down his back, leaving faint marks that vanished almost instantly—his cultivation healing skin, but not the memory of her touch. "Like you're everywhere. In my breath. In my blood."
He shifted, bracing on one arm, using the other to tilt her chin up. His kiss was demanding, possessive, a brand of ownership she reveled in.
"Then breathe me in," he murmured against her lips. "Let me be the only thing you taste."
He drove into her faster, harder, her body moving with his as if they'd been doing this for lifetimes. Her breasts brushed against his chest with every thrust, her nipples hard, sensitive points of friction that sent jolts of pleasure straight to her core.
"You want gentle ruin?" His thumb circled her clit with agonizing precision. "Then take it. Every. Second."
Rias dug her fingers into his hair, pulling his mouth back to hers in a messy kiss. "You play dirty," she gasped as he started that slow, deep rhythm again, her walls clenching around him like she never wanted to let go.
Ren's hand tightened on her hip, his gaze unwavering. His mouth found the curve of her neck, teeth scraping gently.
Their pace quickened, the rhythm turning wild, primal. The room filled with the sound of their bodies meeting, of gasps and moans, of whispered declarations of love and filthy promises. Her body was a bowstring pulled taut, every nerve ending singing with pleasure.
"Ren," she cried out as he hit a spot deep inside her, a place only he would ever reached. "Right there. Don't stop."
"I couldn't if I wanted to," he groaned, his movements becoming more erratic. "You're too good. Too tight."
With a strangled cry, she shattered, her orgasm crashing over her with the force of a tidal wave. Ren followed her over the edge moments later, groaning her name like a prayer as he spilled inside her, his hips stuttering in helpless abandon.
He collapsed atop her, their sweat-slicked bodies pressed together as they gasped for air—but it wasn't long before he rolled them onto their sides, still buried deep within her, unwilling to break their connection even now.
"You okay?" he murmured, brushing damp strands of hair from her flushed face. His thumb traced the curve of her swollen bottom lip, possessive even in tenderness.
"Better than okay," Rias breathed, nuzzling into his palm. "Though I think you forgot part of your promise."
Ren arched an eyebrow, still buried inside her, hips shifting just enough to make her gasp. "Which part?"
"That you'd make me forget everything," she whispered, fingers trailing down his chest.
Ren's smirk was pure challenge. "Then I'm not done."
He rolled them again, his body caging hers as he began to move again—slow, deliberate, each thrust deep enough to make her vision blur. He lowered himself to her ear, breath hot against her skin. "Tell me what you see."
Rias arched beneath him, a soft moan escaping her lips. "Us. Only us."
His laugh was dark, rich, as he braced himself above her, one hand tracing her collarbone. "Good answer." His hips slammed forward, a sudden, hard thrust that made her cry out. "But I want more."
"Then take it," she challenged, her legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him deeper. "Or are you afraid you'll break me?"
Ren's eyes darkened. "Never," he promised. "I'd rather break myself." And with that, he began to move in earnest, his body a perfect machine of pleasure and power, driving into her with a rhythm that was both punishing and adoring. Each thrust was a wordless declaration of his devotion, a promise etched into her very soul.
Rias met him thrust for thrust, her hips rising to meet his, her fingers tangling in his hair, her lips parted in silent supplication. The room faded away, the world dissolved, until there was only the feel of him inside her, the sound of their ragged breaths, the blinding, overwhelming pleasure that built and built until she thought she might die from it.
"I love you," she gasped, as the wave crested. Ren caught the words against his lips, swallowing them whole.
"Tell me again," he demanded between ragged breaths, his grip on her thigh tightening—possessive, reverent. He slowed just enough to make the next thrust sting sweetly, watching her eyes darken with pleasure. "Louder."
Rias laughed, breathless, nails scoring down his back. "I love you," she gasped, louder now, arching beneath him. His name became a prayer on her lips, a litany of need and adoration that drove him on, pushing him higher, faster, until they were both lost in the storm.