Onyx's POV
The room was dim—just enough light to register shapes, not enough to fully process them. It made everything feel unreal, like the moment existed slightly outside of logic, slightly outside of control.
Breath came first.
Not words. Not thought.
Just breath—uneven, too close, too present.
"Wait, Jace..." I said, my voice quieter than usual, steadier than I felt. "I don't think we should do it raw."
The response wasn't immediate.
A soft chuckle came instead, low and unbothered, close enough that I felt it before I fully registered it.
Too close.
"Please," I continued, forcing structure back into my tone, something familiar, something I could still control. "We need protection. I know I'm clean, but I'm not certain about you." I exhaled, sharper this time, trying to reestablish distance that no longer existed. "You might have done this with a hundred other girls already."
Another quiet laugh.
Not defensive.
Amused.
That was worse.
"You always think too much," he murmured, voice calm, almost lazy, like this situation didn't require urgency—like I didn't require caution.
That lack of concern registered immediately.
A variable.
Unaccounted for.
"That's the point," I replied, though my voice no longer held the same level of control. My hand shifted instinctively, unsure whether the intention was to push him away or hold him in place.
Both outcomes felt equally possible.
Equally dangerous.
Everything about this was misaligned—unplanned, unstructured, outside any system I had built to keep things predictable.
And yet—I hadn't moved.
Didn't move.
Couldn't.
"Come on," he murmured, unbothered. "It's better when we both actually feel it."
I didn't answer right away.
His hand moved—slow, deliberate, entirely aware of what it was doing—and my breath caught before I could correct it. The reaction was immediate, automatic, bypassing logic entirely.
System failure.
Critical.
"...This isn't part of the plan," I said under my breath, more to myself than to him.
"Then stop me," he said, almost amused.
The answer should have been simple.
It always was.
That was the process.
That was how things worked.
But—the process didn't execute.
Because instead of stopping him—I stayed exactly where I was. Allowing him to do what he wanted.
And somewhere between logic and impulse, between resistance and something far more unstable—
I let my system break only for him.
End of Prologue