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His possession was fierce. She cried out—raw, uncontrolled—nails digging into his shoulders as her spine arched against the cold wall.

Everything else fell away.

There was no mission. No years of silence. No lies.

The shower faded into background thunder until there was only skin on skin, and the sharp rhythm of his body driving into her like he needed to break her open from the inside out.

She met every inch of him, unleashing the crash and drag of years of want all at once.

Her head struck tile. She didn’t care. Her thighs locked, heels biting into his back.

They were going to destroy this bathroom.Maybe themselves.

Everything was slipping, crumbling, coming undone.

And still he held her, gripping her like he might lose her if he let go. The brush of his mouth at her throat. The way he buried his face in her neck when she tightened around him.

Her body seized, breath gone, mind blank. She came hard, surrendering completely.

He groaned, choked it back, still inside her, still moving—slower now, fighting the edge. His jaw clenched, brow furrowed like it hurt to hold back. Like he wanted to memorize this moment with his body.

To stay right here with her.

He came with a rough, broken sound, his whole frame shuddering against hers. For a heartbeat, they stayed like that—her legs still wrapped around him, his forehead pressed to hers, both breathing hard in the steamy air.

She held him through the aftershocks, her fingers pressed against the defined muscles of his back, her limbs still liquid from the intensity.

This was more than survival, more than adrenaline.

She was here. With him.

Finally alive.

27

Leo eased from the bed,gently disentangling Kat’s arm from his chest. She didn’t stir. Her breathing was even—her face softened in sleep in a way he’d never seen.

He pulled on gray sweatpants, the cool cotton a poor substitute for her warmth.

The duvet had fallen from her shoulder, exposing the curve of her collarbone, the contrast of dark hair against white sheets striking him hard in the chest.

His stomach growled, breaking the spell.

He wrenched himself away and padded barefoot toward the kitchen, although his thoughts stayed tangled in the bed behind him.

Last night had changed everything.

And then,after,they’d crashed into his bed, the stress and exhaustion of the evening giving way to something else. He’d fallen asleep with Kat locked in his arms, her body curved perfectly against his.

The soft morning glow of the London skyline filtered through the kitchen windows. Apricot and pink blushed the sky. Hepaused, one hand on the fridge door, taking in the delicate beauty of the morning sky.

No rain. How about that.

He opened the fridge. Cold white light spilled out, throwing sharp shadows across his bare chest. He blinked against it, the sudden chill pulling him back into his body.

His housekeeper, Inga, had arranged a delivery of essentials. The refrigerator shelves were stacked with everything needed for a proper breakfast—yellow butter wrapped in silver foil, his favorite cloudberry jam, cherry tomatoes on the vine, pink ham folded in neat slices. On the counter, wrapped in a brown paper bag, sat a crusty white loaf dusted with flour.

He gathered the items on the counter. His hands moved on autopilot while his mind strayed—the arch of her back, that breathless catch when he’d?—