Page 16 of Felix (4 Seats #2)

Chapter Sixteen

Aurora Henry

I ’m pinned under him, his weight a solid promise, and the room is just shadows and heavy breaths. “Mine,” Felix growls, a declaration that should send shivers of pleasure down my spine.

Instead, my whole body locks up. My pulse hammers in my throat, a frantic bird against its cage. I can’t breathe or move. It’s like I’m back there, in that other place, with those other hands claiming me.

He stops just like that. His dark eyes search mine, intense and unflinching. “What’s wrong? What set you off?” The concern in his voice doesn’t fit the inked killer I’ve come to know.

Mine . The word echoes in my head, a ghost of the past. They used to say it all the time—those faceless demons in my nightmares. I’m shaking now, but not from fear. Anger. Why does he get it? How?

I wonder if Felix understands trauma. My heart is still racing. Why does he see through me so easily?

“The word ‘mine,’ ” I finally choke out, betraying more than I intended.

He really listens, and then he kisses me. Not a possessive kiss, but one that speaks of shared shadows. “I won’t say it anymore,” he murmurs against my lips. “But just know, if I do, it also means I’m yours. I might claim to own you, but that means you own me too.”

Ownership. It’s a two-way street with Felix—a twisted, dark alley where we both hold the power. My mind races, trying to process this man who would kill for me, yet yields to my demons. My chest tightens. This isn’t just about control. It’s something deeper, something dangerous.

“Fuck,” I whisper, a half-formed thought slipping out. There’s a bond here, forged in darkness and desire. Can I handle being bound to this enigmatic assassin with his scars and secrets?

“I’ll always be yours,” he promises as if reading my mind. Felix Greyson, the man who haunts the night, is offering me his protection, violence, and everything.

His words are like a balm on my ragged soul. I can feel the hard lines of his body soften around me, giving me space for my breath to catch up. “You’ll be protected with me,” he says, and dammit, if those aren’t the sweetest words that have ever tried to stitch up the torn parts of me.

“Okay,” I whisper because anything more feels like it might break the spell of this moment.

I slide away from his heat, the absence of his weight sudden and cold, leaving me feeling more exposed than when he was moving inside me.

He rolls to his side, facing me, his eyes dark pools of something fierce and tender all at once.

I’m caught in the paradox of Felix Greyson.

He rises without a word, a silent understanding passing between us. The bathroom door is left wide open behind him. I sit up, muscles complaining, heart still doing double-time, but curiosity wins, and I follow the sound of running water.

Stepping into the steam, I see him under the spray, his inked skin glistening, that scar at his throat stark against the wet black strands of hair. He turns, his gaze locking onto mine, and extends a hand. I take it, shedding the last of my hesitations.

The water is hot, almost scalding, but his hands?

They’re gentle, washing away the mess between my thighs with care that’s so at odds with the violence I know lives in his bones.

His touch is meticulous, reverent even as if he’s memorising every inch of me.

And I can’t help but think that maybe monsters do have a heart.

“Damn, Felix,” I breathe out, watching him watch me, his hands now gliding over my hips, stomach, and breasts. It’s not just the physical sensation, but knowing this man, this killer, could tear the world apart with those same hands, and yet here he is, treating me like I’m something precious.

I could fall for him. Hell, I’m halfway there already. The way he moves with me, for me, it’s like we’re dancing on the edge of a razor blade, both of us bleeding but neither willing to step off. Because what’s on the other side? Just more shadows, more pain.

“Can’t believe you’re real,” I murmur, reaching out to trace the edges of his tattoos, feeling the same raised scars beneath my fingers on his skin as I do mine.

“Believe it,” he says, his voice low, pulling me closer until the water cascades over us, mingling heat with heat. “Real enough to kill your monsters,” he adds, and I know he means it. This is who he is. My protector. My assassin. My Felix.

“Real enough to touch me like this,” I say, leaning into his caress, letting myself get lost in the contrast of his calloused hands against my skin. It’s madness how I crave his brand of crazy and want to stay hidden in this steam-filled sanctuary forever.

“Always,” he promises again, and I shiver, not from cold but from the intensity in his voice. Always—a promise from a man who deals in death but offers me life in his arms. Yeah, I could love him. And maybe that’s the scariest thing of all.

Towelling off, I watch him move around the room, all grace and lethal energy contained in skin and ink. Droplets of water cling to his back tattoos like they’re too scared to fall. He catches my gaze in the mirror, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips.

“Starving?” Felix asks, his voice cutting through the steamy silence.

“Kinda,” I admit, wrapping the towel tighter around me. His eyes follow the motion, dark and hungry.

“Was thinking of ordering in. What are you in the mood for?” He tosses over his shoulder as he rifles through a drawer for something to wear.

“Ever cook?” The question slips out before I can stop it. My curiosity always did have a way of getting the better of me .

He pauses, a short laugh escaping him. “I can, but I don’t. Usually, just eat out.”

“Same.” I chuckle, absentmindedly scratching at a scar on my arm. “I can’t even boil water, but I’d kill for some home-cooked food.”

“Then let’s do that.” He strides over, determination etched into every line of his body. “I’ll cook tonight.”

“Really?” Surprise flickers through me like a candle flame caught in a draft.

“Really.”

The kitchen becomes our new battleground, with him manning the grill like he’s used to handling weapons instead of kitchen utensils. The sizzle and pop of chicken on the grill is white noise, a backdrop to the clink of cutlery and the dull thud of my heart against my ribs.

We sit at the table, plates of grilled chicken and salad between us. It’s simple, yet there’s pride in how he watches me take the first bite, like he’s laid his soul bare on this plate and waits for my verdict.

“Good?” he probes, a hint of vulnerability in those impenetrable eyes.

“Damn good,” I reply, meaning it, and his smile is all sharp edges and shadows.

“Tell me something…” I start, pushing lettuce around with my fork, “… where are you from?”

“Sydney.” His answer is clipped, the word slicing through the air.

“Family?” I prod, knowing I’m walking a razor wire without a net.

“Dead.” The syllable drops like a stone in deep water .

“How?” I can’t stop now, the questions bubbling up from a place I can’t quite name.

“Father killed my mother. Tried to off me, too,” he says, matter-of-factly, as if discussing the weather as he points to the scar on his neck.

“Shit,” I breathe out, the taste of the salad turning bitter.

“Twelve months later, I found him. Slit his throat.” He speaks with an eerie calmness, eyes locked on mine, challenging me to look away.

“Jesus.” I stab at the chicken, trying to match his nonchalance. “You make it sound so…”

“Simple?” he offers, a predator’s grin spreading across his face. “It was.”

“Is that how… you know…” I trail off, unsure how to ask if that’s what got him into the assassination game.

“Found my calling?” He leans back, arms crossed, tattoos shifting with the movement. “Something like that.”

My heart hammers against my ribcage. I can’t tear my eyes away from his. There’s a stillness to him, a quiet certainty that chills me to the bone. But I’m not afraid. No, it’s something else—recognition.

“Shit,” I mutter, setting down my utensils. My appetite’s gone, replaced by a gnawing curiosity. “That’s… one hell of a coping mechanism.”

“Survival,” he corrects me, his lips twitching into a smirk that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s all about survival, darling.”

“Survival,” I echo, leaning back in my chair. My mind races, piecing together the puzzle that is Felix Greyson. His darkness is like a mirror to mine—twisted reflections in a shattered glass.

“Thought you’d be scared,” he says, almost sounding disappointed.

“Scared?” I laugh, but it’s hollow. “Of what? That you’re a killer? I’ve accepted that part.”

He studies me, and I feel like he’s peeling back layers with just his gaze. “You’ve got your ghosts, don’t you, Aurora?”

“More than you know,” I admit

“Tell me,” he insists, and there’s a hunger in his voice that matches the thirst for violence I see in him.

“Another time.” I stand up, my legs steady despite the turmoil inside. “Right now, I need a drink.”

“Running away?” He’s taunting me now.

“Regrouping,” I fire back, grabbing a bottle of whiskey from the shelf. “There’s a difference.”

“Is there?” he challenges, rising to join me.