Page 31

My gaze lingers on her mouth, then slides lower—over her collarbone, the flutter of her pulse, the way her breath hitches just slightly when I shift closer.

“Show your gratitude,” I murmur.

It’s not a demand; it’s not even a tease. It’s low. Expectant. A challenge wrapped in want.

She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look away. This time, she leans in first.

Her mouth brushes mine—soft, tentative. Then deeper. She kisses me like a secret she’s no longer afraid to tell, her lips parting as her hands rise to my shoulders, cautious near the wound but unhesitating everywhere else.

I let her lead.

Her kiss deepens, and her palms smooth down my chest, mapping every line, every scar like she’s memorizing damage she didn’t cause. Like it matters to her now. Like I matter to her now.

My breath hitches as she urges me gently onto my back, the shift slow, careful not to strain the injury. The bed creaks beneath us, and the rain outside grows heavier against the windows.

She follows the trail of scars with her lips.

My neck. My chest. A pause over the long gash near my ribs, her mouth pressing there softly, reverent. Not worship, not pity—just understanding. A quiet act of acknowledgment.

She climbs over me slowly, straddling my hips, the hem of her shirt brushing my skin. Her hair falls around her shoulders, loose and wild, eyes locked on mine like she’s waiting for something to crack.

My hands settle on her thighs—not guiding, not pressing. Just grounding.

Letting her know I’m here. Letting her know she can take everything she wants, and I won’t stop her.

Her body moves—slow, intentional. She rolls her hips, testing the pressure, finding the rhythm. Her breath catches as my cock hardens against her thigh.

Then she gasps my name—against my jaw, into my skin, as if the sound belongs there.

I close my eyes.

And for the first time in a long, long time—

I let go.

She gasps my name against my jaw, and it’s all I can do not to flip her over and take control.

Her hips roll again, slower, more certain, and my fingers flex against her thighs.

I keep them there—still—not because I don’t want to touch her, but because this isn’t about me.

It’s about her choosing this, me, after everything.

Not because she owes me, not because she’s scared or grateful. She wants to.

She leans down, her mouth brushing my throat, soft and warm, and I feel her pulse against my skin.

Her hands brace beside my head, and her weight settles over me fully—familiar now, but different.

She moves with purpose. With focus. Her thighs squeeze just slightly, and she rocks forward, breath catching again as the friction builds.

The sound she makes—quiet, helpless—is almost enough to undo me.

“Alina…,” I grit out, but the warning in my voice is thin, nearly gone.

She lifts her head, meets my eyes.

“Don’t stop me.”

I couldn’t if I tried.

She reaches between us, guiding us together. There’s a beat—a pause—her eyes locked to mine. One breath. Two. Then she lowers herself onto me slowly, inch by inch, her jaw tightening, her body adjusting around the stretch.

My hands grip the edge of the mattress.

She’s warm. Tight. Alive around me.

She exhales a quiet moan as she sinks down fully, her palms sliding up my chest, anchoring herself there. Her head bows, hair falling in a curtain around her face.

Her hips begin to move—gently at first, her pace slow and deliberate, learning what we both like. Her body moves like water over flame, steady but consuming. Every shift draws another hitched breath from her lips, another quiet sound that makes my control fray further.

Her hands explore me like a map—over the scars, the muscles, the bruises left behind. She rides me with care, with intention, with something that feels like reverence and vengeance and forgiveness all braided into one.

She leans forward, her mouth finding mine again. This kiss is different—deeper, searching, as if the words she can’t say are buried there. My hands finally rise, one cradling her jaw, the other gripping her hip, holding her to me, helping her move.

We fall into rhythm.

She whimpers my name again, breaking against my mouth, her fingers curling against my chest. Her body tenses, her thighs trembling, the pulse between us growing faster, hotter, harder.

Then she shudders as the orgasm washes over her.

Her release is soft but powerful, wracking through her in waves, her body pressing down into mine. I follow soon after, the pressure too much, the way she clings to me undoing what little restraint I had left.

I spill inside of her with a groan, head tipped back as my vision blurs.

After, we stay like that—her on top of me, both of us panting in the dim warmth of the room, the rain still tapping faintly at the windows.

Alina rests beside me, the weight of her body a warm, steady presence against my side.

The room feels suspended, caught between breaths. The storm outside has softened now into something quieter, almost forgiving. Her fingers trail faint circles across my chest, slow and aimless, like she’s not even aware she’s doing it.

Neither of us speaks, but the silence isn’t hollow. It’s thick—heavy with everything we can’t say yet. Everything we’re afraid to say.

The realization of what just happened sits between us, breathing its own life into the shadows. It wasn’t just lust. Wasn’t just adrenaline or fear.

It was something else. Something I don’t have the name for.

I turn my head toward her, and in the low golden lamplight, I can see the faint smudges of exhaustion beneath her eyes. The tension that hasn’t quite left her shoulders. She looks fragile in the way only survivors do—broken in places no one can see but still standing anyway.

My gaze softens without my permission.

I’m so tired. Bone-deep, soul-deep tired, but I can’t look away from her.

Her fingers slow over my chest. I feel her hesitation—the way her breathing changes, the way her body tenses just slightly like she’s bracing herself.

Then she speaks. “You don’t have to be alone anymore,” she says.

Her voice is barely above a whisper, but the words land like a punch to the gut. Gentle. Undeniable. Shattering.

For a long moment, I can’t find it in me to answer.

The instinct to push her away rises out of old habits. I’ve built my life around being alone. Around needing no one. Trusting no one. Even when I took her, when I claimed her, it was still through the lens of control—mine, always mine. Not partnership. Not vulnerability.

Now her hand is small and strong against my chest. Her presence a weight I didn’t realize I needed to carry.

I close my hand around hers, tight.

Grounded.

She doesn’t pull away.

Somewhere down the hall, a door closes quietly. The sound is distant, but it ripples through the stillness like a ghost brushing past.

Maxim.

His presence lingers.

There are questions that need answers. Wounds that need stitching deeper than the ones across my skin. Battles still to be fought—inside these walls and outside them.

There’s blood that needs to be avenged. Territory that needs to be reclaimed. Loyalties to be tested.

A war coming that will make tonight look like a minor skirmish.

For tonight, for this small, precious sliver of stolen time, I let her stay.

Her breathing evens out, her body settling closer against mine, and my hand doesn’t loosen its grip on hers.

The rain tapers off outside, the world spins a little slower.

For once, the dark doesn’t feel so empty.