Page 82 of Held-

“Look at me,” I command. “Don't you fucking look away. I want to see you shatter.”

Her pupils blow wide, drowning in black. There's nothing else in her eyes but me. Not him. Not her past. Just us, fused together in this brutal communion.

I reach between us, thumb pressing hard against her swollen clit. “Now,” I growl against her mouth. “Come for me. Only me.”

She fractures beneath me, my name ripped from her throat as her body seizes around my cock with violent, pulsing contractions. Her nails break skin as she clings to me, her spine arching so severely I fear it might snap. The sight of her—face contorted in primal ecstasy, eyes wild yet still locked onmine—carves itself into my soul. Her inner muscles clamp down with bruising force, dragging me toward the abyss.

We sink into the quiet that follows, breath still unsteady, bodies pressed close enough that I can feel the thundering rhythm of both our hearts. The world narrows to shared warmth, shared air, and the wild rush still echoing through us. I'm crushing her but can't find the strength to move until her fingers dig into my shoulder blades. I roll us, keeping her locked against me, unwilling to break our connection.

“You still with me?” I rasp, voice shredded, fingers tangling in her hair to tilt her face up.

Her eyes meet mine, glazed yet burning with something that makes my chest constrict. “Never left,” she whispers.

In her gaze, I see no walls, no doubts—just Cece looking at me like I'm her salvation instead of her ruin. Like she'd burn down paradise just to stand in my hell.

CECE

My phone vibratesagainst the nightstand, dragging me out of the deepest sleep I've had in years. The room is still dark, morning only a faint suggestion beyond the curtains. I groan and fumble for my phone, trying not to wake Brayden.

The screen blazes to life, momentarily blinding me. Multiple texts from Maya.

HELLO? Are you alive?

Cece, it's been two weeks. TWO WEEKS.

If you don't answer in the next hour, I'm calling the police to report you missing. Not kidding.

Or your dad. Which would be worse?

I smile despite the early hour. Maya has always had a flair for the dramatic that makes even my recent life choices seem tame by comparison.

I shift carefully, propping myself up on one elbow to type a response, when Brayden's arm tightens around my waist, pulling me back against the solid warmth of his chest. He mumbles something incoherent into my hair, still deep in sleep.

I pause, struck by the sight of him. His lashes rest against his cheeks, his breathing slow and even. The tattoo on his shoulder peeks out from beneath the sheet, the raven's wing stretching toward his collarbone.

Before doubt can catch up to me, I switch to the camera and take a quiet photo. Brayden asleep in our bed. The image feels stolen, a tiny piece of peace that belongs only to us. I turn back to Maya's texts, typing quietly.

Not dead. Just busy. Small town, big drama. Will call you soon.

I hit send and set the phone back down. His eyes flutter open, those steel-gray irises finding mine immediately. Even half-asleep, his gaze is intense enough to make my breath catch.

“Morning,” I whisper.

“Who's texting you at—” he squints at the clock “—five-thirty in the fucking morning?”

“Just Maya. My best friend from Boulder. She thinks I've been kidnapped or something.”

He grunts, pulling me closer until my back is flush against his chest, his morning hardness pressing against me in a way that sends a delicious shiver down my spine. “Tell her you have been. Stockholm syndrome's kicking in nicely.”

I laugh softly, turning in his arms to face him. “Is that what this is?”

His hand slides down my back, cupping my ass and pulling me tighter against him. “Call it whatever you want, princess. Just don't leave this bed yet.”

“Are you holding me hostage?”

He smirks, pretending to consider the question. “Can you be a hostage if you came to this bed willingly?”

“I prefer the termwilling captive,” I say, running my fingers along his stubbled jaw.