Page 107 of Savage Empire

He doesn’t give me a chance to answer before he’s swallowing another whimper from my lips. Tongue tracing the shell of my mouth, he kisses me deeper and I can’t deny the way I begin to heat up.

My hands migrate from his shoulders to the back of his head, twirling into the short hair at his nape. I tug on what I can, desperate for any scrap of control I can capture.

Too consumed to stop, my hips roll without permission, grinding against Apollo’s pelvis. His hard…hard?—

Abruptly, my feet are put back on the ground, legs wobbling under my own weight. My eyes fly open, feeling like a cold bucket of water has just been thrown over me.

“W-what?” I ask, looking up at the heavily breathing man above me.

“That one was free,” he rumbles, using his thumb to wipe moisture from his bottom lip. “You don’t get another one until you stop pretending.”

I flinch. “What are you talking about?”

“Figure it out,” Apollo replies, stepping back. “You’re a smart girl,micina,I believe in you.”

He leaves me panting with bruised lips and the memory of our kiss playing on a heated loop. Fingers ghosting over my bottom lip, I shake my head.Pretending,he said.

He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.

Chapter Thirty

Rayna

Two Weeks Later

I’m alone in the apartment for the first time since Yordan was shot, and I’m not handling it well. For fifteen days, I’ve been taking care of my little brother day and night. The doctors said he needed copious amounts of rest, especially in the first few days of leaving hospital care.

I may have gone a little overboard, catering to him like he was incapable of getting out of bed or off the couch, but I couldn’t help it. He was so weak and sore for so many days, I had to do something to make myself feel useful to him. To feel better about how helpless I was in truly helping him. His body needed time to recover, and nothing I could do would change that.

Today, though, he’d had enough rest. He was officially cleared to start light physical activity, and no amount of worrying from me would change his mind. He was with Javi and Apollo who claimed they would assess Yordan’s range of motion and tolerance levels before working with him. They claimed itwould be more like physical therapy than a work out session, but I still couldn’t help the unease that filled me.

Unlike every other time he’s left the house, Yordan didn’t invite me along this time. I didn’t blame him. He knew I would hear him make one little sound of slight pain or discomfort and try to take him back home. Sometimes knowing each other so well becomes more of a curse than a blessing. After all, within the first twenty minutes of him being gone, all I could do was pace around the living room while trying to talk myself out of running right after them.

Distracting myself became a necessity, and so I’ve taken to violently preparing some croissants. The laminated yeast doughrequires many steps and plenty of movement.Plus, I already baked the tarts I prepped yesterday but just putting something in the oven wasn’t enough of a task. Croissants were a solid choice, being able to take out my frustration on cold butter and dough with a wooden rolling pin has been almost therapeutic.

“Music might make this better,” I mutter to myself but shake my head, immediately deciding against it. All of the banging and kitchen noises would cut into whatever music was playing and drive me crazy.

Grunting, I start whacking the parchment-covered butter to flatten it into a long sheet. It feels more like a work out than a baking task, so much so that the back of my neck is a little sweaty. Flyaway hairs from my bun stick to it, and I’m too invested in my preparation to care. I huff, rolling my shoulders back, continuing to hit ingredients harder and harder.

The sound of a great bang that I haven’t created sends a shock to my system. My flour covered hands react blindly, reaching for the secret drawer to my side. I pull out the weapon with a racing heart, realizing what I’ve just heard. Someone kicked the door in.

My stomach drops and I cock the pistol, hands trembling as heavy footsteps hit the floor, coming closer and closer. I don’t think, I just extend my arms and wait for a shape to come around the corner. My finger reacts before my eyes do, squeezing the trigger once.

My hands vibrate, the small recoil sending a cold thrum all the way up my arms. Contact is made, and my ears ring from the sound of the shot, but clarity snaps through me with a cold rush. The fear and adrenaline from moments ago transforms into shock, and then utter terror when I see the face of who I just hit.

No, no, no, no.

“Oh my god,” I gasp, dropping my gun and rushing around the counter. “I’m so sorry, oh my God. I thought you were an intruder breaking in! What are you—how are you—oh please don’t punish Yordan for this.”

Blood is slowly dripping from his thick bicep, smearing his white button down in bright, crimson stains. If he hadn’t reacted to the sight of me with a gun, I could have hit him anywhere.

The only reason he isn’t bleeding out on the ground right now is because he has significantly faster reflexes than I do. And I’ve never been happier to say that Apollo Moretti is better than me at something.

“Take a breath,” he instructs far too calmly. “It’s just a flesh wound.” Like the bullet graze in his arm is nothing more than a scratch, he begins to unbutton his top, slowly slipping the ruined material off.

Finding myself with my mouth hanging open, and lost for words, I watch as he rips a sleeve clean off the shirt. He wraps the scrap of cloth around his arm, tightly covering his wound to stop the bleeding.

These past two weeks I’ve been avoiding thinking about Apollo and the kiss we shared in the hospital. He hasn’t brought it up, and neither have I. I wouldn’t have, even if I wantedto. My focus was fully on Yordan and getting him better again. But I won’t deny that our kiss has been haunting me at night, reminding me how undeniably good it was.