Page 65 of Storm

I lean down to kiss her, slower this time, pouring four years of longing and love into it. She melts against me, her body fitting against mine just as perfectly as I remembered.

We move toward the bed without breaking apart, stumbling slightly in our eagerness. Storm tugs at my shirt again, and this time I help her, pulling it over my head and tossing it aside. Her eyes darken as she takes in my bare chest, her fingers tracing scars that weren't there the last time she saw me.

"So many new ones," she whispers, concern creasing her brow.

"Occupational hazard," I say with a small smile. "Fighting pays the bills."

She continues her exploration, learning the new landscape of my body while I drink in the sight of her. She's changed too—still small, still fierce, but with curves that weren't there before, a new softness to her that makes my mouth go dry.

She steps back suddenly, pulling her shirt over her head in one fluid motion. I watch, transfixed, as she shimmies out of her shorts, standing before me in just her underwear. My brain short-circuits at the sight of her.

"Storm," I manage, my voice rough.

She smiles, reaching for the button of my jeans, but I stop her again, gently turning her and guiding her onto the bed. I pull the covers over her, then quickly strip down to my boxers before sliding in beside her.

"Rook?" she questions, confusion in her voice as I gather her against my chest rather than continuing what we started.

"Just for now," I murmur, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "I just want to hold you. Talk to you. Love on you a little."

She makes a frustrated sound, her hand sliding down my stomach. "We can talk after."

I catch her wrist, bringing her hand to my lips instead. "It can wait a little," I say, smiling at her impatience. "I want to make sure your head is right before we do anything."

She huffs, the sound so familiar, so perfectly Storm, that it makes my chest ache with love.

"Fine," she grumbles, but she settles against me, her head finding that spot on my shoulder that's always belonged to her. "But just so you know, I think this is stupid."

I laugh, stroking her hair.

For a while, we just lie there, relearning the feel of each other. Her skin is soft against mine, her heartbeat steady where our chests press together. I trace patterns on her back, marveling at the miracle of having her in my arms again.

"Tell me everything," I say eventually. "How did you end up here?"

She sighs, her breath warm against my neck. "It wasn't supposed to be like this. I had a plan."

"I figured that much," I say, remembering the address I'd given her. "427 Crescent Avenue."

She tells me everything then—about her friend Harley, about how they discovered they could rig the lottery, about choosing Kingsley's pack because they lived closest to the theater. And the address I’d given her.

"I was going to slip away in the chaos after pulling his name," she explains. "But the asshole threw me over his shoulder and carried me out like a caveman.”

My arms tighten around her instinctively. "I saw it on TV. I wanted to kill him."

She huffs a laugh against my chest. "Get in line. I was going to slip away from their apartment, but they took me to this one instead. And locked me in."

She continues her story, telling me about the past days in the penthouse, about Jonathan's cold control and Reed's intimidating presence, and Alexander's unexpected kindness. She talks about their fathers coming, about the upcoming dinner that sounds more like a trial than a family gathering.

"And then there's Frankie," she says, her voice softening.

"The beta?" I ask, remembering the nervous young man who'd been standing near Storm when I arrived.

She nods. "He was my guard at the Omega House for all four years. The only one who was ever kind to me. He kept me sane when things got bad."

There's genuine affection in her voice when she talks about him. Not the same way she talks about me, but with a warmth that speaks of deep friendship.

"I think... I have feelings for him," she says, playing with my fingers. "And I think... I think maybe he cares about me, too. In that way. But he'd never say it."

"How do you really feel about him?" I ask carefully, not jealous, but genuinely wanting to understand.