Page 27 of Velvet Betrayal (The Dark Prince of Boston #3)
Kieran
S he walked me to the bedroom, but didn’t come in.
Just stood there, watching, like she was trying to decide if this was mercy or a mistake.
I could feel the air shift between us, humid with things we’d said and things we hadn’t, and it hit me like it always did—how she smelled like something stolen from summer even in the dead of winter, how she never looked scared even when she should’ve been.
I reached for her wrist, slow, like I was asking permission without saying it out loud. Her pulse was fast. So was mine.
She didn’t kiss me. Not at first. Just dragged her fingers through my hair, careful around the bandage, and looked at me like she didn’t know whether to fuck me or leave me bleeding.
“Get some rest,” she said, quiet. “You look like a corpse someone forgot to bury.”
“I’ll sleep when you’re beneath me,” I said.
A flush crawled up her throat—frustration, arousal, both. “You’re concussed.”
“Then maybe you should do something to keep me conscious.”
“You really want to pick this fight?”
I leaned in, lips just shy of hers. “I don’t want to fight. I want you to make me feel like I’m still alive.”
And that was it—the break in her armor. The split second before everything turned.
She bit me first—hard enough to split my lip open again, hard enough to make me forget everything except the taste of blood and lemon soap and her.
I knotted my fingers in her hair and dragged her in, kissed her like it was the only way to prove we were still alive.
She made a sound—half gasp, half growl—and for a second I wanted to pin her down, mark her, fuck her, anything that would get through to the universe that we’d been here, together, even if the world outside was just knives and threats waiting for us to step out.
She fought it, of course. She always did.
But her knees buckled, and her hands curled at my sides—claws, not fists.
The fight was still there, just rerouted, all that energy turning into something hungry and raw.
She ripped my shirt, yanking it over my bandaged head so fast I almost blacked out, then dragged her nails down my ribs, lighting up nerves I didn’t even know I had.
She hit the wall first, rattling the frames. I pinned her wrists up, bracing my body between her and the drywall, breath coming fast, matching hers. For a second, I thought we might just combust—two pressure points waiting for the fuse.
“You like this?” I breathed, grinding my hips into hers, wedging my thigh up between her legs. I felt how ready she was, the slick heat through both our clothes. “You missed me.”
She laughed—low, close, throatier than I’d ever heard. “You’re insufferable.”
“But you like me like this.”
She tilted her chin, defiant, flushed. “Maybe I like you better when you’re bleeding.”
“Then come get your fix,” I said, and kissed her—deep, messy, like a dare and a thank-you all at once. She kissed back like she was trying to rewrite our past in the press of her mouth. Like it hurt not to.
I slid my hand up under her shirt, cupped her breast, thumbed her nipple until she arched against me. “Still mad at me?” I murmured.
“Always.” She hooked her foot behind my leg and yanked. “Now take your fucking pants off.”
I let her go just long enough to pull my shirt over my head. Her hands were already on my belt. “You’re bossy,” I said.
“Only way to keep you in line.”
She palmed me through my boxers, eyes flicking up to meet mine. “God, I missed this,” she muttered. “Missed you.”
“Yeah?” I slid my fingers down between her legs, hooked the cotton aside, and pressed in. She gasped—sharp and sweet, hips chasing me like she’d been starving for it.
“You have no idea,” she said, voice breaking.
But I did. God, I did.
I walked her backward to the bed, fell with her, rolled us together into the light. And for a second, everything else—the Crew, the city, the bruises, the blood—just stopped.
It was just her. Just us. Still fighting. Just in a different language now.
I spread her, thumbed her open, and pushed in, every inch of need since the first time I lost her pouring out all at once. She took it, all of it, head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut like she could shatter the light behind her lids.
I set a rhythm—slow, deep, punishing and healing at the same time—hands braced on her hips as she arched, clawing for more, less, anything but now.
She pressed her legs wide, heels hooked on the edge of the bed, dragging me deeper. Every thrust knocked the air out of her, made her whisper little fuck-you prayers that just made me want her more.
I felt the tremor in her, the heat before she broke, and I grabbed her face, made her look at me. That was always our thing: no blinking, no shyness, just raw honesty, too much to hide.
I almost lost it first—the stitches at my temple flared, everything went spotty and pink.
“Do you want to come inside me?” she whispered, voice shaking.
Fuck.
“Yeah,” I groaned, barely holding on. “You want me to?”
She dug her heels in, met every stroke with a dare and a surrender. “Yes,” she said, pinching my jaw so I had to look at her. “Right now. I need you to come inside me—fuck, you’re so good at this, I love your big fucking dick, fuck—”
She came so hard it bucked me up against the raw spot on my head, stars exploding behind my eyes. She tried to swallow the sound—my name, broken and wild—but I heard it, felt it in the way her body clamped down, wringing every last ounce out of me.
It broke me. I came, hard, deep, cupping the back of her neck like I was drowning and she was the only air left.
For a second, the universe shrank down to just this: her wrapped around me, the heat spilling into her, the wet, messy knot of our bodies making one more tally in the book of shared mistakes.
I didn’t want to let go. Neither did she.
Her knees locked at my hips, and I stayed inside, not moving except to collapse forward, skin to skin, catching our breath in the tangled mess of her hair. She was trembling. So was I.
We never learned how to trust what came after. Even the afterglow felt like freefall, waiting for the punchline or the sniper or the next round of daylight.
She laughed—ragged, gorgeous. “You know, statistically, you’re not supposed to fuck with a head injury.”
“I wasn’t planning on it,” I said, voice shredded. “But you looked at me like that, and it didn’t seem right to die tomorrow when I could do this again.”
She kissed my forehead, careful to dodge the stitches. “You’re such an asshole.”
“Yours, though,” I said.
“Don’t get greedy,” she shot back, but the edge was gone. What was left was something softer, so rare on her face I almost missed it. “If you actually die, I’ll resurrect you just to kill you myself.”
“Deal,” I said, letting myself collapse onto her, pinning her there just to feel the beat of her heart against mine—two busted instruments trying to find the same rhythm.
We lay there a long time, breathing, listening to the city static through the window. Neither of us said it, but we were both cataloguing every place our bodies touched: shoulder, breast, hip, the lazy loop of her calf over my thigh. I never wanted to move again.
“You can’t sleep on me,” she muttered. “You’re heavy. I won’t be able to breathe.”
“You’re fine,” I said, but rolled off anyway, both of us sticky and light inside.
She stretched out, hair spilling over her cheek, and for a second she looked so tired—like the kind of tired you get from finally letting go.
I listened to her breathing slow, then stutter, then even out into the calm, steady tide that meant she was really asleep—something I never expected from her.
I waited another ten minutes, just holding the memory, tucking it away for whatever ugly came next, then let myself drift too.
And I dreamed—because of course I did, when there was suddenly so much to dream about: Rosie at the skating rink, spinning lazy circles in an empty white, arms open like she could catch the sky.
Then it shifted, like dreams do, to the city—on fire, but Ruby was in the middle, drinking coffee, laughing at something I’d said, the smoke painting color on her cheeks.
I watched her through the glass, wanting to warn her, but in the dream she just winked, waved me off, unafraid—like danger was just another flavor she’d already tasted a million times.
The worst part? I was that danger; I knew I was. I knew she was addicted, that I’d put her into more bad situations than anyone else.
And still…I couldn’t bring myself to let go.