Page 46 of Wraith (Deviant Assassin #1)

The weight of her on me is familiar, a comforting pressure against my chest that I haven't felt in eight fucking years.

Kiera's slow, deliberate rhythm above me contrasts sharply with the frantic pulse of my thoughts threatening to combust. Relief washes over me like a tide, drowning the internal war zone that's defined me for so long, replaced by a surge of raw love forcing its way into spaces where betrayal and rage once festered.

Pawns played by ghost hands. Victims. Now we carry the burden together, stronger than before, because the future is ours to forge.

The dim light catches her jawline, the column of her neck, sweat painting her collarbone molten gold.

My eyes map every curve; relearning territory etched permanently into my memory.

Sharp nostalgia twists in my gut, tenderness for that lost girl warring with the violent, possessive need to dominate the lethal woman she's become.

This room, my sanctuary? I prepared it for her homecoming, brick by fucking brick. That blanket's more than fabric; it's defiance, binding us tighter than steel. They failed to cut her loose from me. She's mine.

Her low cry barely escapes lips already bitten red, but it electrifies my nerves, lighting fire straight down my spine to my cock already leaking need. Her hips arch like a bowstring, violently beautiful against me. That gasp doesn't plead, it commands.

"More. Harder."

She's owning me.

Normally, my hands deal death, not trembling on delicate skin. But they tremble now as they trail her spine, her curves, lower still. Shockwaves under my fingertips hit primal signals I thought dead. Memories flash—softness, gentle discovery—then ignite into the wild blaze devouring us both.

Years apart only strengthened these chains binding us.

My fingers dig into her hips, pulling her down brutally with each upward thrust. The sound she makes, half gasp, half growl, sends electricity straight to my core.

My teeth scrape her shoulder blades; she bucks, panting my name like a prayer and a curse.

We're synchronized in this wild, biting rhythm, two predators finally allowed to hunt together again.

Every roll of her hips above me is torture and salvation.

The way she takes me, owns me, controls the pace while I fight every instinct to flip her and dominate completely.

But watching her claim what's hers, what's always been hers, is its own kind of power trip.

Her nails rake down my chest, leaving red trails that burn like brands.

Eight years. Eight fucking years of dreaming about this moment, about having her back where she belongs. On me. Around me.

Mine.

She shatters first, quivering atop me, her core squeezing violently around my cock. Her barely audible cry tears through me, more beautiful than any scream I've ever drawn from a target. Lightning ricochets through my veins at her clenching hold, and I have to bite back my own roar of triumph.

But I'm not done with her. Not even close.

I flip her underneath me with smooth violence, settling her back into the sheets with the practiced ease of a man who's spent years perfecting the art of control.

My hands immediately capture her breasts, thumbs grinding against peaked nipples, drawing an arched gasp that goes straight to my cock.

Watching her squirm, deliberately vulnerable beneath me, fuck, it's perfection.

"Look at you," I growl against her throat, tasting salt and desire. "Still so responsive. Still so fucking perfect for me."

Her eyes flutter open, glazed with pleasure but still holding that fire that first drew me to her. That defiance that says she's surrendering by choice, not force. The distinction matters. It's always mattered with her.

I tear my gaze down long enough to witness slick evidence smearing her thighs, proof her inner fire matches mine. The scent of sweat and sex creates a heady intoxication that drowns logic. Overwhelming warmth wrings an undertone from my throat.

"Mine."

"Yours," she whispers back, and the simple word nearly undoes me.

Finally unburdened after years of dreaming without touch, my fist grips the bed frame until oak groans under desperate pressure. I need the anchor, need something solid to keep me from losing myself completely in her.

This isn't missionary sweetness. This is branding the map of her spine with my teeth.

Possessive markings, purple blooms sanctifying thigh, shoulder, throat.

Each mark a declaration, a promise, a warning to anyone who might think they can take her from me again.

Her surrendered writhing inflames every dominant instinct I possess.

I bury everything inside her, a raw, filthy transcendence beyond mere skin.

She meets me thrust for thrust, her legs wrapping around my waist like a vice, pulling me deeper, demanding more. Always more with her. Never enough.

"Blade," she gasps, and hearing my name on her lips like that, broken and desperate and full of need, it's better than any drug. Better than the rush of a perfect kill.

Dominance doesn't whisper pretty praise. It bites declarations into flesh. And bite I do. Hard. Collarbones. Neckline. Any softness within reach. This isn't merely physical, it's savage communion, razing our souls together in survival mode.

"Tell me," I demand against her ear, my voice rough with possession. "Tell me you're mine. Tell me you'll never leave again."

"Never," she breathes, her nails digging crescents into my shoulders. "Never again. I'm yours, Blade. Always yours."

The words snap the last of my control. I drive into her with renewed fury, chasing the edge of oblivion where only she and I exist. Where the past can't touch us and the future stretches endlessly ahead.

We collapse and explode simultaneously, brutal heat detonating between our bodies. Her releasing warmth around my cock as I burst, flooding her completely. Stars brighter than any kill I've witnessed blaze at the periphery of my vision.

My hand clasps her neck reverently, leaving ruby half-moons while her heartbeat pounds against my palm. We're panting messes, ribs colliding as we struggle for breath. But even in the aftermath, I can't let go. Can't stop touching her, tasting her, proving to myself she's real.

Three heart-pounding words tear loose: "I love you."

Truth. Violent, desperate truth, admitting my tortured soul's dependence on her forgiveness.

Watching her doze now, peace crawls deep, settling the ache away from reopened wounds. The past is scabbing over with something newer, stronger. She came back to me through the shadows, and I'll be damned if I let anyone tear us apart again.

This is our beginning—together, rebuilt from carnage, cemented by a connection that could survive any darkness.

Even our own.