Kanyan (Gatti Enforcers #1)

52. Kanyan

L ula moves like a ghost across the wooden floor, her bare feet whispering against the smooth surface. The only sound in the room is the soft creak of the floorboards beneath her weight and the steady rhythm of her breathing. She’s lost in her world, oblivious to me standing in the doorway, watching. Admiring.

I built this studio for her. Transformed an empty room into a space where she could dance, where she could be free. And right now, she’s a vision of control and chaos—wild and fluid, yet precise in every movement.

She stretches, her arms reaching toward the ceiling, before she sweeps into a spin, her body bending, twisting, her muscles shifting like liquid fire beneath her skin. My mouth goes dry. I don’t think she realizes what she does to me. The way she moves—like she’s untouchable, like she belongs to the wind, not the earth. But she is mine. Even nature cannot have her.

My eyes track every motion, every flex of her toned legs, the delicate arch of her back, the way her hair whips through the air when she throws herself into a flip. She’s practicing for the tightrope, preparing for that impossible trick—jumping off, landing seated, her legs swinging over the rope like it’s just another part of her body. It’s reckless. It’s dangerous. It’s fucking mesmerizing.

She leaps, her body a breath away from weightlessness, before she lands with effortless grace. A slow smile curves my lips. She doesn’t even know she has an audience.

I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, devouring the sight of her. My fingers twitch at my sides. I want to touch her, grab her, ruin her focus with the way I plan to worship her.

Finally, I push off the frame, making my presence known. The moment she sees me, her movements falter, just for a second. Her lips part, breathless from exertion—or maybe from the way I’m looking at her.

“Kanyan.” My name is a whisper, a question.

I step closer. “Keep going.”

She swallows, watching me from beneath her lashes. Then, with that same fierce determination, she moves again—spinning, flipping, testing the limits of what her body can do. And I watch, my blood running hot, my control unraveling, thread by thread.

When she finally stops, chest heaving, sweat glistening on her skin, I don’t hesitate. I close the space between us, backing her against the mirrored wall. Her breath hitches as my fingers trace the line of her jaw, down the column of her throat, lower, lower…

“You dance like you belong to the air,” I murmur, brushing my lips against her ear. “But right now, you belong to me.”

She exhales a soft, shuddering breath as I slide my hands down her body, gripping her hips, pressing her against me. She’s warm, pliant, perfect.

And in this studio, under the dim glow of the overhead lights, I take her—I lift her minuscule skirt and shove her panties to the side. I slide a finger through her folds. Wet. Soaking. Drenched. The very essence of desire.

“Mmm, is baby wet for me?” I murmur, as I bury my nose in. her neck.

“Always.”

Her eyes are half hooded as she looks at me, biting the edge of her lip. I don’t know who’s more desperate as we claw at one another.

I unzip my pants and drop them, not even waiting until they hit the ground before I spring my dick out of my underwear and guide it towards her. The head is an angry, weeping red, begging for release. I enter her-slow, deep, desperate, pushing into her with measured thrusts. I push and pull until she’s a breathless mess in my arms and we’re climbing – then falling – into our climaxes. Her legs go weak beneath her as her orgasm blasts through her, and I lift her quaking body into my arms and carry her through the house until we reach the bedroom and I lay her on the bed.

My mother’s voice echoes in my head, sharp and wry. Boy, you have lousy timing, don’t you?

It’s all a matter of perspective.

I’ve spent my whole damn life showing up where I shouldn’t, at moments no one expected. And most of the time, it worked in my favor. Or in some cases, in other people’s.

The only time I regret my timing was the night I found her—my mother—sprawled on the stained linoleum of that rotting trailer, barely clinging to life. Beaten half to death. Bones crushed like brittle twigs. Blood pooling around her like a grotesque halo.

I was too late.

If I’d gotten there earlier, maybe she’d still be alive. Maybe she wouldn’t have had to spend her last breaths spitting blood and bitter words at me. Maybe I wouldn’t have had to watch the light fade from her eyes while my hands were too damn useless to do a thing about it.

She always said I had lousy timing . And for once, she was right.

But if meeting Lula is what lousy timing gets me, I’d take a thousand slaps to the face.

If I hadn’t been at that hotel opening. If I hadn’t stepped into that alley at that exact moment. If I hadn’t seen her, shaking and cornered, looking more pissed off than afraid—like a caged animal ready to bite.

If I hadn’t followed the pull in my chest, gone up to her room later just to check on her, to make sure she was okay…

She might have walked away that night.

She might have disappeared into the world, lost to me forever.

And that —that is a thought I can’t stomach.

Because Lula is everything . My world, my stars, my goddamn gravity. She’s the one thing that makes sense in all this chaos, the one constant in a life that’s been nothing but blood and shadows. She fits me like the missing half of a piece I didn’t even know I’d lost.

She’s my water when I’m parched, my air when I can’t fucking breathe. She’s the light I never thought I’d need, and the darkness I crave when everything else is too damn bright.

And she’s mine.

Completely. Irrevocably.

The past still haunts me, clawing at the edges of my mind, whispering all the ways I failed. But when I look at Lula, when I touch her, when I hear her whisper my name like I’m her whole world too?—

For once, lousy timing feels like fate.

Thank you for reading Kanyan’s story. I’d really love it if you could take a moment to rate and review the book.