Chapter 11 Landon #3
He stands, walks to the window, looks out at the snow. “You want to know the secret? No matter how hard you fight, the program never leaves you. Even now, I can’t sleep right, and I can’t relax unless I know exactly who’s in the house, what doors are locked, how many bullets are in the gun.”
He turns back, eyes not as hard as before. “That’s why I don’t understand why the fuck you’re the one I want to save. My whole life has been one death after another. Psychological warfare, extracting information. Rewriting history. And yet...”
The silence is huge. I let it stretch, let it fill every gap the last few days have torn in me.
“I saw the note,” I say, softly. “The one you wrote to Brooks.”
He nods, and for a second he looks ten years younger. “I meant it. I would have killed myself if he hadn’t given me an out. Sometimes I think I’m still supposed to. Brooks is both angel and demon and he gave me the wisdom to discern which is needed where.”
I process this. “Did you ever think about running?”
He smiles, grim. “All the time. But where would I go? I’m not a person. I’m an asset with a barcode tattooed on my fucking soul.”
He walks back to the desk, stands over me. “You’re not like me,” he says.
I shake my head. “No, I’m worse. I always thought the world had rules, that if I followed them, I’d be safe. You knew the rules were a lie, and you survived anyway.”
He sits on the edge of the desk, looks at his hands. “I can’t be good. I can only protect you.”
I want to tell him I don’t need protecting, but it’s a lie. He knows it, and I know it.
Instead, I say, “I don’t want good. I want the truth.”
He looks up, and in his eyes I see the flicker of something that could be hope, if either of us believed in that shit.
The conversation ends there, not with resolution, but with a truce. He leaves the office, and I clean up the papers, the photos, put everything back the way it was.
I spend the rest of the night in the library, reading until my eyes go dry. When I finally come up for air, the house is quiet, the only sound the wind against the glass.
I walk the halls, thinking about Briar in his bed, alone. I want to join him, to wrap my arms around his chest and tell him it’s okay, but I don’t.
Instead, I go back to my own room, strip off the sweater, and stare at the scars on my own wrists, the ones I never talk about, not even to myself.
The next night is when everything changes.
We’re on the balcony. The snow is still falling, heavy and relentless, and Briar is nursing a glass of whiskey.
He stands at the railing, bare arms despite the cold, his skin lit by the blue-white wash of the sky. He looks like a statue someone chiseled out of hate and regret.
I step out, shivering, and he glances at me, the faintest smile on his mouth. “You should go back inside. It’s freezing.”
I ignore him. “You need to stop trying to freeze yourself to death.”
He leans in, voice low. “It makes me feel alive.”
I stand beside him, elbows on the cold rail. “So does pain. But it isn’t all you are.”
He finishes the drink, sets the glass on the ledge. “You’re a stubborn bastard.”
“Takes one to know one.”
He looks at me, and the air changes. The tension isn’t like before—there’s no threat, no challenge, just the recognition that we’re both tired of just surviving.
He moves first. Grabs the back of my neck and pulls me into a kiss that’s more surrender than demand.
I melt into it, letting him take. My hands go to his waist, gripping tight, and he shivers, not from the cold but from the shock of being touched gently.
He pushes me back against the wall, mouth never leaving mine, and for the first time, I feel like I have some say in what happens.
He’s hard, and so am I. I can feel the heat of his cock through the denim, the way it pulses as I grind up against him. He moans, soft, a sound he’d never let anyone else hear.
I want to ruin him.
I want to show him he can be wanted for something other than violence.
I break the kiss, nuzzle his neck, bite down just hard enough to mark him. He gasps, hands digging into my back. I slide a hand up his shirt, find the line of his ribs, trace the old scars with my thumb. He shudders.
“Inside,” he mutters, voice raw.
We stumble through the door, into the empty living room. He pushes me onto the couch, climbs on top, and for a second I think he’s going to tear me apart.
But he doesn’t.
He’s careful. Slow. Every button undone is a question, every touch a request for permission.
I say yes, over and over, until the only thing left is skin.
He licks a stripe down my chest, kisses each bruise he left before. His hands are rough, callused, but his mouth is soft, and when he takes my cock in his mouth, he does it like he’s worshiping it.
I tangle my hands in his hair, fuck into his mouth slow, savor the way he moans around me.
He takes me all the way, no gag, just pure want. When I’m close, he pulls off, climbs into my lap, and slides onto my cock without hesitation. He rides me, slow at first, then faster, until he’s fucking himself on me like he needs it to live.
His eyes never leave mine. This moment burns into my memory.
My hardened protector, allowing me to fuck him.
If I died tomorrow, this would be the flashback I’d want replaying in my mind.
I grab his hips, hold him steady, thrust up as hard as I can. He throws his head back, mouth open, hair falling in his eyes. I jerk him off in time with the thrusts, and when he cums, he moans, raw and unguarded.
I follow, hips snapping up, burying myself as deep as I can. I shoot inside him, feel him clench around me, milking every drop.
When it’s over, he slumps against me, forehead pressed to my shoulder.
I hold him. I don’t let go.
All the power in the world doesn’t matter, nothing does… except this moment. He let me touch him, let me hold the reigns, not because he owns me. But because he’s afraid I don’t choose to be owned.
After a while, he lifts his head, kisses me slow, and I taste salt on his lips.
“You okay?” I ask.
He nods. “Better than okay. I’ve never done that before… I just…” Shame colors his features.
Holding his cheeks between his hands, I pull his face to mine and kiss his forehead. “It’s okay to be taken care of sometimes, Briar. You don’t always have to be strong. I can protect you too, maybe not physically, but your heart.”
He stands, cleans us both up with the blanket from the couch, then pulls me to my feet.
We walk to the bedroom together, and this time, we both get under the covers.
He spoons me, arms wrapped around my chest, and I feel his heartbeat, steady and real.
I stay awake for hours, afraid that if I fall asleep, I’ll wake up and this will all be gone.
But it isn’t.
He’s still there when I finally drift off.
The next morning, the world is the same, but I’m not.
We’re not.
I sit at the kitchen table, drinking coffee, watching the snow pile up against the window. Briar comes down the stairs, hair a mess, shirtless, and I let myself stare.
He pours himself a mug, sits across from me.
We don’t talk for a long time.
It hits me that this might be the first time in Briar’s life that he ever let himself be vulnerable with another human being.
This is the first time he’s offered me something he can’t take back… his soul.
Then he says, “You could run. You could leave, and I’d let you. I’ll make sure they don’t track you.”
I shake my head. “I’m staying.”
He looks relieved. Maybe even grateful.
“Why?” he asks.
I finish the coffee, set the mug down. “Because you need someone to remind you you’re more than a weapon. And because I want to see what happens if we both stop running.”
He laughs, for real this time.
“Then I guess we have a plan.”
The silence after isn’t heavy. It’s comfortable.
I look out the window, watch the snow, and know that whatever comes next, I won’t face it alone.
The feeling is foreign, but I want the future.
Even if it kills me.