Chapter 13 Alessandro #2
It tears through my body, locking my muscles, arching my spine. I cry out, the sound raw and broken, echoing off the steel walls. I come in hot, thick spurts, coating my hand, my wrist, dripping onto the tactical vest.
I shudder, gasping, my head falling back against the wall. The pleasure is intense, blinding, washing away the horror of the alley for a few precious seconds.
I stay there, panting, my hand still wrapped around my softening cock.
The silence returns.
The shame follows it.
I look down. I can't see anything in the pitch black, but I can feel the mess. My own seed, sticky and cooling on my skin. The blood on my sleeve. The gun by my side.
I am a mess. The Prince of the City, the man who wears bespoke suits and drinks espresso from bone china, reduced to this. Jerking off in a shipping container next to a dead body's weapon.
I use the inside of my jacket to wipe my hand. It’s crude. It’s filthy.
I pull my trousers up. Zip the fly. Buckle the belt. My hands are still shaking, but the violent tremors have passed. The biological debt has been paid.
I check the Beretta. I check the ?korpion.
I am alive. I am lethal. And I am waiting.
Time passes. Minutes? Hours? I don't know. I sit in the dark, listening to my own heartbeat slow down.
Then, a sound outside.
Crunching gravel. Heavy footsteps. Not a search pattern—a direct line. Someone walking with purpose.
I raise the Beretta. I aim at the door.
The handle turns. The door groans, rusted hinges protesting.
A slice of grey light cuts into the container.
A silhouette fills the opening. Broad shoulders. Leather jacket.
Killian.
He looks like he walked through hell. His face is smeared with soot and blood. There is a gash above his eyebrow that is bleeding freely, dripping down his cheek. His knuckles are raw meat. His chest is heaving.
He spots me.
He sees the gun pointed at him. He doesn't flinch. He sees the mess of my clothes, the wildness in my eyes, the white stains on the black tactical vest.
He steps inside.
He reaches back and pulls the heavy steel door shut, plunging us back into absolute darkness.
I hear him slide the bolt home. Clang.
He doesn't speak. I can hear him breathing—hard, fast, like he’s been running.
He moves toward me. I lower the gun.
He finds me in the dark. His hands—hot, rough, smelling of gunpowder—grab my face. He runs his thumbs over my cheekbones, my lips, checking for damage.
"Alessandro," he breathes. His voice is wrecked. "You're alive."
"I killed one," I whisper. "In the alley."
"Good." His hands slide down to my shoulders, gripping hard. "Good."
He pulls me up. I stumble, my legs weak, and he catches me. He crushes me against his chest. It hurts—my bruised ribs protest, his tactical gear digs into me—but I don't care. I bury my face in his neck. He smells of sweat and violence and rain.
"I thought I lost you," he says into my hair. "When the glass broke... I thought I lost you."
"You drew the fire," I say. "You ran."
"I had to get them away from you."
He pulls back. In the dark, I can feel the intensity of his gaze even if I can't see it.
"You're shaking," he says.
"Adrenaline crash."
"Yeah." His hand moves lower. He touches the front of my vest. His fingers find the wet, sticky slickness on the Kevlar.
He freezes.
He knows what it is. He knows exactly what I did in the dark while I waited for him.
I hold my breath. Waiting for disgust. Waiting for mockery.
Killian makes a low sound in his throat. Not disgust.
Possession.
"You needed it," he says. It’s not a question. "You needed to feel alive."
"Yes."
He steps closer. He presses his hips against mine. He is hard too. Through the denim of his jeans, I can feel the ridge of him, heavy and insistent. The violence turned him on just as much as it did me.
"I killed three of them," he says, his voice a low rumble against my ear. "And every time I pulled the trigger, I thought of you. I thought about keeping you safe."
He grabs my hand. He guides it to his fly.
"Touch me," he orders.
I fumble with his belt. My fingers are clumsy, desperate. I free him. He springs into my hand, hot and velvet-smooth and leaking.
"We have to go," I say, even as I stroke him. "The police... the rest of the team..."
"Fuck them," Killian growls. He pushes me back against the steel wall. "Let them wait."
He kisses me. It tastes of copper and smoke. He bites my lip, reopening the split, licking the blood.
He lifts me up. My legs wrap around his waist instinctively. He grinds against me, friction and heat and pressure.
"You're mine," he says against my mouth. "Covered in blood, covered in cum, you're mine. You understand?"
"Yes," I gasp. "Yes."
He doesn't take me. Not here. Not in the filth. But he grinds against me until he spills, hot and messy between our stomachs, soaking our shirts. I hold him through the tremors, listening to his harsh cries in the dark.
We stand there for a long time, holding each other up in the pitch black container, covered in the fluids of life and death.
Eventually, Killian steps back. He adjusts his clothes. I do the same.
"We need to move," he says. His voice is steady again. The Reaper is back.
"Where?"
"Safe house. One of mine. Off the grid. No phones. No trackers."
"My father will be looking for us."
"Let him look." Killian finds the door handle. He opens it, and the grey light floods back in, hurting my eyes.
He turns to me. He looks at the blood on my face, the stains on my vest. He reaches out and wipes a smudge of dirt from my cheek with his thumb.
"We're going to ground," he says. "And then we're going to hunt them down."
I nod. I follow him out into the rain.
I am not the same man who walked into this warehouse district an hour ago. That man relied on logic. That man believed in clean solutions.
That man is dead.
I follow Killian to the car. I get in the passenger seat. I check the ?korpion on my lap.
Let them come. Let them all come.
We are ready.