Chapter 29 #2
I furrow my brows, an incredulous laugh slipping out as I tilt my head. “Carter? Really? Since when are you the formal type?”
His lips curl around a half-smirk, but his eyes—those lethal, storm-dark eyes—don’t waver. He rolls his stool up closer in front of me, one hand braced on my thigh, the other smoothing over the skin just above the fresh mark like he’s already claiming it.
“Better get used to it, Little Stray,” he murmurs. “Because I plan on making it your last name too.”
My breath stutters.
His voice is low, rough, wrecked with certainty. Not a joke. Not a tease. A promise.
That name on my skin? That wasn’t a flex.
It was a vow.
Something real, raw and impossible to unfeel once it’s said aloud.
The weight of it presses into my chest, but it’s not heavy in a bad way. It settles like something I didn’t realize I needed, something solid in a world where nothing ever stays.
I stare at him, heartbeat ragged. “You proposing mid-apocalypse now?”
“Not yet.” He smirks, thumb brushing over the edge of the tattoo. “Gotta get you across that finish line first.”
“And then what?” I ask quietly, almost afraid to believe it.
His gaze drags up to mine. “Then I burn the world down and build us one with your name on every fucking wall.”
I don’t respond.
I just grab him by the collar, pull him up, and kiss him like I already said yes.
Because maybe I just did.
The warehouse is mostly quiet when we pull in.
Ghost and Bishop are still up, heads bent low over some screen, wires snaking across the workbench in tangles that only make sense to them.
They don’t look up when we kill the engine.
No words exchanged. Just the hum of machines, the occasional clang of metal echoing through the steel bones of the Verge’s ugliest sanctuary.
We don’t speak either, not until we’re back in our quarters grabbing towels, the sting of fresh ink still humming under our clothes.
The showers are abandoned at this time of night. Everyone else is either asleep or too wrecked from the last race to move. It’s just us and the steam curling from the busted old pipes, hissing like they’re glad to be useful one more time.
Riot turns the knob. The water blasts out hot and hard, fogging the mirrors, filling the air with a hiss that drowns everything else out.
We strip slowly.
Tugging off layers, careful where they brush the fresh marks.
The water’s almost too hot, but it feels like absolution. I step into it, the stream pounding against my back as he follows. One hand plants against the tile beside my head, his other grabs the soap.
He lathers it slowly, dragging the bar over my shoulders, down my spine, and around my waist. His hands are sure, reverent. He avoids the ink, but every other part of me? He learns all over again. Like he’s not just washing off sweat and grime—he’s cleansing me. Resetting us.
When I turn to face him, my fingers curl into his shoulders.
I drag the soap over the curve of his bicep, down the grooves of his stomach, rinsing the blood from his ribs.
The skin there is darker, bruised from the last race, but the stitches are holding.
Clean, tight, healing better than they should be.
His breath catches when my hands linger there, when my thumb brushes too close to the seam but he doesn’t stop me.
His forehead presses to mine. The water runs down our faces. Steam clings to every inch of skin, curling around us like smoke.
“I need you,” he mutters, voice thick with grit.
I meet his eyes, breath ragged, heart thundering.
“Then take me,” I whisper, rough, sure, like a challenge.
His hands slide down to my thighs, and he lifts me in one clean movement, like I weigh nothing. My back hits the wall, cool tile shocking against heat. His mouth crashes into mine—hungry, deliberate, but still slow. There’s no rush this time. No frenzy.
He lines himself up, the heat of him pressing against me then pushes in, deep, hard, and slow.
It’s not brutal. It’s not wild.
It’s fucking worship.
Every stroke is slow and dragging, like he’s memorizing the way I wrap around him. The way I shudder when he bottoms out. The way I clutch at his shoulders like I’ll break without him.
He moves like he’s not just fucking me but claiming every inch, branding it as his. One deep thrust at a time.
His hands grip my thighs tighter, pulling me closer, like he wants me welded to him. The muscles in his arms strain, and his jaw’s tight, clenched like holding back is costing him. His mouth finds my throat, lips dragging over slick skin, teeth grazing the curve where my pulse hammers wild.
“Fuck, Sin,” he breathes, like he can’t believe I’m real. Like this is the first time he’s allowed himself to feel it.
A low groan vibrates through my chest as his hips rock with unrelenting precision—deep, slow, devastating. I feel every inch of him. Every twitch. Every greedy push deeper, like he’s carving his name from the inside out. Like he wants me sore tomorrow. Ruined. Remembering.
My back arches, head tipping, jaw slack. The sting of the fresh tattoo still burns across my hip, but it’s nothing compared to the throb building between my legs—tight, hot, impossible to ignore.
He shifts, angling up, hitting deeper, harder, and I gasp, clawing at his back as my body pulses around him.
“Riot, fuck—”
He grits out a sound, somewhere between a groan and a growl. “You feel that? That’s mine.” Another thrust, sharper this time. “All of you. Fucking mine.”
He slams in again, then slows, almost cruel in how he drags it out. Each thrust is a vow. A punishment. A promise.
“You hear me, Little Stray?” he murmurs against my ear, voice wrecked. “No matter what happens next... you’re fucking mine.”
“Yes,” I pant, nails digging into his shoulders. “God, Riot, I’m yours. I’m yours.”
He kisses me then. Not sweet. Not soft. Just desperate, like we’re bleeding and this is how we stop it.
The heat coils sharp and unbearable between my legs, tightening, crashing, until I break apart around him with a sharp cry, shaking as it hits me in waves.
He follows with a groan, deep and guttural, hips jerking as he spills inside me, his head buried in my neck, arms locked around my back like I might vanish.
But I don’t.
I stay.
When it’s over, we don’t speak.
No screaming. No chaos.
Just heavy breathing. Damp skin. His heart beating against mine.
Two fucked-up people trying to find peace in a world that never gave them any, and for the first time... maybe we do. Even if it’s just for a moment.
After, he sets me down gently, brushes my soaked hair back from my face, and kisses my temple.
We dry off in silence. Tender. Careful. Like this moment was something more than just bodies colliding.
Back in our quarters, we collapse into bed still damp, wrapped in each other, and breathing slow.
No more words or promises.
Just the ink, and the truth.
We bled to wear it.