CHAPTER 15 #3
I let her legs drop, sliding her down my body until her boots hit the floor, keeping her pinned against the glass.
I drop to my knees in front of her. I don't hesitate.
I bury my face between her thighs, my hands gripping her hips like a vice to hold her steady.
My tongue is hot, demanding, and thorough.
I want to taste the adrenaline. I want to taste the fear she wouldn't show me.
Alessia’s fingers weave frantically into my dark hair, pulling me closer as she arches her back. "Christ, Alessia..." I groan against her skin.
She is unravelling. Completely coming apart.
She curses, her head falling back and thumping against the glass with rhythmic, desperate thuds.
A single tear of sheer frustration or relief leaks from the corner of her closed eye.
The release rips through her sharp and violent.
She cries out my name—not a plea, a fucking demand.
"Leon! Shit..." she gasps, her body vibrating. "Don't stop, motherfucker."
I stand up, my movements completely predatory. I free myself from my trousers, kicking them out of the way. My eyes never leave hers. I grip her hips, lifting her slightly off the tiles, and guide myself inside her with one hard, uncompromising thrust.
"Look at me," I demand, my knuckles brushing the edge of the clean bandage on her arm as I hold her. "You feel that? That’s reality."
I start a frantic, desperate rhythm. I’m careful of her injured arm, but the rest of me is rough. I push her flush against the glass, my hands roaming heavy over her back and buttocks, marking her. My sweat drips off my chin, landing on her pale collarbone with a warm, salty splash.
"You’re not going anywhere," I grind out between thrusts. "Say it. Say you’re mine."
She pulls her uninjured arm from around my neck, dragging my face down into a brutal, bruising kiss instead of answering.
The clinical, harsh lighting of the bathroom highlights every scratch, every speck of dirt on us.
We’re a portrait of survival, two damaged people tearing at each other in a room meant for cleansing.
A sudden surge of aggressive possessiveness spikes in my blood. I lean down and bite the junction of her neck and shoulder. I’m not gentle. I sink my teeth in, leaving a dark, red mark that will last for days. A literal brand.
She gasps, her back arching even further away from the glass.
"Mine," I tell her, tasting her skin on my tongue. "Let them see."
Alessia matches my violent pace, her legs tightening around my waist again as I lift her. Her head thumps back against the glass in time with my thrusts. She’s no longer an agent. She’s just a woman pushed to the absolute edge, finding freedom in the violence of what we’re doing.
"Leon, please..." she begs, her voice shattering.
"Harder."
I feel her shatter for the second time, her entire body going rigid before she collapses forward against my chest. The feeling of her internal muscles gripping me is the final straw.
I let out a guttural, animalistic groan and come deep inside her, my own body shaking violently with the force of the release.
I bury my face in her neck, my chest heaving against hers, trying to drag oxygen back into my lungs.
"Fuck..." I breathe out. "I’ve got you."
We stay like that for minutes. Joined together, pinned to the glass, our ragged breathing slowly synchronizing.
The silence finally bleeds back into the room.
The adrenaline clears out of my veins, leaving behind a heavy, permanent bond that feels like a trap I just walked into willingly.
I pull back slightly, wiping her damp hair from her face, and gently kiss the tip of her nose.
A moment of unexpected, stupid softness.
"You okay?" I ask quietly.
She nods against my chest. "Don't move yet."
Hours later, the bedroom is drowned in shadows.
I carry her out of the bathroom, her body draped over my arms like a broken doll.
She’s completely limp, breathing deeply in a dead sleep.
I lay her down on the massive bed, the dark silk sheets cool against her skin.
I pull the duvet over her carefully, my eyes lingering on the stark white bandage on her arm.
The only mark of the day’s violence I couldn't wash away.
I pull the discarded shell casing from my pocket—the one I kicked across the garage floor—and place it with a quiet click on the nightstand next to her head.
"Sleep, Alessia. Tomorrow, we start the war," I whisper into the dark room.
I sit on the edge of the bed, my silhouette sharp against the city lights bleeding through the windows.
I look at my hands, my bruised knuckles aching.
I watch the slow rise and fall of her chest under the covers.
She shifts slightly in her sleep, her hand blindly reaching out across the mattress toward my side of the bed.
Protecting her isn't enough anymore. If I want to keep her, I have to change her. I begin formulating the retaliation plan in my head, mapping out the streets, the targets, the blood. I’m going to let her run the tactical analysis. I’m going to make her the architect of my vengeance.
I lean over and press my lips to her forehead.
"You’re going to help me burn them, aren't you?"
She doesn't answer. She just breathes. I sit back and watch the city grid below, calculating the cost of tomorrow.