Chapter 23 - Lila #4
I collapse against him, the fight draining from my body like blood from a fresh wound, leaving me raw and trembling in the dim, cavernous expanse of the parking garage.
The fluorescent lights overhead hum with a low, incessant buzz, casting stark shadows across the concrete pillars and the cracked, oil-stained floor, their flickering glow painting us in shades of gray and menace.
In this moment, the world contracts to the space between us—two predators bound by a shared history of violence and longing, finally acknowledging the chain that tethers us.
His arms encircle me without hesitation, strong and unyielding, pulling me into the solid wall of his chest. I press my face into his shirt, inhaling deeply: the sharp, clean scent of sweat mingles with the faint, earthy tang of wood polish from the life he left behind, undercut by something darker, more primal—a metallic edge that recalls old blood, a ghost of the violence etched into his bones.
My hands fist in the worn cotton of his shirt, knuckles whitening as I clutch at him, terror gripping me that if I let go, he’ll dissolve into the shadows like he did nine years ago, leaving me to rebuild alone.
But he doesn’t pull away. His hold tightens, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of my head, fingers threading through my hair with a possessiveness that sends a shiver racing down my spine, igniting a spark in my core.
His other hand presses against the small of my back, anchoring me to him, and I can feel the heat of his skin through the thin fabric, the steady thrum of his pulse beneath my cheek.
The relief of his choice—to stay, to stand beside me—crashes through me, but it twists into something sharper, hungrier, a storm of need that’s been festering for nine years.
I tilt my head up, my lips finding his in a kiss that’s more collision than caress, a desperate clash of teeth and tongues that tastes of salt and fury.
My tears smear against his mouth, stinging my lips, and he groans, low and guttural, his hands digging into my hips with bruising force, pulling me flush against him until I feel the rigid heat of his arousal pressing insistently against my stomach, a promise and a challenge.
“Lila,” he growls into my mouth, his voice rough with barely contained hunger, vibrating against my lips like a warning.
But I don’t want words—I want oblivion, a reprieve from Casey’s waxy face on the morgue table, from the damning recordings that could unravel everything, from the guilt that’s clawing at my chest like a living thing.
My nails rake down his back, scratching through the thin cotton, leaving trails of heat in their wake, and he hisses, the sound sharp and primal, sending a pulse of desire straight to my core.
I press myself closer, grinding against him, needing to feel every inch of him, to erase the distance between us with the sheer force of our bodies.
We stumble toward the elevator, a tangle of limbs and desperation, barely breaking apart as his mouth devours mine with the same methodical intensity he once brought to his rituals.
His tongue sweeps into my mouth, claiming every inch, tasting of coffee and something raw, like the edge of a blade.
One hand fists in my hair, angling my head for deeper access, while the other grips my ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh, pulling me up onto my toes.
My heels scrape against the concrete, the sound swallowed by our ragged breaths.
The elevator doors ding open, and he shoves me inside, pinning me against the cold metal wall with the weight of his body.
The air inside is stale, heavy with the scent of cigarettes and industrial cleaner, but all I can focus on is him—his heat, his scent, the way his thigh presses between my legs, forcing them apart with unyielding insistence.
His teeth graze my pulse point, scraping along the sensitive skin of my throat, not gentle but possessive, marking territory he thought he’d lost forever.
“You think I didn’t suffer?” he mutters against my skin, his breath hot and ragged, lips trailing fire down my jaw to the hollow beneath my ear.
“Every fucking day, wondering if you hated me, if you’d forgotten me.
” His hand tightens in my hair, yanking my head back to expose more of my throat, and I gasp, the sharp pull sending a jolt of heat through me, pooling low in my belly.
“I tried,” I choke out, my fingers fumbling with his belt, the leather slipping through my trembling hands. The buckle clinks as I free it, my knuckles brushing against the hard length straining against his jeans, hot and pulsing under my touch. “God, I tried to forget you.”
The elevator jerks to a stop on my floor, the doors sliding open with a groan, and we spill into the hallway, a chaotic mess of need and unresolved history.
My heels click frantically against the polished floor as I dig through my purse for my keys, my hands shaking with adrenaline and desire.
Kent snatches them from me, his movements precise despite the hunger blazing in his dark eyes, and he unlocks my apartment door with the efficiency of a man who’s broken into far more dangerous places.
He kicks it shut behind us, the slam echoing like a gunshot in the quiet space, rattling the framed degrees on my wall—Dr. Lila North’s carefully constructed armor.
Inside my apartment—my fortress, my meticulously curated world—he doesn’t give me time to think.
He spins me around, pressing my front against the door, the wood cool and unyielding against my overheated skin.
His body cages me in, one hand sliding up my thigh, fingers catching the hem of my skirt and rucking it up to my waist with a slow, deliberate drag that makes my breath hitch.
The fabric bunches, exposing the tops of my stockings, and he hooks his fingers into the delicate nylon, ripping them apart with a sharp, satisfying tear that reverberates through the room.
The sound sends a rush of heat between my legs, my panties already soaked, clinging to my skin.
His other hand yanks down the zipper of my dress, the teeth parting with a low, predatory hiss, and he peels the fabric away, letting it pool at my feet like a discarded skin.
I’m left in nothing but black lace panties and the tattered remains of my stockings, the cool air of the apartment raising goosebumps across my bare skin, a stark contrast to the fire burning inside me.
“You’re mine,” he rasps, his breath hot against my ear, one hand splaying possessively across my stomach, fingers spreading wide to claim as much of me as possible.
The other hand traces the curve of my hip, teasing the edge of my panties, his touch both a promise and a threat.
“You always were. Even when I walked away, you were mine.”
The words should infuriate me, should spark a fight about autonomy and choices, should remind me of the years I spent forging Dr. Lila North into a weapon to protect myself from exactly this kind of claim.
But instead, they ignite something primal, a dark acknowledgment that he’s right.
I’ve been his since that night in my father’s kitchen, our hands stained with the same blood, our fates intertwined by a shared act of violence.
My body arches back against him, seeking friction, my ass pressing against the hard ridge of his cock still trapped in his jeans.
He groans, a low, guttural sound that vibrates through his chest into mine, and he grinds against me, the rough denim scraping against my bare skin, sending sparks of pleasure-pain through me.
“Show me,” I challenge, turning my head to meet his gaze, my voice hoarse with need. His eyes are storm-dark, pupils blown wide with desire, the same intensity he once brought to his kills now focused entirely on me. “Prove it.”
He doesn’t hesitate. With a growl that vibrates through his chest, he spins me again, lifting me effortlessly, my legs wrapping around his waist as he carries me into the living room.
My thighs clench around him, the friction of his jeans against my bare skin sending jolts of heat through me.
We don’t make it to the couch. He drops me onto the glass coffee table instead, the surface cold and unforgiving against my back, sending a shock through my spine that makes me gasp.
A vase crashes to the floor, shattering into jagged fragments that glitter in the dim light filtering through the blinds, but the sound is distant, irrelevant.
All I can hear is the pounding of my own heart, the ragged edge of his breathing, the low hum of the city outside my windows.
Kent looms over me, his silhouette sharp and predatory against the slanted light, and he strips off his shirt with rough, impatient jerks, the fabric catching briefly on his broad shoulders before falling away.
Scars mark his torso—jagged lines and faded punctures, a map of violence etched into his skin from his past life as the Carver.
Some are old, silvery, barely visible; others are darker, raised, a testament to wounds that cut deeper than flesh.
I reach up, tracing one with my nails, dragging hard enough to leave red welts across his chest, a fresh mark to claim him as mine.
He hisses, catching my wrist in a bruising grip, his fingers tight enough to make my pulse throb under his touch.
His other hand slides between my thighs, cupping me through the lace, his touch possessive, proprietary, the heat of his palm searing through the thin fabric.