Chapter 12 Alejandro #2
I pulled a small vial and syringe from my jacket. “Hold still.”
“What the hell’s that?”
“Something to keep you from hurting anyone else tonight.” I jabbed it into his thigh before he could refuse. “And before you freak out, it’s not poison. Mostly.”
His pupils went glassy, body slackening as the drug hit. Not enough to drop him, just enough to loosen his mouth.
“Man, it’s all fucked up,” he slurred, words sliding together, spit stringing from his lip.
“Fuckin’ hell… bitch was askin’ for it. Thought she put teeth on me after takin’ my money?
These girls, man—they want the cash, then act surprised when a guy wants what he paid for. ” He wheezed a laugh, ugly and wet.
I felt something old and molten tighten in my spine. My jaw pulsed.
I finished patching him up with a final brutal swipe that made him squeal, buttoned him sloppily, then left him lying there.
I put my lips to his ear. “You hurt a woman like that again, I will find out, and I’ll slice your balls off, then your cock, and feed it to you. Got it?”
He patted the air. “Funny guy!” He laughed, off his head. But I freaking meant every word.
Outside, the air felt colder, sharper—the kind of cold that cut through adrenaline. The three women were huddled beside my car, where I’d told them to wait, jumpy as hell when they saw me coming. “Get in,” I said, opening the back door. “All of you. Now.”
The two uninjured ones scrambled in fast, but the hurt one lingered, breathing hard, her hand pressed to her ribs.
“Front seat.” I helped her in. “Come on.”
She was shaking, and I locked the doors the second I got behind the wheel. The property gates were still open, and I headed out and pulled over on the side of the road when we were far enough away. “Tell me what hurts.”
She lifted her ripped dress to show me her side—deep scratches, some tearing, skin raw and swollen. Defensive wounds. Someone—I assume Briggs—had thrown her hard against something.
I reached into my glove box and passed her antiseptic wipes, a sealed saline bottle, and a packet of gauze. “Clean up. Slow. Pat. Don’t rub.”
She winced as she worked. The other two kept whispering in the back, scared, but alive.
“Good,” I said quietly when she pressed the gauze to the worst of it. “Keep pressure there.” She stared at me. What should I say now? I channeled what I might have said to my sister to ease her fear. “You’re safe now.”
She nodded, eyes glassy. I put the car in gear and pulled away.
“You’re not going back there,” I said, keeping my voice low, steady. “I’ll drop you at a clinic. You need a full panel—STIs, pills, the works—and someone to document those injuries properly if you want to press charges.”
She shook her head. “I can’t pay—”
“I didn’t ask if you could pay.” I glanced over long enough to make sure she understood. “You go in, give only your first name, and let the nurse take over. They’ll treat you, no questions.”
She swallowed hard. “Thank you.”
In the rearview, the other two clung to each other, mascara streaked, shaking. The hurt woman wiped at her face with the back of her wrist.
“You three don’t go back there,” I said. “Not tonight. Not ever if you can help it.”
No one argued.
I drove fast, watching the shadows, making sure no cars followed.
Only when we were ten streets clear did the woman beside me finally exhale.
I dropped all of them at the clinic I used, sent a text to the nurse I had working there, transferred ten of what I’d been paid tonight to cover what was needed, and then I was done.
But I couldn’t rest when I reached home, so I headed to my office after a shower, phone right there in case of another call-out. A hit notice shimmered on one of the darker message boards—an anonymous bounty for the missing surgeon had been answered.
Someone had added a thread titled Located. New identity. Money for full details. I sent them the money, fuck, it was like water slipping through my hands tonight, then read the information sent to me, before I sent the information to Novak, and then shut the laptop hard enough to rattle the desk.
I needed… Fuck. I grabbed my cell, my keys, and headed out. I didn’t text him. Didn’t warn him. I just showed up at Levi’s apartment like every bad decision I’d ever made rolled into one.
He opened the door in a T-shirt, hair roughed up from sleep, eyes widening when he saw me.
“The fuck? What—”
I kissed him. Hard. Desperate.
He grabbed the front of my jacket, pulling me inside, slamming the door with his foot. Our mouths collided again, teeth scraping, heat surging under my skin. I pushed him back to the wall, swallowed his groan, felt his hands in my hair, on my back, under my shirt.
Not rough this time. Not a game. Not pressure.
Closer.
Then I kissed him again—my turn to slow this down. Lingering. My lips trailed to his throat as I traced his ribs. He let out a sound—wrecked—that nearly undid me.
His palms were warm on my hips. He guided me toward his bedroom, and I followed because I couldn’t not. Clothes dropped in a trail behind us.
On his bed, I touched him as if he were something fragile.
And maybe it was because I still had the echo of that woman’s broken voice in my ears, the sight of her torn skin burned into my fucking head.
Maybe it was because an hour ago I’d watched men treat women like objects, like meat, like nothing, and it reminded me of back then.
Maybe it was because I’d had blood on my hands—hers, his—and I needed to touch something without hurting it.
Without breaking it. Without being part of the violence for once.
Whatever the reason, my hands shook when I touched Levi, not from fear of him, but terror of what I’d carried with me into his bed.
He stared up at me as if he didn’t understand it but wanted more.
His chest rose and fell hard, his lips parted, eyes locked on mine, trying to work out who the hell I was right now.
Not the man who’d pinned him to a wall. Not the asshole who pushed every one of his buttons to see what lit him up.
This was different—slow, careful, intimate in a way that scared the shit out of me.
I lowered myself over him, bracing a hand beside his head, letting my weight settle against him inch by inch. His fingers slid up my ribs, slow enough to give me every time necessary to pull away. I didn’t. Couldn’t.
I kissed him again—unhurried, steady, a long press and suck of my mouth against his. Our bodies aligned, slow friction, the kind that made my pulse trip over itself. He touched my face as if I wasn’t something sharp and he wasn’t afraid of getting cut.
I dragged my thumb over his lower lip, watching him tremble under it. “Yeah,” he whispered, voice low, breathless. I felt it everywhere.
I cupped his jaw, leaned in, and kissed him deeper—lazy, consuming, nothing like the mess outside or the blood I’d scrubbed off my hands earlier. This was something else entirely. Something dangerous in a different way. Something that made my chest ache.
He arched up into me, heat meeting heat, and I let my body follow the movement, rolling my hips into his slowly, controlled, letting him feel every inch of intention. The soft, wanting, sound he made went straight through me.
“Alejandro…” he whispered, fingers tightening enough to anchor me.
I didn’t break the kiss. Couldn’t. Instead, I kissed his throat, tasting the pulse there, slow and steady and alive. And fuck, I lingered, breathing him in.
His hands were on my back, slow, and every careful press of his fingers made something inside me unravel, thread by thread, until I was afraid of how much I needed the next touch to happen.
“Is this a bird?” he asked, and I tensed as he traced the tattoo that had been gifted on the skin over my heart when I turned nine.
I always promised myself I would finally fix it; a psychologist would have a field day with why it was there and why I hadn’t removed it.
The Raven was his mark; the pain had been awful.
“What does it mean?” he asked.
“Less talk, more fucking.”
I moved closer, crowding into his space, pinning his wrists above his head with one hand—not in a hard or restraining way, just asserting myself. His breath hitched beneath me. I could feel every bit of it. The way he opened up and trusted me.
“Look at me,” I said, low, rough.
He did. Immediately. As if he’d been waiting for the order.
That did something dangerous to me.
I nudged my knee between his thighs, slow enough that he could push back, fast enough that he knew who was in control. His hips lifted to meet me, desperate for friction, for direction, for whatever I was going to give him.
“Good,” I murmured, the word slipping out before I could stop it.
His eyelids fluttered, and when I dragged my fingers down his chest—ghosting across his skin—he shivered as if I’d hauled him right to the edge.
I reached for the drawer beside the bed without looking; he knew what I wanted because he pushed the back of his knuckles into my hip, guiding me to it.
Condoms. Lube. The reality of it hit me, sharp and heavy.
He waited. His breathing was wrecked, uneven, but he didn’t move. Didn’t rush me. Just stared up at me as if he knew what I needed—to be the one deciding the pace, the pressure, the whole goddamn moment.
I slicked my fingers, his eyes half-lidded, mouth parting. Chest to chest, my weight pressed him into the mattress while my hand slipped lower between us, slow, deliberate, claiming inch by inch.
“Please…” he whispered, voice shaking.
I kissed him before he could say anything else—deep, careful. His hands tightened on my back, not pulling, but holding on.
He moved under me, offering himself up, and I steadied him with my free hand, my forehead pressed to his. The world narrowed to heat, skin, trust—his and mine, tangled in a way I hadn’t let happen in years.
“You want to fuck me?” he asked. “I’m vers.”
I shook my head. Maybe one day in a future that wasn’t so broken, I could do that. But right now, I wanted to be filled; I wanted him to get me there. “Let me ride you.”
He nodded once, hard, almost frantic. I rolled on a condom, pressed fingers inside me.
He held his cock and guided me, every movement slow and controlled, his grip firm on my waist—holding me, claiming the rhythm, the angle, the entire damn experience as I sank onto him.
His gasp hit my throat, and I swallowed it with another kiss, keeping him steady beneath me, keeping myself from shaking apart.
He clung to me, not to take control, but to stay anchored as I pressed closer, deeper, in a way that made both of us tremble.
And for a moment—just a moment—I lost the violence of the night, the blood, the women, all of it. There was only him, and the way he gave himself over to me as if he trusted me with every part of him.
I dragged my hands up his chest, slow at first, then rougher—claiming, not asking.
His skin was hot under my palms, his breath catching every time my fingers scraped lightly over his nipples, every time I pressed down enough to make him feel the weight of me.
He pushed into my touch, waiting for me to take what I wanted.
He lifted his hands to reach for me, but I caught his wrists again and pushed them back to the mattress, pinning them there with one hand. Not restraining—just reminding him I was the one setting the pace. His whole body arched beneath mine, a tremor running through him.
I kissed him hard, dragging my mouth down his jaw, his throat, tasting the heat of his pulse beneath my tongue. Every sound he made pulled me deeper into the moment—low, wrecked noises that hit me somewhere I didn’t have defenses for.
His chest rose against mine, warm and solid and open to me.
I flattened my palms over his pecs, sliding down with slow, possessive strokes that made his back arch off the bed.
I took my time exploring him, mapping the way he shivered when I found the places that undid him, learning him with my hands, my mouth, my body pressed tight to his.
His fingers tangled in my hair, tugging—not to take control, but to get me closer. To keep me on him. To pull me back every time I tried to breathe.
Every shift of my hips met a matching one from him, desperate and helpless and perfectly in sync with mine.
He wasn’t passive—he was participating in every second of it—but he let me lead, let me set the rhythm, let me take from him in a way that felt more intimate than anything explicitly filthy could’ve been.
He was all heat and tension and trust beneath me, and I held him through all of it, guiding every movement, every sound, until he came hard, his back arching, and it wasn’t much after that when I came across his pecs and collapsed onto him.
When he’d dealt with the condom, he rolled with me, and my voice broke without warning, words tearing loose from a place I swore I’d padlocked. I must have been fucking high or something.
“You wreck me, detective.” I froze the moment it was out. Horror hit cold and fast.
Levi’s eyes widened, and I jerked back, stumbling off the bed, grabbing my clothes with hands that didn’t feel like mine.
“Alejandro—wait—”
“No.”
I couldn’t stay. I couldn’t let him say anything back. I couldn’t survive it. He reached for me. I moved. And then I was out of the door, out of his apartment, stumbling into the cold hallway with my heart in pieces.
Real feelings. Real danger.