Chapter 4
RAFE
The air in the bedroom smells like expensive mistakes.
Rose. Dark amber. Pure, unadulterated panic.
She stands frozen against the wooden frame of the massive walk-in closet. The emerald silk of her dress clings to her lush curves. She tries to hide the rapid rise and fall of her chest. She fails.
I put exactly three feet of distance between us.
My heavy combat boots thud against the dark hardwood before sinking into the plush cream area rug. The softness disgusts me. This whole room is a velvet trap. Designed to make a man forget his job. Designed to make him lower his weapon and strip off his armor.
“Stay right there,” I order.
My voice sounds rough. It scrapes against the quiet walls of the bedroom.
Her chin tips up. The signature Costa arrogance masks her terror.
“You do not have the authority to search my personal belongings.”
“I have the authority to keep you alive. That makes this entire compound my jurisdiction.”
I turn my back on her. It goes against my training. It goes against my instincts. But I need to break the visual connection before I do something stupid.
Before I pin her to the mattress and find out exactly how loud she can scream.
I start with the heavy mahogany dresser.
The drawers glide open silently on custom tracks. I push aside perfectly folded stacks of expensive silk and lace. The fabrics are useless for survival. Zero protection. Made strictly for visual consumption.
I slam the first drawer shut. I open the next one.
Her jewelry box sits in the center. I flip the lid open. Diamonds and gold catch the dim light. I ignore the gems. I’ve already stripped my tactical gloves, and I run my bare, calloused fingers along the velvet lining. I check for false bottoms. I check for hidden compartments.
Nothing.
I move down the length of the dresser. A collection of glass bottles sits on a mirrored tray.
My hand stops. I pick up a heavy, square bottle filled with amber liquid.
I pull the glass stopper free. I bring the bottle to my nose.
The scent hits the back of my throat. The exact same rose and dark amber driving me insane. Sweet. Dark. It smells like sin and secrets.
My grip tightens on the glass.
I jam the stopper back into the perfume bottle. I slam it down on the mirrored tray. The sharp clack echoes loudly.
I refuse to be weak. I don’t think about the way the emerald silk hugs her waist.
I pivot away from the dresser. I stalk toward the massive king-sized bed.
The mattress is covered in a ridiculous number of plush pillows. I strip them off one by one. I toss them onto the floor. I check beneath the heavy duvet. I run my hands along the wooden frame of the headboard.
I move to the nightstand on the left side of the bed.
I pull the small top drawer open.
A sleek, matte-black bullet vibrator sits in the center.
The matte casing is cold. Small. Efficient. A weapon of self-destruction.
The message from the group chat flashes across my brain. I just had one of the best orgasms I’ve had in years masturbating to the images of my three new bodyguards. My blood turns to liquid fire.
I reach into the drawer. I pick up the heavy little weight.
I turn around. I look at her.
I toss the vibrator onto the stripped mattress. It lands with a soft, dull thud in the center of the white sheets.
I don’t say a word.
The burn scars across my left shoulder and chest throb. The phantom pain always flares when I lose control of a room. A permanent physical accounting.
Ten years ago. An abandoned warehouse outside Pine Valley. The rival club barred the doors and lit the match.
The heat melted my tactical vest into my skin. The smoke turned my lungs black. I carried Torres out first. Already dead. I went back in for Briggs. Dead weight. I dragged Kowalski out last. The roof collapsed three seconds later.
The smell of burning flesh never leaves a man. It bakes into the bones. It poisons the blood.
I survived. They burned.
I made a vow on the bloody asphalt outside that warehouse. I swore off connections. I swore off giving a damn about anyone outside the remaining brothers of the Broken Halos. Caring makes you weak. It makes you slow.
The woman in the emerald silk is looking at the vibrator on the mattress with an expression that is doing something catastrophic to my vow.
A violent flush of pure crimson explodes across her chest. The dark red stain creeps up the elegant column of her neck. It consumes her cheeks.
She stares at the toy. Her lips part. Her breathing goes shallow.
She doesn’t look away. She doesn’t cover her face.
She slowly lifts her gaze from the mattress. She looks right into my eyes.
The sheer, unfiltered defiance in her stare hits me hard. Humiliated, and she refuses to surrender an inch of ground.
I cross the room. I eliminate the space between us in three long, aggressive strides.
I stop one foot away from her. The rose scent surrounds me. It chokes the oxygen out of the room.
“Security protocol,” I state. My voice is a lethal rumble.
“You checked the room.” Her voice shakes. She clears her throat and tries again. “You found nothing.”
“I’m not finished.”
I step into her airspace. I crowd her against the wooden doorframe of the closet.
She tilts her head back to maintain eye contact. Trapped.
“Lift your arms, Firebird.”
The nickname slips out. It tastes like ash and honey on my tongue.
Her eyes flare wide. “What did you call me?”
“I called you a liability.” I lie through my teeth. “Arms up.”
She hesitates. The panic returns to her eyes. She glances over her shoulder toward the dark interior of the walk-in closet.
She’s hiding something in there. The realization clicks into place with cold certainty.
I’m going to tear those floorboards apart. But first, I have to clear the target.
“Do it,” I command softly.
She slowly lifts her arms. She holds them out to her sides. Her hands tremble.
I step in close. My heavy boots trap her bare feet.
I place my large, calloused hands on the delicate curve of her bare shoulders.
Her skin is blazing hot. The contact sends a violent current straight up my forearms.
She gasps. Her fingers curl into tight fists.
“Relax,” I murmur.
An impossible order. Every muscle in my body is coiled tight. The urge to claim her roars in my ears.
I drag my hands slowly down her arms. I check for hidden weapons. I check for concealed drives. I track the soft, flawless skin from her shoulders to her elbows. I wrap my fingers around her delicate wrists.
Her pulse hammers against my thumbs. Frantic. Terrified. Highly aroused.
I drop her wrists. I move my hands to her ribcage.
The emerald silk provides zero barrier. I trace the rigid underwire of her lace bra through the thin fabric.
She sucks in a sharp breath. Her chest expands. The soft, heavy weight of her breasts presses against the back of my knuckles.
My jaw clenches until my teeth grind together.
I slide my hands down. I map the narrow dip of her waist. I press my thumbs into her stomach. Her abdominal muscles jump beneath my touch.
I grip the dramatic flare of her hips. The curve fills my large hands.
This is no longer a tactical search. We both know it.
The professional boundary evaporated the second I touched her skin.
I drag my hands down the thick, soft outsides of her thighs. I kneel in front of her.
She looks down at me. Her dark hair falls over her shoulder in a messy cascade. Her lips are parted. Her eyes are blown dark and dazed.
I drag my rough, bare palms up the plush insides of her thighs. I don’t stop until the heels of my hands crush against her soaking pussy.
The raw, heavy scent of her arousal is staggering, the musk of a woman who is ready to be claimed. Her pussy is practically vibrating against my callouses, dripping thick, sweet cream that coats my fingers.
I don’t just search; I claim. I hook my thumbs into the edges of her emerald silk and spread her wider, my eyes locked on hers as I witness her body’s betrayal. I squeeze the sensitive meat of her thighs firmly, marking her with the pressure of my grip before I stand in one fluid motion.
I tower over her again. The air between us is thick and heavy with unspent adrenaline.
“Clear,” I state roughly.
I drop my hands. I turn toward the open closet door.
“Now I check the rest.”
She moves.
She steps directly into my path. She blocks the entrance to the closet with her body.
“Rafe.”
She says my name softly. Desperate. Calculated.
She steps right into my chest.
She abandons her defensive posture. She slides her delicate hands up the heavy, rigid Kevlar plating of my tactical vest.
She leans her body weight against me. The soft, plush curves of her chest press into the hard armor.
“You don’t need to search the closet,” she whispers.
She tilts her head back. She exposes the long, pale line of her throat. She offers herself.
It’s a blatant distraction tactic. Calculated seduction. She knows exactly what she’s doing. She knows I’m dangerously close to whatever she buried in the dark.
It works too well.
The Thunderbolt hits me.
It doesn’t announce itself quietly. It detonates in the center of my chest.
A visceral, agonizing snap of pure connection. The primitive, undeniable realization that the woman in my arms is mine.
The claiming instinct overrides every logical thought in my brain. My blood roars. My vision narrows until she is the only thing left in the world.
My hands move without my permission.
I grip her waist. I haul her flush against my body, my hand tangling in her hair to tilt her head back at a punishing angle. I crush her heavy breasts against my tactical rig, the friction of the Kevlar against her nipples making her let out a sharp, broken moan.
She arches her back, grinding her soaking pussy directly against the thick, aching ridge of my cock.
The friction is pure torture. I’m hard enough to rip through my pants, my balls tight with the need to bury my seed inside her.