Chapter 18 Regina
Regina
“You’re staring at me again.”
Mauricio’s voice pulls me from my half-doze, and I realize I’ve been watching him sleep for God knows how long.
Dawn light filters through the cabin windows, painting his silver hair in shades of gold, and even with the bandage wrapped around his shoulder, even knowing he took a bullet last night, he looks infuriatingly peaceful.
“Someone has to make sure you don’t die from blood loss.” I shift on the couch where I’ve been keeping vigil, my body protesting hours in an awkward position. “Besides, you’re not exactly subtle about your staring when you think I’m not looking.”
“Fair point.” His eyes open—storm-gray and clearer than they should be after the night we had. “How long was I out?”
“Six hours.” I reach for the water bottle I’ve been keeping ready. “You need to hydrate. Blood loss is—”
“I know what blood loss does.” But he’s already reaching for the water, and I don’t miss the wince when the movement pulls at his shoulder. “The ledger?”
“Safe. Right where we left it.” I gesture to the coffee table where Sabino’s private records sit innocuously, containing enough evidence to destroy his empire three times over.
“I’ve been going through it while you slept.
Mauricio, it’s worse than I thought. The murders, the trafficking, the blackmail—”
“Later.” He sets down the water, gaze fixing on me with intensity that makes my pulse quicken. “First, tell me you’re okay. Really okay, not just performing okay.”
“I’m fine. You’re the one who got shot—”
“I took a bullet through soft tissue. You watched me take a bullet, thought I might die, drove like a demon to get us to safety, and then spent six hours playing nurse while reliving every traumatic moment.” His good hand finds my face, thumb brushing across my cheekbone. “So I’m asking again—are you okay?”
The genuine concern in his voice cracks something in my chest. I’ve spent twenty-eight years having people ask if I’m fine while not actually caring about the answer. But Mauricio’s looking at me like my wellbeing matters more than bullet wounds or stolen evidence.
“I was terrified,” I admit quietly. “When that guard shot you, when you went down—I thought I’d lost you before we’d even really started whatever this is between us.”
“Hey.” He pulls me closer, careful of his injury. “I’m not that easy to kill. Fifteen years in prison taught me how to survive worse than one bullet.”
“Don’t joke.” My hand rests over his heart, feeling it beat steady and strong beneath my palm. “I just found someone who sees me as more than Sabino Picarelli’s daughter. I’m not ready to lose that.”
“You’re not going to lose me.” His voice carries absolute conviction. “But if we’re being honest—and we promised always honest, remember?—that moment when you were under fire, when bullets were hitting around you—I’ve never been that scared in my entire life.”
“Really?”
“Really.” His forehead rests against mine. “All my years in prison, I knew the risks I was taking. Every fight, every threat—I understood the danger. But watching you in danger? Having to choose between keeping you safe and completing the mission? That’s a new kind of terror.”
“We both made it out.” My fingers trace the edge of his bandage gently. “Though you took unnecessary risks with the whole human shield routine.”
“Not unnecessary.” His eyes hold mine. “Essential. Because if something happened to you—if I had the chance to protect you and didn’t take it—I couldn’t live with that.”
“Even if protecting me meant dying?”
“Especially then.” No hesitation, just raw honesty that makes my throat tight. “You’re what makes this whole fucked-up situation worth it, Regina. Not just the revenge, not just bringing down Sabino—you, specifically, being free and alive and choosing your own life.”
I kiss him before he can say more—soft, searching, tasting like gratitude and fear and desperate relief that we both survived. His response is immediate despite his injury, good arm pulling me closer, mouth claiming mine with heat that has nothing to do with strategy.
When we finally break apart, I’m breathing hard, acutely aware of how his body responds even through injury and exhaustion.
“Your shoulder—” I start.
“Is fine.” His smile is dangerous, predatory. “And even if it wasn’t, I’ve been shot before. Trust me when I say it’s not enough to stop me from wanting you.”
“Mauricio—”
“Tell me you don’t want this.” His good hand slides to my hip, thumb pressing against bare skin where my shirt has ridden up. “Tell me you’re not feeling the same desperate need I am after watching each other nearly die.”
I can’t. Can’t tell him that, can’t pretend the adrenaline and fear haven’t transformed into something else—raw need that’s been building since he put himself between me and bullets, since he looked at me like losing me would destroy him.
“We should wait until you’re healed,” I try weakly.
“Fuck waiting.” He pulls me onto his lap—careful of the injured shoulder but determined. “I want you now. Need to feel you alive and real and mine.”
“You’re impossible.” But I’m already settling against him, feeling exactly how much he needs this contact.
“And you’re wearing too many clothes.” His good hand is already working at my shirt buttons. “Remedy that.”
I shouldn’t. He’s injured, exhausted, lost blood. We should rest, regroup, focus on the actual mission instead of this desperate chemistry between us.
But when his mouth finds that sensitive spot below my ear, when his hand slides beneath my shirt to map heated skin, all those logical protests evaporate.
I help him remove my shirt, careful not to jar his wounded shoulder. His eyes darken as he takes in my bare skin, and the heat in his gaze makes me feel powerful in ways I’ve never experienced.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs, good hand tracing from my collarbone down. “You’re so fucking beautiful, Regina.”
I silence any further compliments with another kiss—deeper this time, no hesitation or careful exploration. Just desperate claiming, two people who survived hell and need to feel something other than fear.
His hand finds my breast, thumb circling my nipple until I gasp against his mouth. The other arm—injured but apparently not that injured—wraps around my waist, holding me steady as I rock against him.
“Need you,” I breathe against his neck, fingers working at his belt. “Mauricio, please—”
“Take what you need,” he growls, but he’s already helping, lifting his hips as I pull down his pants, and then mine. “Whatever you want, it’s yours.”
His cock springs free—hard, ready, already leaking. I wrap my hand around him, stroking from base to tip, watching his face as his control starts to unravel.
“Regina—” My name on his lips is raw, desperate. “Stop teasing.”
“Who’s teasing?” I shift forward, positioning myself over him. “I’m just appreciating the view.”
His response is to grab my hips with enough force to leave marks tomorrow, pulling me down onto his cock in one smooth motion that makes us both gasp. I stretch around him, taking every inch, the slight burn quickly overwhelmed by rightness of being filled this way.
“You feel—Christ—” His voice breaks as I start to move, slow, deliberate circles that make my own vision blur.
This time isn’t about exploration or gentle worship. It’s not even about pleasure, though that’s building with each movement. This is about connection. About anchoring each other after nearly dying. About proving we survived.
I ride him with increasing desperation, my hands braced on his shoulders—careful of the wound, needing the contact anyway. His good hand finds my clit, thumb circling with the kind of focused pressure that makes my thighs tremble.
“Mauricio—” I’m close, so close, pleasure coiling low and tight.
“Look at me.” His command is rough, demanding. “I want to see you when you come.”
Our eyes lock as I shatter—pleasure crashing through me in waves that steal my breath, my body clamping down around him in rhythmic pulses. His expression transforms—raw awe and possessiveness and something that looks terrifyingly like love.
Then he follows me over with a hoarse cry, his release flooding me, sealing this connection, making permanent what we’ve started.
I collapse against his good side, both of us breathing hard, sweat-slick and thoroughly exhausted. His heartbeat thunders against my ear, a rhythm more reassuring than any words.
“You’re going to be the death of me,” he murmurs against my hair. There’s a hint of satisfaction in his voice.
“I’m not the one who got shot playing hero,” I counter, fingers tracing the edge of his bandage gently. “Though I’ll admit, watching you handle those guards was... compelling.”
“Compelling’s one word for it.” His arm tightens around me. “You know, for someone who claimed they weren’t fragile, you’re shaking.”
“Adrenaline comedown.” But I’m pressing closer, absorbing his warmth. “Also, I just had mind-blowing sex with a wounded man who technically should be in a hospital bed.”
“Technically, I should be dead about ten different ways.” His thumb brushes across my shoulder. “Instead, I’m in a cabin with the woman who helped me steal evidence that will destroy her father’s empire. Life is full of surprises.”
“We should rest,” I finally say, though neither of us moves. “Plan our next moves. Coordinate with Simeone about releasing the ledger information.”
“We should,” he agrees. “But right now, I’m content to just exist here with you. Proof we both survived, both made it out, both get to fight another day.”
I let my eyes close, finally allowing exhaustion to win. Outside, dawn fully breaks over the mountains—painting everything in shades of amber and new beginnings.
We stole the ledgers. We survived the heist. We have everything we need to burn Sabino’s world to ashes.
But right now, wrapped in Mauricio’s arms with his heartbeat steady against mine, I’m not thinking about revenge or justice or empires built on blood.
I’m thinking about how it feels to finally be seen. To be chosen. To matter to someone who understands survival because they’ve lived it too.