Chapter 23
CONNOR
The French cops didn't put me in a cell.
They put me in a questioning room instead—a tiny box with white walls, fluorescent lights that hummed like dying insects, and a metal table bolted to the floor. The kind of room designed to make you uncomfortable without technically mistreating you.
I'd been in worse.
One of the officers offered me coffee. I declined politely. The last thing I needed was more caffeine in my system. I was already wound tight enough to snap.
Through the small window in the door, I watched cops walk past. Some glanced in—curious, assessing. A few lingered for a second, probably trying to figure out what the story was with the American who'd been picked up carrying a weapon.
I didn't give them anything to work with. Just sat there, hands folded on the table, face blank.
Waiting.
The minutes crawled. I counted ceiling tiles. Traced cracks in the paint. Ran through scenarios in my head—how Merrick had pulled this off, what his next move would be, how long it would take Micah to get me out.
Less than an hour, as it turned out.
The same cop who'd arrested me—the older one with graying temples—pushed the door open and stepped inside. He held my pistol in one hand, the evidence bag with the magazine and rounds in the other.
"You are free to go," he said in accented English.
I blinked. "That's it?"
He set the weapon and bag on the table between us. "Your credentials checked out."
Translation: Micah came through. Again.
I picked up the pistol, checked the chamber—clear—and glanced at the cop. Then I nodded toward the magazine, silently asking if it was okay to load.
He shook his head. "Perhaps it is best you wait."
I followed his gaze through the window. Half the office was watching us now, cops leaning against desks, arms crossed, expressions ranging from curious to skeptical.
Right. Loading a weapon in a police station probably wasn't the best optics.
I pocketed the magazine and rounds, then tucked the pistol into my waistband and covered it with my jacket.
The cop watched me, his expression unreadable. Then he leaned in slightly, lowering his voice.
"A friendly word of warning," he said. "Whoever called us on you? You might want to figure that out. For your cover."
I met his eyes. He didn't believe the story—mine or whatever Micah had fed them. But he was professional enough not to push it.
"Noted," I said. "Thank you."
He nodded once, then stepped aside to let me pass.
The walk through the station felt longer than it should have. More stares. More curiosity. But none of it hostile.
The French. Not so bad after all.
Ellsworth was waiting outside in the black car, engine idling, his expression calm as ever.
I slid into the back seat and exhaled for what felt like the first time in hours.
"Mila?" I asked immediately.
"At The Sanctuary," Ellsworth said, pulling smoothly into traffic. "Waiting."
Relief flooded through me so fast it left me lightheaded.
"Thank you," I said.
He inclined his head slightly. "Of course, sir."
We drove in silence for a few blocks, the city sliding past the windows like a film reel. I watched without really seeing, my mind already racing ahead to what I needed to say. To how I was going to explain this mess without scaring her off entirely.
Ellsworth cleared his throat gently.
"If I may, sir," he said. "It might be prudent to tell her what truth you can."
I huffed a bitter laugh. "Yeah. I was coming to that."
Another pause. Then I glanced at him in the rearview mirror.
"Do the Brits have a saying like the Americans say clusterfuck?" I asked.
Ellsworth's mouth twitched—the closest thing to a smile I'd seen from him.
"We prefer 'omnishambles,'" he said. "Though in particularly dire circumstances, one might escalate to 'catastrofuck.'"
Despite everything, I laughed. "That sounds about right."
When we pulled up to The Sanctuary, I didn't wait for Ellsworth to open my door. I was out of the car and moving before it fully stopped.
I took the stairs two at a time, my pulse hammering in my ears. Not from exertion. From anticipation. From the need to see her, to make sure she was okay, to—
I pushed open the door to my room.
And there she was.
Mila sat at the head of the bed, covers pulled around her like a cocoon, her dark hair falling loose over her shoulders. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her face pale.
When she saw me, tears sprang to her eyes immediately.
"Mila—"
I crossed the room in three strides and dropped to my knees beside the bed, my hands reaching for her before I could stop myself.
"I'm so sorry," I said, the words tumbling out. "Everything got worked out. I'm here. I'm okay."
She nodded, her breath hitching.
"I'm ready to tell you everything I can," I continued, my voice rough. "All of it. Whatever you need to know."
She shook her head.
My heart clenched.
Oh, shit. This is it.
She was going to say she was done. That this was too much. That she didn't sign up for police stations and break-ins and men with pasts that chased them across continents.
And she'd be right.
It was the only thing I deserved.
But then she spoke, and the words weren't what I expected.
"Later," she said softly. "We can talk later."
I blinked. "Mila—"
"Right now," she interrupted, her voice steadier, "I want you."
Heat slammed through me, sudden and overwhelming.
I stared at her, my brain struggling to catch up with what she'd just said.
She wanted me.
Not explanations. Not apologies. Not the truth I'd been bracing myself to give.
Me.
Her hand reached out, fingers brushing my jaw, and the touch sent a jolt straight through my chest.
"Connor," she whispered, and the way she said my name—raw, needy, certain—undid me completely.
"Are you sure?" I asked, even though my body was already screaming at me to stop talking.
She nodded. "I've never been more sure of anything."
That was all I needed.
I cupped her face in my hands and kissed her—hard, desperate, pouring everything I couldn't say into the press of my mouth against hers. She responded immediately, her fingers fisting in my shirt, pulling me closer.
The world narrowed to just us. Just this.
Her taste. Her warmth. The way her body arched into mine like she'd been waiting for this, too.
I broke the kiss long enough to strip off my jacket, to pull my shirt over my head. She watched me, her gaze tracking every movement, heat flickering in her eyes.
"Your turn," I said, voice rough.
She smiled—slow, wicked—and reached for the hem of her shirt.
And then there was nothing between us but skin and need and the kind of hunger that didn't ask for permission.
It demanded.
I didn't rush to familiar places. I wanted to explore her like uncharted territory—every curve, every hidden spot, every way she could unravel that we hadn't discovered yet.
I laid her back gently, my mouth starting at her collarbone, kissing down between her breasts without touching the peaks yet. I traced the underside of each with my tongue, slow and deliberate, feeling her breath hitch, her back arching as she sought more.
"Connor—" she gasped.
I moved lower, my lips brushing her ribs, counting them with kisses. I dipped my tongue into her navel, then continued down, skipping her center entirely to focus on her inner thighs.
I kissed long, slow paths up one thigh, then the other, my hands spreading her wider, thumbs pressing into soft flesh. She was already slick, but I avoided where she wanted me most, kissing the crease where thigh met hip instead, my breath hot against her skin.
"Please," she whimpered, her hips lifting.
I smiled against her. "Not yet."
I moved to her feet—lifting one, massaging the arch with my thumbs while my tongue traced her ankle, then up her calf. When I reached the back of her knee, she jolted, a surprised moan escaping her lips.
Every gasp was a discovery.
I worked my way back up the other leg, taking my time, then rolled her onto her stomach.
My hands kneaded her shoulders, her back, down to the dimples above her ass.
I kissed each one, then lower still, spreading her ass, my tongue exploring sensitive skin that made her bury her face in the pillow and cry out.
Her body tensed, then melted, pushing back against me.
I kept going, one hand reaching beneath her, fingers sliding through her folds but avoiding her clit—focusing instead on the entrance, dipping in shallowly, curling forward.
She came suddenly, hard, her body convulsing, a muffled scream into the pillow.
I flipped her over, her eyes glazed, chest heaving.
But I wasn't done.
I moved up her body, my mouth on her breasts now—taking one peak deep while my fingers worked the other. Then I switched, my teeth grazing just enough to make her gasp.
Lower again, this time focusing on the soft skin just above her mound, my fingers sliding inside her—three now, stretching her, curling to hit that spot while my thumb pressed just above her pubic bone.
She writhed, her hands clutching my hair.
"Connor—I can't—"
"You can," I murmured against her hip, sucking hard enough to leave a mark.
I kept the rhythm steady until she came again—longer this time, her body lifting off the bed.
Only then did I position myself between her legs.
I lifted them, draping them over my forearms, folding her, opening her completely. The angle was deep, letting me reach places we'd only brushed before.
I thrust in slowly, watching her face, feeling her stretch around me.
"Fuck," I groaned. "You are perfect."
She moaned, her hands on my shoulders, nails digging in.
I started moving—deep, grinding thrusts that hit her front wall with every stroke. No fast pounding. Just relentless pressure, my body weight pinning her, my mouth on her neck as I claimed her.
One hand slipped between us, pressing just above where we were joined.
She came again, clenching around me, pulling me deeper.
I flipped us then—her on top, facing away. She braced her hands on my thighs, riding me slow and deep, the angle letting me hit new places.
I sat up, wrapping my arms around her from behind, one hand cupping her breast, the other splayed across her lower belly.
The sensation was overwhelming—feeling myself move inside her while holding her like this.
We moved together until we both came undone.
Spent, she collapsed back against my chest, my arms holding her tight.
I kissed her shoulder, her neck, whispering against her skin.
"Every part of you," I murmured. "Mine."
She turned her head, capturing my mouth.
"And every part of you," she replied. "Mine."
We were ruined.
And it was everything.