Chapter 17 – Enya
Three days.
That’s how long it’s been since I walked into this house with damp hair, trembling fingers, and a truth I didn’t want.
Three days of pretending the sky isn’t falling every time Cyril looks at me like he’s trying to read a language I don’t speak anymore.
Three days of Ren’s laughter echoing in the halls like sunshine bouncing off glass. Fragile. Pure. Too good for the walls it echoes in.
I haven’t slept.
Not really.
I lie down at night and close my eyes, and all I hear is Kai’s voice, still stuck in my head like it belongs there.
“She was just the easiest route in.”
Like I was an object to use and discard once the mission was over.
I don’t even know what time it is when I slip out of bed at night. The house is quiet, the kind of quiet that settles like dust after a storm. I pull on my robe and creep into the hallway, barefoot, careful not to make a sound.
I pass Ren’s room and pause.
He’s been everything good these past few days. I’ve stayed close to him like gravity itself depends on that small boy’s hands tugging mine through space.
The first morning after I told him I was staying, he blinked at me like I’d told him Santa was real.
“A sleepover?” he gasped.
I smiled, trying to sound normal. “Yeah. Just for a bit.”
“You’re really staying?” he whispered like it was a secret.
“Sleepover rules,” I said, forcing a playful tone. “You’re in charge.”
His eyes went wide. “Even over Papa?”
I nodded. “Even over Papa.”
He laughed so hard he fell backward on the bed, then dragged me into a blanket fort like it was a throne and I was its queen.
We’ve colored superheroes, baked cookies that looked like crime scenes, and watched Finding Nemo twice while Ren narrated every scene like he was auditioning for a voiceover gig.
In those moments, I almost forgot.
But then night comes, and the darkness takes hold of me.
Kai’s bitter words wrap around my throat like smoke.
The words have become a ghost I can’t shake. Kai has called multiple times, from different numbers, but I switched off my phone, not wanting to deal with reality. There’s nothing I want to say to him now. There’s nothing left to say.
The hardwood is cool under my feet. I avoid the creaky spot near the first-floor landing like I’ve done every night. There’s a rhythm to this now. My own version of pacing the cell I’ve willingly walked into.
Instead of going to the library or Ren’s room, I head for the kitchen.
It’s dimly lit. The faint glow of the fridge casts blue light across the counters. It smells like citrus cleaner and coffee grounds and the faint memory of last night’s dinner. I move on autopilot, reaching for a mug in the cabinet above the sink. My fingers close around the one with a small blue daisy on it. Not fancy like the rest. Chipped slightly on one side.
I just hold it. Fingers wrapped tight around the ceramic like it might ground me if I grip it hard enough.
Behind me, the creak of floorboards.
Footsteps.
I tense, the hairs on my arms rising.
Then, the scent hits me, warm and faintly woodsy, like leather and cigarettes.
Cyril.
Of course it’s him.
He steps into the kitchen like he owns the night. He’s barefoot, wearing black sweatpants and a fitted black t-shirt. His hair is damp, strands curling slightly at his temples like he just stepped out of the shower. He looks composed, like our worlds haven’t turned upside down.
Unfairly calm.
Like the chaos hasn’t touched him.
Like I’m the only one breaking.
He doesn’t say anything. Just walks to the fridge, grabs a bottle of water, and cracks it open.
I can’t take this anymore.
“Are you going to kill him?” I ask without turning.
Cyril pauses at the counter.
“You don’t need to worry about him.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
I finally turn to face him. My fingers tighten around the mug.
“Why won’t you just tell me?”
His gaze meets mine, cool steel and fire buried underneath.
“Because I don’t owe you closure, Enya. I owe you protection.”
My breath catches in my throat.
“I don’t want protection,” I snap. “I want honesty.”
He steps forward.
“Honesty?” His voice is low. Sharp. “Fine. I want him gone. Not because he used you. But because you still draw back when I say his name.”
I swallow hard.
Because it’s true, and he sees it. The way my shoulders stiffen. The way I breathe too fast when Kai’s name is spoken. The way my brain recoils, even if my body doesn’t.
“He lied to me, Cyril,” I say, my voice raw. “But he also loved me. Or at least…he made me believe he did. Can you understand that?”
He curses under his breath, a low chuckle slipping out that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“No,” he growls. “Because when I love someone, I don’t use them like a goddamn chess piece.”
The hushed words hit harder than any shout ever could.
I move past him, needing space, but his hand closes around my wrist. It’s not forceful; it’s just enough to stop me.
“You’re not a pawn, Enya,” he says, voice low and rough. “You’re the only thing in this house besides Ren that still feels pure.”
This place…this world doesn’t make sense to me. But Cyril? For all his cruelty…he sees me. And it’s starting to scare the hell out of me.
“I have no idea how to do this…to move on from all this,” I whisper, the words falling from my lips before I can stop them.
“Me, either,” he says. “But I’m still fucking trying.”
He lets go of my wrist, but only to slide his fingers down to my hands, his hand brushing against mine like a question he’s not sure he’s allowed to ask.
I step in closer, just enough that I can feel his breath on my cheek.
He doesn’t move, and neither do I.
I look up and immediately take a step back.
This is a mistake.
His eyes are softer in this light. Less sharp.
He takes a step toward me, slowly lifting a hand, enough to give me time to stop him. He lightly touches my cheek, and his fingers linger against my skin.
“I don’t want you to be afraid of me,” he says, barely audible.
“I’m not,” I breathe.
“I would burn the world down if it meant keeping you and Ren safe.”
“I know.” My voice is just above a whisper.
He lowers his forehead to mine. We stay like this for a while, but he takes my chin in his hand and tilts my face up. Gently, he presses his lips to mine and gives me a soft kiss.
I draw back and I see it. There’s a smoldering intensity in his gaze, more passionate than anything I’ve seen before, and his hand settles heavy on my waist, fingers pressing just hard enough to make my pulse spike out of control.
“You don’t need me to save you,” Cyril murmurs, voice low and dangerously soft, “but that doesn’t mean I’m going to stand back and let you walk into a fucking death trap alone.”
Before I can even draw in a breath to argue, he yanks me closer with a swift, commanding pull. His gaze drops to my mouth, and I feel my heart stutter against my ribs, hammering wildly in response.
Without thinking, without even wanting to resist, I rise on my toes, closing the sliver of distance between us. Our mouths crash together, the kiss fierce and reckless, a collision of pent-up frustration and want so raw it borders on violent.
His hand fists into my hair, pulling just enough to make me gasp against his mouth. My back hits the marble countertop with a soft thud, but I barely notice. I’m too lost in him. In the bruising pressure of his lips, the way he kisses like he’s furious at himself for needing me this badly.
The kiss deepens, sharpens, turns into something messy and greedy and utterly consuming. His tongue tangles with mine, and I can feel myself unraveling, surrendering piece by piece, breathing him in like oxygen.
His hands roam down my sides with bruising possessiveness, claiming every inch of me. His fingers dig into my hips, hard enough to make my breath hitch, to leave marks that’ll still be there tomorrow, a brand I crave more than my next breath.
He pulls back just enough to stare at me, his chest heaving, his gaze scorching hot and wild in the dim lamplight.
“Enya,” he rasps, my name rough and reverent on his tongue, “you have no idea what you’re doing to me.”
I shiver, wrecked already, voice raw when I whisper, “Then show me.” My fingers clutch the front of his shirt, desperate. “Show me.”
He just looks at me, like he’s trying to memorize every detail, every ragged breath, every tremble under his hands.
Then, he moves.
He steps in closer, caging me, his existence eclipsing everything else in the world. The rich, masculine scent of him—leather, cigarettes, and the faintest trace of expensive whiskey—wraps around me, heady and intoxicating.
His eyes flash dangerously, a black storm of possession and need, drinking in every inch of my body as if he’s cataloging all the ways he’s going to tear me apart. There’s nothing soft in his gaze. Nothing safe.
There’s only hunger.
Primal and vicious.
And I want it.
I tremble, part fear, part aching want, knowing he could break me so easily, but craving the shatter all the same.
He slowly lifts one hand, trailing his knuckles along the column of my neck. I shudder, my breath catching, as the faint scrape of his skin against mine leaves a trail of goosebumps in its wake.
The kitchen feels suffocating now, filled with heat and desperation. The scent of coffee and smoke clings to us. Shadows pool in the corners like secrets, and the only thing grounding me is him, the ruthless grip he still has on my body, the searing weight of his gaze.
He moves his hand higher, thumb stroking along the hinge of my jaw before tipping my chin up. Forcing me to meet his eyes.
“Do you want this, Enya?” Cyril murmurs, the words barely more than a growl, thick with warning. His thumb brushes my lower lip, pressing until my mouth falls open in a desperate plea.
The question is a command.
“Yes,” I whisper, trembling under his touch, my voice cracked wide open with need. “I want this. I want you…Cyril.”
His nostrils flare, and his hand tightens on my waist.
Before I can stop him, he takes off my shirt and pajamas. I swiftly step out of them. I take off my bra, not caring about who might walk in. Cyril falls to his knees, and I tremble as he drags my panties down my legs, slowly and almost teasingly, letting them fall to the floor at my feet. I step out of them blindly, too caught in the swirling storm of need and anticipation to do anything else.
Cyril gets up and straightens, towering over me, his eyes burning as they drink me in, completely bare, completely his. I should be embarrassed, standing naked in front of him, but the way he looks at me only fills me with need. The heavy silence between us pulses with heat, with the filthy, undeniable promise of what’s coming next.
He slides one hand up the inside of my thigh, fingers brushing against my slick folds, and I let out a soft, broken moan at the touch. My body’s shaking with need. The need for him inside me, filling me.
“So fucking wet for me already,” he rasps, almost to himself, his thumb circles my clit in slow, torturous strokes that make my knees buckle. His free hand grips the back of my neck, keeping me upright, keeping me where he wants me while he looks into my eyes, taking in every moan and gasp. “You’re dripping, Enya. So ready. So desperate.”
I whimper, and I start rocking my hips into his hand, slowly moving them up and down to chase the friction I’m craving. Suddenly, he pulls back, a wicked smirk curving his mouth.
“Not yet.” His voice is pure gravel and sin. “You’re gonna take everything I give you first.”
Before I can protest, he spins me around and shoves me forward, bending me over the massive kitchen island that dominates the space. My palms splay against the marble surface, which is smooth under my flushed skin. I can barely breathe through the anticipation clawing at me.
He sinks to his knees behind me, his hands gripping my hips, and I feel my breath hitch as I brace my palms against the cool surface, heart pounding wildly. I can feel his unrelenting gaze raking over my pussy, exposed, swollen, and completely at his mercy.
“You’re going to let me do whatever I want, aren’t you?” he asks, his voice a low, rough growl, as his hands slide up the backs of my thighs, strong and sure, spreading me wider with a subtle but commanding touch.
“Yes,” I whisper, barely able to get the word out, my entire body taut with anticipation, my heart racing faster with every second as he leans in.
His mouth brushes against my inner thigh, just above the knee, leaving a trail of heat in its wake, his stubble rasping gently against my sensitive skin.
He moves slowly, torturously so, his lips and tongue teasing me with featherlight touches, working higher, closer, but never quite giving me what I crave. He builds the tension inside me until I’m a trembling mess, my body aching so fiercely for his mouth, for the feel of him, that I can barely stay upright.
“Good,” he murmurs, his mouth moving closer, his breath hot against the exposed skin between my thighs, so close now it makes my whole body quiver.
And then, finally, finally, his mouth finds me. His tongue slides over my pussy with a slow, deliberate pressure that makes me gasp, my hands fisting helplessly on the smooth marble of the kitchen island as he begins to work me with a skill that leaves me utterly breathless.
“Oh, God,” I moan, my hips jerking back to meet him, seeking more, needing more, my body responding to every devastating flick of his tongue, every sinful caress.
He knows exactly what he’s doing. His mouth and fingers move in perfect, devastating sync, building the eagerness higher inside me, winding it tighter and tighter with each stroke, each slick, wicked flick of his tongue, until I’m teetering on the very edge, desperate, mindless for release.
“You like that, don’t you?” he murmurs against me, his voice a wicked whisper, the vibration of his words making my whole body clench as he slides a thick finger inside me, his movements are slow but sure, deliberate.
His gaze flicks up the length of my body, and even though I can’t see him clearly from this angle, I can feel his eyes locked on me, watching every gasp, every desperate little cry that slips from my lips.
“I want to feel you come on my tongue, Enya,” he growls, voice sharp with hunger, filled with possessive need. “Show me how much you want it.”
His words send a fresh wave of heat crashing through me, stealing what little breath I have left. The pleasure builds faster now, wild and out of control, reaching a fever pitch as he works me. He’s using his hands now, his fingers are stroking in and out with a devastating rhythm, and his tongue is relentless against my clit, dragging me closer, closer….
Until then, finally, I shatter.
My body convulses, my orgasm crashing over me like a tidal wave, intense and overwhelming, ripping a ragged cry from my throat as my hands scrabble for purchase against the countertop. I come hard, soaking his mouth, my body clenching wildly around his fingers, my legs trembling so badly I’m not sure I would stay standing if he weren’t holding me.
He rises smoothly, his hands gripping my waist, strong and unyielding, steadying me as he lifts me with an ease that makes my breath hitch all over again. I can feel the strength in his arms, the hard, commanding planes of his chest pressing into my bare back as he pulls me upright against him, cradling me briefly.
“Lie down,” he pushes me down on the countertop again on my back, and I should be embarrassed, but I’m not. I’m thrilled.
I hear the rustle of his belt, the sharp sound of a zipper being undone, and then the blunt, heavy weight of his cock pressing against the seam of my thighs. I gasp, feeling the throbbing heat of him against my entrance, teasing, threatening.
“Spread your legs,” he orders, voice rough, almost savage.
I do, my heart hammering in my chest, trembling as I widen my stance.
He runs the head of his cock through my folds, coating himself in my slick, teasing me until I whimper again, high and needy.
“You feel that?” he growls, dragging himself slowly over my clit before positioning himself at my entrance. “This cock’s the only thing that’s ever going to fuck you like you need. Like you deserve.”
I nod frantically, desperate and aching, a pleading sound tearing from my throat.
“Say it,” he demands, his hand tangling in my hair, tugging my head back just enough to make my back arch.
“You,” I pant. “Only you.”
A low, satisfied sound rumbles from his chest, and without another word, he thrusts into me, hard and brutal, filling me so deeply and completely that I cry out, the sound echoing off the air in the kitchen.
There’s no mercy in him, no hesitation.
The stretch is overwhelming, almost more than I can handle, and I feel like I can't breathe, can't think, just feel the thick, unhurried way he pushes deeper inside me, claiming every inch.
Cyril’s forehead presses against mine, his breath ragged, his hand still cradling my face like I’m precious even as he fills me so completely, I can hardly stand it.
“You’re doing so fucking good for me,” he murmurs, voice low, coaxing. His thumb strokes along my cheekbone in soothing circles, anchoring me against the fierce tide of sensation threatening to pull me under.
“Just a little more,” he promises, and I cling to him, nails digging into his shoulders, needing the strength of him to hold me together.
With agonizing slowness, he sinks the rest of the way in, groaning low and rough when our hips finally meet, when he’s seated fully inside me. I feel stretched, claimed, filled so perfectly it borders on unbearable.
My body trembles under him, caught between pain and blinding, molten pleasure.
He stays still inside me for a little while, letting me adjust, his hands stroking down my sides, soothing, possessive. His mouth brushes my temple, a ghost of a kiss, a wordless reassurance that he has me, that he won’t let me break.
“Look at me,” he rasps, voice tight with restraint.
I force my eyes open, meeting his.
Dangerous. Hungry. Worshipful.
It steals the last of my fear, leaving only an aching and desperate need.
I nod, giving him everything without words.
His lips curve into a wicked and devastating smile. “Good girl,” he murmurs, gently brushing my hair with his fingers.
And then he starts moving. Gently at first, but it doesn’t last long.
He pounds into me with ruthless precision, and I gasp, taken aback by the brutal force.
Every stroke drives me harder into the counter, every rough slap of skin on skin sparking another wild cry from my lips. I’m making sounds I didn’t even know I was capable of making, and I’m not embarrassed; I feel satiated.
“Fuck,” he snarls, his hand sliding up my body, pushing down between my shoulder blades to keep me pinned. “You take me so fucking good. Your pussy was made for me.”
His words send a shudder through me, a fresh flood of arousal soaking him as he fucks me, claiming every part of me with his body, his voice, his filthy promises.
I want the whole world to crumble while he fucks me like he owns me.
Because he does.
In this moment, I know I’m his. God help me, I’m his in every way that matters.
A loud moan escapes my mouth, and I bite my lower lip to keep it down. The sounds I’m making are almost animalistic.
“Don’t hold back,” he growls, voice ragged as he slams into me harder, deeper. “I want to hear every sound…every scream…especially when you come.”
I’m already close, too close, my body spiraling out of control, the pressure coiling tighter and tighter in my belly, building to an unbearable peak.
“Cyril—please—I’m—”
“Come for me, Enya,” he snarls, reaching around to rub my clit in tight, merciless circles. “Now.”
His command tears through me like a gunshot.
I scream his name as I shatter, my orgasm crashing over me in violent, shuddering waves that leave me gasping, my body spasming around his cock. The pleasure is so intense it borders on pain, and I sob into the counter, utterly wrecked, utterly lost.
But Cyril isn’t done.
He drives into me through my orgasm, relentless, desperate, until, with a hoarse, broken growl, he follows me over the edge, emptying himself deep inside me with a final, savage thrust.
“Mine,” he grits out, his rhythm faltering. “You’re fucking mine.”
I feel him swell inside me, then he grunts, low and feral, as he spills deep, burying himself to the hilt as his own orgasm rips through him.