32. Legal Troubles In Cozy Paradise #3
The next round has more contact, his arms actually holding though still gentle. I practice breaking free, using the techniques he showed me. My elbow finds his stomach (softly), my heel his instep (carefully). Each successful escape makes me feel a little less like prey.
"You're holding back," he observes after I execute a particularly tentative escape. "Afraid of hurting me?"
"I don't want to?—"
"I can take it." Something shifts in his expression, goes darker. "And Blake won't hold back. If he comes for you again, he won't care if you don't want to hurt him."
The reminder sends ice through my veins. He's right. Blake tried to kill me. Would try again if given the chance. My next escape attempt has more force behind it, catching Mavi by surprise. He grunts, a sound that shouldn't make heat pool in my belly but does.
"Better. Again."
We continue, intensity ramping up with each round. His holds get firmer, more realistic. My escapes get more desperate, more violent. Sweat begins to bead on my skin, making Cole's t-shirt cling. Mavi's not unaffected either—I can see the sheen on his arms, the way his breathing has deepened.
"Now we're going to ground work," he says, and my stomach flips for entirely different reasons. "Most attacks end up on the ground. You need to know how to fight from your back."
He demonstrates the position, lying on the mats with knees up, hands ready. I copy him, hyperaware of how vulnerable this feels. Then he's above me, knees on either side of my hips, weight carefully balanced to not crush me.
"If someone's on top of you like this," he explains, but his voice has gone rough, "you have options. Buck your hips, try to throw them off balance. Go for the eyes. Use your nails."
I try to focus on the instruction, but he's so close. I can see the gold flecks in his green eyes, count his eyelashes, smell his scent intensified by exertion—smoke and cinnamon and male arousal that he's trying to hide but can't, not when we're this close.
"Try it," he orders, but the words come out strained.
I buck my hips as instructed. He rocks forward, catching himself with hands planted beside my head, and suddenly his face is inches from mine.
We freeze, both breathing hard, and not just from the exercise.
His pupils are blown wide, and I know mine match.
The air between us crackles with electricity that has nothing to do with self-defense.
"Again," he manages, but he doesn't move back.
This time when I thrust upward, trying to dislodge him, our bodies align in ways that make us both gasp. He's hard—I can feel it through the thin fabric of his shorts, pressing against my stomach. My own arousal spikes in response, wetness gathering between my thighs.
"Mavi," I breathe, not sure if it's protest or plea.
"You need to know this," he grits out, but his hips press down slightly, increasing the friction. "Need to be able to protect yourself."
"Is that what we're doing?" The question comes out breathless, challenging. "Protecting?"
His control visibly frays. The next moment happens in fragments—his hand tangling in my hair, my legs wrapping around his waist, our mouths crashing together in a kiss that's all teeth and desperation. He tastes like coffee and danger, and I moan into his mouth, pulling him closer.
We're not practicing anymore. We're grinding together on the mats like teenagers, hands roaming, boundaries dissolving.
He pins my wrists above my head and I arch into him, feeling powerful in my surrender.
His mouth finds my throat and I see stars, my body singing with want so sharp it borders on pain.
"Fuck," he gasps against my skin. "We shouldn't—you're learning?—"
"I'm learning I want you," I interrupt, rolling my hips deliberately. "That's still educational."
He groans, catching my mouth again, and this kiss is slower but no less intense. His tongue traces mine, mapping me like territory to be claimed. I nip at his lower lip and his grip on my wrists tightens, sending sparks down my spine.
"Dinner's ready!" Austin's voice carries from outside, closer than expected. "Unless you two would rather skip food for more... training."
We spring apart like we've been electrocuted. I scramble to sitting, trying to smooth my hair, acutely aware of how wrecked I must look. Mavi's no better—chest heaving, lips swollen, arousal still visibly straining against his shorts.
"Be right there," Mavi calls back, voice impressively steady.
Austin's laughter fades as he heads back to the house, leaving us in charged silence. Mavi runs a hand through his hair, looking anywhere but at me.
"That was?—"
"Educational," I supply, climbing to my feet on shaky legs.
A smile tugs at his mouth despite everything. "Very."
We walk back to the house in loaded silence, bodies carefully not touching. But I can still feel everywhere he pressed against me, still taste him on my lips, still want with an intensity that makes me understand why Iron Ridge feared omega desire.
Because this? This could burn down kingdoms.
The porch swing creaks a rhythm that matches my heartbeat—slow, steady, trying so hard to be calm.
Night has settled over the ranch like a blanket, bringing with it the distant call of coyotes and the closer chirp of crickets hiding in the garden.
Cole sits beside me, close enough that I feel his warmth but far enough that we're not quite touching, both of us staring out at the darkness like it might have answers.
Luna went down an hour ago, milk-drunk and content after fussing through dinner.
The house behind us has gone quiet, that particular stillness that comes when everyone's settled into their evening routines.
River's probably reading in his room. Austin's definitely passed out already—the man keeps teenage hours.
And Mavi... I don't let myself think about Mavi and what happened in the barn this afternoon.
"Can't sleep?" Cole asks, his voice pitched low to match the night.
"Too much in my head," I admit, pulling my legs up under me. I'm wearing one of his flannels over my nightgown, the fabric soft with age and smelling like leather and safety. "You?"
He's quiet for so long I think he won't answer. Then: "Same. Been thinking about... things I don't usually let myself think about."
The swing continues its gentle motion, and I wait. Cole's not one for being pushed. He'll share when he's ready or not at all, and I've learned to be patient with these men and their carefully guarded wounds.
"You asked once why I left firefighting," he says finally, hands clasped between his knees, studying them like they hold secrets. "Told you it was burnout. That was... partially true."
"But not the whole truth?"
He shakes his head, jaw working like he's chewing on words that don't want to come out.
"There was a fire. Apartment complex on the north side of Helena.
Middle of the night, building fully involved by the time we got there.
" His voice has gone clinical, reporting facts like that might make them hurt less.
"I was on search and rescue. That was my job—go in, find people, get them out. "
I shift slightly closer, not touching but offering presence. He doesn't pull away.
"Third floor was bad. Smoke so thick you couldn't see your hand in front of your face.
But I heard her—young woman, maybe early twenties, crying for help.
" His hands clench and unclench. "Found her in a back bedroom.
Door had warped from the heat, trapped her inside.
She was... she was still conscious when I got to her. "
The pain in his voice makes my chest tight. I want to tell him he doesn't have to continue, but I sense he needs this. Needs to let the poison out.
"Got the door open. Got her into my arms. She was so light—couldn't have weighed more than you do." He glances at me briefly, then away. "Made it halfway to the stairs when the ceiling started coming down. Burning chunks of insulation, support beams. I tried to shield her, but?—"
His voice cracks. I reach out instinctively, my hand covering his. He turns his palm up, threading our fingers together, holding on like I'm anchoring him to the present.
"Her hand went limp in mine just as the ceiling collapsed completely. The impact knocked me forward, down the stairs. Somehow I kept hold of her, got her outside, but..." He shakes his head. "She was gone. Twenty-two years old. Sarah Chen. Had just started graduate school."
"Cole," I breathe, squeezing his hand.
"I was two minutes too slow." The words come out raw, scraped from somewhere deep. "If I'd been faster finding her, if I'd taken a different route, if I'd?—"
"Stop." I turn to face him fully, reaching up with my free hand to cup his jaw, forcing him to meet my eyes. "You can't carry that. You tried. You risked everything to save her."
"But I didn't save her." His steel-gray eyes are bright with unshed tears. "That's what mattered. Not the trying. The result. And I failed."
"You didn't fail. The fire failed her. The building failed her. The universe failed her. But not you." I stroke my thumb across his cheekbone, feeling the day's stubble. "Never you."
He leans into my touch, eyes closing. "When I found you in that fire, when I pulled you out..." His voice drops to barely above a whisper. "It felt like redemption. Like maybe the universe was giving me a second chance. You were breathing. You were alive. You stayed alive."
"Because of you," I remind him. "You saved me."
"You saved me too." His eyes open, intensity stealing my breath. "Every day since, you save me. Make me believe maybe I deserve that second chance."
The space between us has shrunk to nothing. I can feel his breath on my face, see the gold flecks in his gray eyes, count every line that stress and sun have carved into his skin. My hand is still on his face, and his free hand comes up to cover it, pressing my palm more firmly against his cheek.