Chapter 5 #2
"Tell me about the blood on your hands," I say impulsively. "Not tonight's blood. The blood you carry."
His jaw tightens.
For a moment, I think he's going to refuse—going to shut down, walk out, retreat behind that wall of ice he shows the world.
Instead, he sits on the edge of the bed.
"I was military," he says quietly. "Served under a man named Salvo—Michael Webster.
Did two tours overseas. Saw things. Did things.
" He stares at his hands like he can still see the stains.
"There was a village. Intelligence said there were insurgents hiding there.
We went in hard and fast, middle of the night.
And when the sun came up..." He trails off.
I sit beside him, close enough that our shoulders almost touch. "What happened?"
"Civilians. Women. Children." His voice is flat, but I hear the pain underneath. "The intelligence was wrong. Or it was right, and the insurgents used them as shields. Either way, when the shooting stopped, there were bodies that shouldn't have been there."
"That wasn't your fault."
"Wasn't it?" He looks at me, and his eyes are haunted in a way I recognize.
"I pulled the trigger. I gave the orders.
I—" He stops, shakes his head. "I came home broken.
Medical discharge. Couldn't sleep, couldn't function, couldn't figure out how to be a person anymore.
Salvo found me, pulled me into the club, gave me a purpose.
But the blood..." He holds up his hands.
"The blood doesn't wash off. Not really. "
I understand.
God, do I understand.
The things that mark us, that stain us, that we carry even when no one else can see.
"Cain told me I was nothing," I say. "Every day for three years. He said I was worthless, stupid, ugly. He said no one else would ever want me. And I believed him. I still believe him, even now that he's gone."
Leviathan turns to look at me.
His eyes trace over my face—the bruises, the swelling, the damage Cain left behind.
"He was wrong," he says simply.
"How do you know?"
"Because I see you." His hand comes up, hovering near my cheek, not quite touching.
"I see the woman who survived years of hell and still found the strength to walk out.
Who showed up at my door covered in blood because she refused to give up.
Who's sitting here talking to me like I'm human when most people can't look me in the eye.
" His fingers brush my jaw, feather-light. "You're not nothing, Ripley."
The words hit me somewhere deep.
Somewhere Cain's voice still echoes, still whispers its poison.
And for just a moment, Leviathan's voice is louder.
You’re not nothing, Ripley.
I don't make the conscious decision to kiss him.
One moment we're sitting there, his fingers on my jaw, his eyes holding mine.
The next, I'm leaning in, closing the distance, pressing my lips to his.
He goes rigid.
Every muscle in his body locks up, and I think I've made a terrible mistake—
Then he's kissing me back.
It's not gentle. It's not sweet.
It's desperate and hungry and raw, like we're both drowning and this is the only air we can find.
His hands come up to cup my face, careful of the bruises, and mine fist in his shirt, pulling him closer.
Who else would want you? Cain's voice whispers.
This man, I answer silently. This man wants me.
Leviathan pulls back, breathing hard, his forehead pressed against mine. "We shouldn't—"
"I know."
"You've been through hell. You're not thinking clearly—"
"I'm thinking more clearly than I have in years."
"Ripley—"
"I need this." My voice cracks on the words. "I need to feel something that isn't fear. I need to know that I'm still alive, that I still exist, that I'm more than what he made me. Please." I meet his eyes, letting him see everything—the desperation, the need, the fragile hope. "Please."
He stares at me for a long moment.
I watch him war with himself, watch the internal battle between what he thinks is right and what we both want.
Then he kisses me again.
This time there's no hesitation.
His hands slide into my hair, tilting my head back, and his mouth claims mine with an intensity that steals my breath.
I pull at his cut and shirt, needing to feel his skin, needing proof that this is real.
He breaks the kiss long enough to yank the cut down his arms and shirt over his head, and I get my first look at his body.
Muscled, scarred, a tattoo across his chest that I can't make out in the dim light.
He's beautiful in a brutal way, all hard edges and controlled power.
His hands find the hem of my borrowed t-shirt—one of Tawny's, too big for me—and he pauses, asking permission.
I nod, and he pulls it over my head.
I'm suddenly aware of my body.
The softness he's now seeing.
The curves Cain used to grab and mock.
I start to cover myself, shame flooding through me—
"Don't you dare." Leviathan's voice is rough. His eyes travel over me, and what I see in them isn't disgust. It's hunger. "You're beautiful."
"I'm not—"
"You are." He pulls me closer, his hands spanning my waist, his thumbs brushing the underside of my breasts. "Every fucking inch of you."
He lays me back on the bed, hovering over me, and for one heart-stopping moment, I flash back to Cain.
To the times he used my body without asking.
To the way I learned to go somewhere else in my head until it was over.
But this isn't Cain. This is Leviathan, and he's watching my face with an intensity that makes me feel seen in a way I never have before.
"Tell me if you want to stop," he says. "At any point. For any reason. Tell me, and I will."
"I don't want to stop."
"Ripley—"
"I don't want to stop," I repeat, pulling him down to me. "I want this. I want you."
He kisses me again, softer this time, while his hands explore my body.
Every touch is deliberate. Intentional.
Like he's memorizing me, cataloging every curve and dip and scar.
When his fingers find the bruise on my ribs—the boot-shaped mark I hid from everyone—he presses his lips to it.
Like he can kiss away the pain.
I'm shaking, but not from fear.
From want. From need. From three years of touch being only pain and finally, finally feeling something else.
He takes his time.
Drives me crazy with his hands, his mouth, his patient attention to every part of me.
And when he finally settles between my thighs, when he pushes inside me with a groan that I feel in my bones, I realize I'm crying.
Not from sadness. Not from pain.
From relief.
Because this is what it's supposed to feel like.
This connection, this intimacy, this give and take between two people who want each other.
Cain took this from me, twisted it into something ugly and terrifying, and I thought I'd never get it back.
Leviathan moves inside me, slow and deep, his forehead pressed against mine. "Okay?" he breathes.
"Yes." I wrap my arms around him, pull him closer. "God, yes."
He sets a rhythm that builds and builds, and I lose myself in it.
In him.
In the feeling of being wanted instead of owned.
His hand slides between us, finding the place that makes me gasp, and he works me with the same focus he brings to everything.
"Let go," he murmurs against my ear. "I've got you. Let go."
I do.
The orgasm crashes through me, and I cry out—not caring who hears, not caring about anything except this moment, this man, this reclamation of something I thought was lost forever.
He follows me over the edge seconds later, burying his face in my neck, my name on his lips like a prayer.
Afterward, we lie tangled together in the narrow bed, his arm heavy across my waist, his breath warm against my hair.
"Stay," I whisper.
"I'm not going anywhere."
For the first time in years, I believe it.
For the first time in years, I fall asleep without fear.