26. Alessio
ALESSIO
The engine idles, a low, rhythmic thrum that vibrates through the floorboards and up into the soles of my boots. It’s the only thing keeping me anchored to the earth. If the car stops, if the silence takes over, I might actually drift out of my skin.
She’s sitting there. Right there. Two feet of leather and stale diner air separate us, but she’s back. Amara Osei is back in my passenger seat, her profile a sharp, beautiful silhouette against the flickering neon of the highway signs.
My knuckles are white where they grip the steering wheel. I don’t let go. If I do, I’ll reach for her, and once I start, I won't be able to stop.
I’ll haul her across the console and bury my face in the crook of her neck until the scent of her—rain, vanilla, and that stubborn, metallic edge of adrenaline—replaces the oxygen in my lungs. I want to zip her inside my jacket. I want to sew her into my shadow.
“Alessio,” she says.
Her voice is a soft rasp. It cuts through the fog in my head. My name sounds like a prayer and a plea all at once.
“Don't speak,” I grate out. The words are jagged, torn from a throat that feels like it’s been swallowed by broken glass. “Just... let me get us there. Let me get you behind a door I can lock.”
She knows I don’t mean a cage. I mean a sanctuary.
I mean a place where the rest of the world stops existing and I can finally convince my heart that it hasn’t stopped beating.
Because when I found that bed empty and saw that single duffel bag gone, a part of me died.
A cold, absolute death. There was no fixing that kind of wound.
I floor it. The tires chirp against the asphalt as I pull out of the diner lot.
Hours later, we’re headed toward the rental house on the outskirts of the mountains, a place halfway between the blood of Chicago and the peace of Pine Valley.
It’s a transition. A waypoint. Tonight, it’s going to be the place where I find out what’s left of me after the war.
The drive is a blur of dark trees and silver moonlight.
I drive like a man possessed, because I am.
I’m haunted by the shape of the empty bed.
I keep glancing sideways, checking the seat, making sure she hasn’t evaporated into the mist. Every time her chest rises and falls, a fresh wave of possessive agony rolls over me.
She chose to come back. She walked across that parking lot and stepped into my life again.
The realization is a body blow to my ribs. She chose me.
We reach the house—a stone and timber structure tucked so deep into the woods that the stars look like they’re resting on the roof. I don’t wait for her to open her door. I’m out of the car before the engine has fully died, rounding the hood in three long strides. I wrench her door open.
She looks up at me, her dark eyes wide, searching. She’s waiting for the explosion. She’s waiting for the rage.
I don’t give it to her. I reach in, grab her hand, and haul her out.
My grip is firm, bordering on bruising, but I need to feel the bone and sinew.
I need to know she’s solid. I lead her up the porch steps, the wood groaning under our weight, and fumble with the key.
The lock clicks. I shove the door open and pull her inside, slamming it shut behind us.
The silence of the house is deafening. It’s just us. No brothers. No war. No gunfire. Just the man who can’t stop wanting and the woman who finally stopped running.
I drop the keys on the entryway table. They clatter, the sound echoing through the vaulted ceiling. I turn to her, my back against the door, guarding the only exit. I’m breathing hard, my chest heaving as if I’ve just run a marathon.
“You left,” I whisper. The words are poisonous. They burn coming up. “You packed that bag and you walked out into the dark.”
Amara stands in the center of the small foyer. She looks small in her leather jacket, her shoulders hunched. “I didn't know how to stay, Alessio. I don't have a map for this. For peace. For... this.”
“You have me,” I roar, the sound erupting from my gut. I step toward her, closing the distance until I’m towering over her, my shadow swallowing her whole. “You have me. Is that not enough? Is my life not enough of a goddamn anchor for you?”
I grab her shoulders, my fingers digging into the leather.
I want to shake her. I want to kiss her until she forgets her own name.
“I stood in that courtyard and watched a man I loved as a father die because of a lie. I watched the world I built turn to ash. And the only thing—the only fucking thing—that kept me from walking into the fire with him was the thought of you waiting in my bed.”
Her breath hitches. A single tear tracks down her cheek, a silver ribbon in the dim light. “I was scared. I'm still scared.”
“Good,” I growl, my face inches from hers.
Heat radiates off her skin, searing the air between us.
“Be scared. Be terrified. But be scared with me. Don't you dare take my heart into the night and leave me empty-handed ever again. I’m the man who took what he wanted and held on until the world stopped trying to pull her away. You’re the only thing I refuse to lose. ”
I let go of her shoulders and cup her face, my scarred hands trembling. They’re supposed to be steady. They’re supposed to be controlled. But right now, they’re just the hands of a man who is drowning.
“I love you,” she says.
The world stops. The house, the trees, the wind—everything falls away. There is only the sound of those three words. She said them first. She gave me the one thing I never thought I’d hear.
“Say it again,” I command, my voice breaking.
“I love you, Alessio Costa. I'm not running. I'm here. I'm staying.”
I don’t give her a chance to breathe. I crash my lips onto hers, a desperate, starving collision.
It’s not a gentle kiss. It’s a reclamation.
I taste the salt of her tears and the sweetness of her surrender.
My tongue thrusts into her mouth, claiming every inch of her, marking her as mine in a way that goes deeper than blood.
She moans against my mouth, her arms winding around my neck, pulling me closer.
She’s climbing me, trying to merge her body with mine, and I let her.
I hook my arms under her thighs and lift her, slamming her back against the wall.
She wraps her legs around my waist, her heels digging into my lower back.
“Every inch,” I growl against her throat. “Every breath. You don't belong to the road anymore. You belong to me.”
“Yes,” she gasps, her fingers clawing at my hair. “Yours. Please, Alessio. Now.”
I carry her through the dark house, my internal compass leading me straight to the bedroom. I don’t need light. I have the heat of her body to guide me. I fall onto the bed with her, our limbs tangling, the mattress dipping under our combined weight.
I’m frantic. I strip the leather jacket off her, tossing it onto the floor.
I rip my own shirt open, buttons flying, hitting the walls like hailstones.
I need skin on skin. I need the friction.
My heart hammers against my ribs, a violent reminder that I'm still breathing.
One thing is certain: I am never letting her go.
I peel her shirt over her head, devouring her in the moonlight filtering through the window. She is magnificent. Her skin is dark silk, her curves a map I intend to spend the rest of my life memorizing. I trail my mouth down her sternum, my stubble grazing her soft skin, making her shiver.
“You're shaking,” I murmur, my voice vibrating against her belly.
“Because I want you so much it hurts,” she whispers. “Every mile I drove away from you felt like I was tearing myself in half.”
I move back up, capturing her lips again. “Good. Don't ever do it again. You’ll put more silver in my hair before my time, woman. You’re going to be the death of me.”
“Then let me be the life of you, too,” she says, her voice thick with emotion.
I reach for the button of her jeans, my fingers clumsy with haste. I shove the denim down her hips, followed by her lace panties, leaving her exposed to me. I strip out of my own pants, kicking them away, until there is nothing left between us but the truth.
I move between her legs, my knees prying her thighs wide.
I look down at her, at the way she’s opened herself up for me.
She’s wet, a glistening sheen of arousal coating her, the scent of her filling my head until I’m dizzy.
My cock is a throbbing, heavy weight, leaking precum, straining toward her.
I don’t go in. Not yet. I want her to ache for it. I want her to feel the weight of my claim before I deliver it. I lean down and bury my face between her legs, my tongue finding her with brutal accuracy.
She screams, her back arching off the bed.
Her fingers find my hair and pull, her nails digging into my scalp.
I don't care. I love the pain. I love the proof that she’s alive and under me.
I circle my tongue over the most sensitive part of her, drinking her in, tasting salt and sweetness and Amara.
“Alessio! Please! I can't... I need you inside,” she sobs, her hips bucking, trying to find purchase against my face.
I ignore her pleas, my tongue working harder, faster.
I slip two fingers inside her, feeling the rhythmic clench of her walls.
She’s so tight, so ready. I stretch her, my thumb pressing against her while my fingers pump deep.
She’s gushing now, her slickness coating my hand, dripping onto the sheets.
“Stay,” I mutter against her wet skin. “Tell me you're staying.”
“I'm staying! God, Alessio, I'm staying! Just fuck me!”
I crawl back up her body, my cock brushing against her belly. I line myself up, the head of my cock blunt and heavy against her soaking wet heat. I pause there, the tip of my cock sinking just a fraction of an inch into her.
I look into her eyes. I want her to see me. Not the man she thinks I am, but the man I am only for her.