Chapter 25
Katana
The days stretch into an endless sea of gray, cold and empty. Micah hasn’t been in the cafeteria. He doesn’t appear by the benches outside. Not even a glimpse of those black eyes burning into me across the common room.
At first, I thought he was punished and locked up again. But I hear whispers from the other residents who seem as unsettled by his absence as I am. “Micah Morrow’s been quiet. He’s being good.”
He’s not locked away. He’s avoiding me.
It gnaws at me until it’s unbearable. That heat he lit in me hasn’t gone out—it’s spread, leaving me restless and raw. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. Every time I catch the echo of shoes in the hallway, I think it’s him. But it never is.
Finally, I snap.
Marcy leaves me in my room with a warning about curfew. The second her footsteps fade, I’m out the door. My heart hammers as I slip down the corridor, past the cameras that never work right, until I’m at his door.
I peer through the window. He’s there, sitting on his bed, his shoulders hunched forward, his elbows on his knees. There are no new marks or scars indicating he was punished.
The anger boils hotter than the fear. My hand tightens on the knob before I shove it open and step inside.
His head lifts, and when those dark eyes meet mine, I almost falter, but my anger gets the best of me. “You’ve been avoiding me,” I snap, my voice low but sharp. “Why?”
For a moment, his face is unreadable. Then, slowly, a dangerous smirk curves his lips.
His voice is as smooth as glass, “I wanted to see if you’d come to me on your own.”
The air between us tightens, the power shifting. I came here angry. But standing in his space, with his eyes stripping me bare, I realize exactly what he’s done.
And I walked right into it.
“I came because I was worried,” I hiss, my fists clenching. “And now I realize you were just... testing me? Playing with me?”
His smirk deepens, but his eyes are molten, dark heat swallowing me whole.
“Not playing,” Micah says softly. “Proving. I needed to know if you’d come.”
My breath shudders, the fury warring with the ache he’s left in me. Those empty days and nights where I hoped for a glimpse of him. For him to sneak into my room. “And if I hadn’t?”
He rises from the bed in one fluid motion, tall and terrifying, moving closer until the cold wall presses against my back. His hands hover near my waist, not touching me. Yet.
“Then I’d know you were weaker than I thought.” His voice is a rasp, close to my ear. “But you came. Angry. Shaking. Needing.”
My chest heaves, every word sinking under my skin. I want to shove him away, scream at him, but my body betrays me, leaning into the heat radiating from him.
“You’re insane,” I whisper, but the tremor in my voice betrays me.
“Maybe,” he murmurs, his mouth ghosting the shell of my ear. “But you’re here. Which means you’re mine, little murderess.”
Before I can argue, his mouth claims mine.
It’s not gentle. It’s a collision of teeth, tongue, and desperation. My hands fist in his sweatshirt, dragging him closer, and when his lips part mine with ruthless precision, a whimper escapes me.
His hands finally touch me, sliding along my waist, pulling me flush against the hard line of his body. His erection presses into my stomach, proof of everything he’s been holding back.
“Micah,” I gasp against his mouth.
“Say my name again.” His lips trail down my jaw, his teeth grazing my throat. “Say it like you did when you touched yourself.”
Heat floods my face. “Micah.”
“Aw, come on, murderess.” His chuckle is low, dangerous. “You can do better than that.” His thigh slips between mine, pressing upward until my hips jerk against him. My pulse roars in my ears, shame and desire twisting into one.
“Micah,” I whisper, my voice desperate and pleading. “My monster.”
A satisfied growl rumbles in his chest. “Spread your legs wider,” he orders, his voice low and commanding.
And God help me—I obey him.
He doesn’t wait for permission. He moves with a speed that steals my breath, palms flat on my hips as he tips me back and slides me down until I’m straddling his knees. The room narrows to the press of him beneath me, the scrape of fabric between our hot, desperate bodies.
His hands cup my thighs, hot and sure, and I lean forward, forehead to forehead. He smells like bodywash and the faint trace of the antiseptic that never quite leaves this place. The sound he makes deep in his chest is full of hunger.
My hands slip beneath his sweatshirt, trailing over his chest, feeling muscle shift beneath my palms, my fingers mapping his scars like prayers.
He’s so solid, all angles and restraint, and when he slides his hands under my sweatshirt and finds the skin of my back, I shudder with the rush of being held.
His mouth is on mine in an instant, rough and claiming. I kiss him back with everything I’ve been saving, with every lonely, furious thing he’s dug out of me. His lips devour. His tongue seeks. I answer, needing to be swallowed.
He grinds into me, and the friction sends a bolt of heat straight through my aching, wet pussy. My hand moves without thinking, fingers tangling in his hair, drawing him closer, demanding more of that tight, fierce contact. He moans into my mouth, and the sound makes my knees tremble.
He lifts me up enough to yank my sweatpants and panties down. I slip out of my shoes, helping him free my ankles.
His pants and boxers are next. I stare down at his long, thick cock, wondering how the hell I can fit that inside me.
“Ride me,” he orders, his breath hot.
“I-I...” I lick my dry lips. “I’m not sure it’ll fit.”
He smirks at me. “Oh, little murderess, it’ll fit.” Determination flashes in his eyes. “We’ll make it fit.”
I gasp as his fingers find my clit, rubbing it in a way that makes me crazy. My pussy aches, wanting him despite my fears.
Obeying his command, I sink down, gasping as the head of his cock slips inside me. I already feel so full, but when I look down, I have a lot of length to go.
His hands tighten on my hips. “Take it like a good girl,” he rasps.
I sink lower and lower until I reach the point that I feel like I just can’t take any more. Panic fills me as I bite my lip, my eyes pleading with his. “I-I can’t.”
“You can take it, little murderess,” he seductively whispers, fisting my hair and yanking my head back. He licks my neck, whispering against my pulse, “I have faith in you.”
Before I can utter a sound, he slams inside me, yanking me forward and covering my mouth with his as I scream. His thumb circles my clit, sending waves of pleasure through my body that loosen my taut muscles.
My nails bite into his shoulders when he thrusts into me again.
“You’re so fucking tight,” he whispers. Pleasure ripples through me from his words. The world pulses as his hands hold me steady, watching me as if memorizing the way my body reacts.
His hips lift, rocking into me a few more times before he commands, “Bounce on my cock.”
The fear dissipates as the pleasure takes over. The confidence in his eyes empowers me. I rock my hips up, then slam back down on him. We moan softly against each other’s lips, our hearts pounding through our sweatshirts.
His fingers are steady, expertly stroking my clit while I ride him. My lower belly coils tighter, already nearing the edge.
He keeps his eyes on mine the whole time, as if my face will tell him when to stop.
“Beg for me,” he murmurs, his voice raw. “Say my name and ask me to finish you.”
Something in me unfurls—pride and want braided together—and without shame I say it, whispering his name like a prayer, “Micah… please. Don’t stop. Make me—”
He answers by wildly rubbing my clit, and I cry out, the sound raw. He moves his hand with a steady rhythm, his thumb pressed flat and circling, and I lose myself in the sensation: the burn, the ache, the dizzying lift.
“Good girl,” he breathes, and the praise makes me shatter.
My body falls over the edge, and the world tilts into a long, searing release.
I come with his name on my lips, my hands clamping down on his shoulders as the waves roll through me.
He holds me through it, fingers never letting go, grounding me as I tumble.
I keep rocking against him, wanting him to finish. I know he’s close by the sweat dotting his brow, the tightness in his jaw like he’s seconds from breaking.
“Come for me, Micah. I want to feel you.” I lift higher, then slam myself down.
“Are you... on the pill?” he rasps.
I nod. “For my... period. Cramps,” I mutter as I ride him faster. “Come in me, Micah.”
He moans, his dick throbbing inside me. He grips my hips and thrusts deep, spilling his come inside me.
I move my hips until he stops pulsing inside me. I still, wrap my arms around him, and press my forehead against his.
When the tremors fade, he doesn’t withdraw. He brings his mouth to mine again in a softer, slower kiss that tastes like warning and worship. For a moment, the room is quiet except for our rasping breaths.
We stay there, tangled and raw, the danger humming at the edges of everything we’ve done. But in the hush that follows, something steadies in me: the knowledge that this is shared. Nothing was forced for either of us, and that changes everything.
“You’re mine,” he whispers, holding me tightly.
I nod, my pulse finally settling.
Outside, Holloway keeps turning—the distant murmur of voices, light footsteps, and the creek of ancient pipes filling the air.
But in Micah’s room, we build a small, dangerous, private world stitch by stitch.