9. Chapter nine #2
He inhales again, gaze locked to mine, and then leans in. His mouth almost brushing mine as he exhales, Smoke spills past his lips into mine. The burn is sharp, the taste bitter-sweet, but the intimacy of it? It fucking shatters me.
It isn’t a kiss. Not really. But it feels like one, like the promise of something that could ruin me.
I inhale on instinct, the tinted smoke burning down my throat, flooding my lungs, and I can’t stop the little cough that tears out of me.
“Easy now,” he murmurs, voice low and steady, his focus fixed entirely on my mouth. “Let it fill you. Feel it. Then slowly exhale.”
I do as he says. The Ashleaf threaded through the tobacco hits me fast, sharp and heady, like it’s rewiring my blood. When I exhale, when the smoke curls back out and drifts across his face, that gorgeous face, all sharp angles and sculpted like some cruel god.
The corner of his mouth pulls up. “You like it?”
All I can do is nod, dazed, shoulders loosening as the tension in me leaks out with the smoke.
He does it again, inhales deeper this time, holds it… and then leans closer. Too close. That fucking thumb of his tracing lazily over the pulse in my throat, back and forth, back and forth, keeping in time with the frantic beat.
And when he exhales, when I drink it in greedily like it’s air, his lips brush mine. Just a whisper of contact. Barely noticeable. But it’s there.
It’s enough to set me the fuck on fire.
I want more. More. More, more, more .
But just as I’m ready to give in, a split second before I lean forward, he pulls back.
That last piece of my heart, the one shred I still had hidden away, shatters. And I know he sees it in my eyes, knows exactly what he just broke.
A sigh tears out of me, smoke spilling with it. Spilling like the ghost of a confession I’ll never dare to speak.
“I’m no good for you, Kee,” he mutters almost like an apology, while that fucking hand is still on me.
I frown, throat raw. “What?”
“I’m just not.”
“Why are you saying that?”
His jaw tightens. He looks away, takes another slow drag from his cigarette before stubbing it out, and exhales toward the dark like he wishes he could disappear with the smoke.
“You’ve been reading those medical books I left for you?”
I nod, swallow against his hand. He didn’t just bring me clothes and a dagger—he brought stacks of old, battered books, pieces of a lost world dropped in my lap.
“Then you may know by now that they had words for it in the past, before the virus destroyed society. Diagnoses, neat little boxes for what could be wrong with me. Antisocial. Narcissistic. Sociopathic. Pick your fucking poison.”
My chest tightens, heat rising hot behind my eyes. They’re just words. Words from people who are long gone, and won’t ever know him. Who’ll never see the way he steadies me, ruins me, makes me want something I’d already given up on.
Gods, he thinks he’s no good, but I’ve never wanted anything more in my fucking life.
“Just shut up with that bullshit. We’re all fucked here. No one gives a shit about what’s wrong with your brain when your guts might be on the floor tomorrow, Max. Here, being a little broken is surviving. Being a monster just means you’re still alive.”
He scoffs. “A monster, huh? That’s how you see me?”
No, shit , I didn’t mean that. “You’re not. I don’t think you’re antisocial, narcissistic, or psychopathic. You’re stubborn, yes. Slightly unhinged, I can’t deny that. But mostly… brave. Noble and strong. A protector.”
He huffs, but the fight bleeds out of him.
“You’re protecting me .”
That thumb is moving again, lazy circles over the pulse in my throat, and every pass makes my heartbeat hammer harder.
“You’re no monster, Max. You’re mine .”
That gets me a response. His whole body shifts, just slightly, but it’s like the air changes with it. His gaze sharpens, flares, like I just lit something inside him he’s been fighting to keep buried.
His hand stills at my throat, fingers pressing a fraction deeper, not enough to hurt, just enough to make me feel the weight of him.
His lips part as he comes closer, his breath hot against my face, and for a long, unbearable moment he just stares at me.
Hungry. Like he doesn’t know whether to kiss me or devour me.
“I can’t stay away from you, Kee.” His voice is rough, dragged raw from his chest. “I haven’t exactly tried, but shit. If I did, I’d fucking fail.”
“Fuck you,” I breathe, but there’s no bite in it. “I don’t want you to try.”
The night sky burns in his eyes, every star brighter, sharper, collapsing into that gravity between us.
“You have to be sure of that.” His words are a warning, but his eyes, Gods.
His eyes scream something else.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
And my heart answers without hesitation.
Yours. Yours. Yours.
“I’m sure,” I whisper, the words trembling out of me, truer than anything I’ve ever said.
For half a heartbeat, nothing happens. Just his stare locked to mine, thumb still stroking the frantic pulse in my throat like he’s testing how far he can push me. My chest aches with the weight of it, with the desperate need for him to close the distance, to make me his.
Then he does.
His mouth crashes against mine. Hard, demanding, claiming.
The taste of smoke and toothpaste and something so entirely him floods me, and I gasp into it, parting for him before I can think better of it.
His hand tightens just enough at my throat to tilt my head back, deepening the kiss, guiding me where he wants me, tongue sweeping against mine in a hot, relentless clash that floods straight down my spine.
And I let him. Let him have all of me.
Heat sparks through me, violent and all-consuming, setting every nerve on fire. My hands find his chest, hot and damp and perfect under my palms, sliding up to his shoulders, clutching like I need to anchor myself before I fall apart completely.
Mine , the press of his body demands.
Mine , the drag of his lips insists.
Yours , the tremor in my bones answers.
A groan rumbles out of him, low and rough, vibrating straight into my mouth, and it wrecks me. It’s all of him at once. Every fight, every smirk, every brutal edge melted down to fire and want.
I want more. So much fucking more.
His hand slides higher, palm cupping the side of my throat now, thumb pressed under my jaw as if he owns every inch of me.
Which he fucking does.
I push closer, harder, straddling the line between losing myself and finally being found. Finally being wanted. Finally being seen.
His lips bruise, his tongue tangles with mine, and I swear the stars above us tilt and spin.
There’s no room left for fear. No air left for doubt. Just this kiss, sharp and aching and fucking endless, sealing that word between us.
Mine .