15. Chapter fifteen
Chapter fifteen
Kieran
“ Y eah, this won’t do.”
We’re back at the resort. And fuck, I didn’t want to move when I woke up in his arms this morning. It was warm, safe. His lips pressed to the back of my neck, teeth nipping at my skin.
The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes with a lazy smile was that view: cliffs, endless ocean, orange streaks splitting the sky wide open.
And him behind me, touching me all over. Those wicked fingers sliding over my chest, tracing down my abs, wrapping around my aching cock and working me over the edge again before I’d even found my breath.
This time he was slower, less urgent—savoring. Like he knew these quiet hours were stolen, that we’d have to crawl back to reality soon, and he wanted to burn every second into us.
And shit, the way he pressed himself between my ass cheeks, rolling his hips in time with his fist, grinding out his own release across my lower back while I spilled over his hand—it didn’t just make me come, it made me soar . Like I’d been unshackled, lifted, broken open in all the best ways.
It was perfect. Too perfect. Dangerously perfect. The kind that makes a voice in the back of my head hiss, don’t trust it, don’t trust this . Because nothing stays that good. Not here. Not in this world. Not ever.
After, he filled the tub again for me, while he cobbled together breakfast out of whatever he’d stashed there. He did it like it was nothing, like sharing his hidey-hole—his secret—wasn’t the biggest godsdamn deal in the world.
And I still couldn’t believe it. That I was there. That he let me in. That I got a piece of him no one else has ever touched.
Now we’re back. We had to. I try not to feel too much remorse about ending Goatee’s life; he would’ve done horrible things to me, but staring at the carnage that is my room does twist up my insides. And “room” feels generous when it looks like a slaughterhouse.
There’s blood every-fucking-where. The walls, the ceiling, the curtains. Apparently if you stab a body over and over, things get messy. Very messy.
“Grab a bag. You’re staying at my place,” Max orders, flat as ever.
“We can clean this up.”
One brow lifts. He doesn’t even glance at me, just points up to the ceiling, where a particularly nasty streak of splatter drips down in a dark trail. “Really?”
I glare at him. Obnoxious ass. Who also happens to have a very fine ass. Shit. When he got in the tub with me last night… I already knew he was a work of art, but knowing it and seeing it are two different things. Touching it. Tasting it. That’s another level entirely.
My cheeks heat, and the smirk curving his lips tells me he knows exactly where my head’s at.
“You live on the other side of the city, right? That’s too far away. I still have to work here, you know.”
“No, you don’t.”
“My fictional birthday is in a couple of weeks,” I shoot back. “I have a deal with her. Working is part of it.”
His eyes flash, dark and sharp, and before I know what’s happening he’s got me pinned against one of the few clean patches of wall. His hand spreads wide over my chest, heat radiating through fabric, pressing me back like I weigh nothing as he leans over me.
Storms roar in his eyes when I look up. Violent, restless, the kind that makes you want to run and cling all at once. His jaw is tight, lips pressed together like he’s caught between growling at me and kissing me senseless.
And gods help me, my heart kicks because I want both.
“Let me make one thing very fucking clear, Kieran Freyr,” he snaps, voice low and dangerous. “You do not have a deal with her. You are not going to work for her any fucking longer. And you are definitely not going to sell yourself as long as I’m still breathing.”
I take a breath, wanting to hate how my body uncoils under his touch, how I become pliant, fucking submissive, every time he towers over me, orders me around.
But fuck if that isn’t a lie.
I love it. How he makes me feel: safe. Protected. His .
“Is that so?”
“Kieran fucking Freyr…” His hand slides up, and I know he’s itching to wrap it around my neck, but he’s holding back. “She can’t have you. You. Are. Mine. Do you understand?”
Gods. I nod, bite my lip, my hands finding his sides. “Yeah,” I croak. “I’m yours.”
“Good.” He lowers his mouth in a ghost of a kiss, and then his voice drops to a hard whisper. “Because if this shit doesn’t work out, I’ll kill her before she touches you again. I will carve her name off the council and piss on the rest.”
“You can’t kill a council member,” I blurt, frowning. “They’d throw you in the Pit with fifty walkers and let them eat you up.”
“Let them fucking try.” The glint in his eyes says he means it.
A better man would be appalled, horrified that his partner would kill for him. But shit, I am not a better man.
No, a better man wouldn’t have a thrill coursing through him at those words. Something ugly and honest that will tighten his gut and make his throat go dry.
Closing my eyes for a beat, I absorb the feel of him, all that he has become to me in these short months. And that would be every fucking thing.
When I open them again, there’s only possession and adoration staring back at me.
“But you have to know something as well,” I say, voice low.
“And that is?”
“You’re mine too,” I say, my fingers clenching in his shirt.
“Good.” He presses those wicked lips to mine. The kiss is quick and hot, a flash of possession, and before I can register how it ends, he pulls back enough to murmur, “Now go pack.”
He moves away from me, giving me a sliver of space. I dig around my dresser, pull out a handful of clothes, and shove them into the bag I keep stashed at the bottom.
“Still that ratty bag?” he drawls, watching me with an amused tilt to his mouth.
I freeze mid-zip and glare at him over my shoulder. “It used to be my mom’s.”
That shuts him up for a beat. He just gives me a small nod, gaze softening. “You miss her?”
The question hits deeper than I want it to.
I sigh, rub at my forehead, feel that familiar ache flare in my chest, the one that never really leaves, just hides until something drags it out.
“Yes and no. I miss who she used to be, if that makes sense. I miss… the version of her before everything went to shit. Before the drugs. Before the prostitution.”
He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, just watches me pack, expression unreadable. Then he mutters, low, almost like he doesn’t want me to hear it: “Guess I’m glad you had someone. A kid shouldn’t… grow up without that.”
My heart cries for him, for the parents he never had, for all the small things he missed—bedtime stories he never got, a hand to steady him when the world tipped. It makes something ache behind my ribs.
“You had Roe, right? Tass?” I ask, casual like it’s nothing, though we both know it isn’t.
Max huffs through his nose, not quite a laugh. “Yeah. I have Tass and Roe. But he’s not—” He cuts himself off with a shake of his head. “He was more a father to her than me, but that’s on me, not him. I made his life very difficult.”
The corner of my mouth pulls up. “Still do.”
A curt nod as he pushes off the wall. “Yeah. Let’s go. I need to make his life a bit more miserable tonight when I report in, but we have something to do first.”
I stare at the bag when he goes for the door and for a second I mourn this place.
Leaving this place feels like leaving a piece of me behind. When I left home, that wrecked place, I never expected to find something for myself, even if it came wrapped in stipulations I’d rather not mention.
It was still mine—this little box with its meager contents. Small, but it still felt like a home. But standing here now, staring at the blood-spattered walls and ceiling, at the wreck of what used to be mine… there’s nothing to come back to.
My home is with him. Even though he can be intense, downright scary, he’s right. He’s mine, and I’m his.
“I’m dropping you off at my place, then I’m going to the Den.” He says it like it’s nothing, like the Den is just another stop.
It’s not. It’s a shithole that coughs up the city’s worst.
Smoke, piss, and stale booze hang heavy; the lights stay low so you don’t see who you’re cutting deals with. The Touched come to let whatever’s left of them loose, favors get traded for bullets, Ashleaf or bodies… you keep your head down or you don’t leave.
I halt my steps. “The Den? What do you want to do there?”
“There’s someone I want to… interrogate.”
I cock my head, study him, this man who delved his way into my heart but says the worst things like they’re the most normal things in the world. “When you say interrogate… you mean torture, right? I want to come with you. This investigation impacts my future, you know.”
“I don’t want you in there, Kee. I can’t have you in there. I’m doing this alone.”
“I’m not some weak kid that needs you to save me all the damn time.”
His eyes narrow. “Don’t get clever,” he says, voice low. “You go in there and you make a mistake and you’ll get yourself buried.”
“I killed a guy. I can handle it.”
The corner of his mouth pulls up, almost like he’s proud. “I know, you’re very tough.”
“Fuck you. I can defend myself.” I say it like I mean it, because I do. I’m not fucking budging on this. I’ve slept with knives under my pillow and traveled thousands of miles through worse. My hand tightens on the duffel strap until the fabric bites into my palm.
A sigh. “I know .”
“So I’m going with you to the Den. It’ll probably be deserted anyway—most of them only come in at night.”
“ Fine . Grab your shit, Kee. Let me call the gang, tell them to hang back and be ready if things go south, and then we go—quiet, fast, no bullshit. And you listen to me in there, you hear?”
“I hear,” I say, cheer in my voice, and plant a quick, stupid peck on his cheek as I pass. He only glares back, that silent warning in his eyes while his hand already reaches for the door.
W ell. This is just fucking gross.