Chapter 29
NIKKI
Idon’t sleep. Not a wink. My body’s a live wire, buzzing with anxiety and adrenaline and whatever the hell you call that horrible cocktail of panic-lust-what-the-fuck.
I don’t even sit. I just pace the villa barefoot like a haunted house ghost, wearing one of Rafe’s silk shirts because apparently, I’m a walking cliché.
The hem barely covers my thighs. When he comes home, he can see what he left behind.
If he comes home.
That thought almost takes me to my knees every ten minutes.
I keep picturing him bleeding out somewhere, shirt torn, eyes blank, that stillness that only comes with death.
Then I imagine him covered in someone else’s blood, victorious and unrepentant.
And then I cry. And then I fantasize about sitting on his face.
So yeah. Mentally unstable, party of one.
He left without a word. No “stay inside.” No “I’ll be back.” Just vanished like a shadow and took all the warmth with him. But I know exactly where he went. I saw it in his eyes, that look that says someone’s about to regret their entire bloodline.
He didn’t go to cool off.
He went to end someone.
And the worst part?
The shameful, messed-up, twisted little truth?
A part of me liked it. Liked being the reason someone had to die. Liked being the trigger that made a man like Rafe snap.
What the hell does that say about me?
My phone stays stubbornly silent, the screen taunting me every time I check it. No calls. No texts. Not even a fucking emoji. Just me, pacing the villa like a woman waiting to hear if the man she loves is dead.
The door bangs open, rattling the frame.
He’s here. His shirt, what’s left of it, hangs in tatters, and a crimson stain streaks across his collar.
Too much fucking blood. For one heart-stopping second, I can’t tell if it’s his.
My stomach lurches, and I want to scream at him and kiss him, all at once.
I stumble back, my hand gripping the armrest of the sofa, knuckles white. “Is that your blood? Please, God, tell me it’s not your blood.”
He kicks the door shut, the sound echoing in the sudden silence of the living room. His eyes, when they meet mine, are dark, haunted. He looks like a man who just tasted vengeance and found it’s not quite sweet enough to wash down the bile.
“Was it worth it?” I demand, my voice a raw whisper. “Disappearing without a word? Leaving me to wonder if you were dead, if I’d ever see you again? Did it make you feel better? Did it fucking help?”
His jaw tightens. A long, agonizing beat stretches between us before he answers, his voice a low growl. “Yes. Every fucking second of it was absolutely worth it.”
I suck in a sharp breath. The air feels too thick to breathe.
“Because he touched you,” he continues, his voice laced with an edge of pure venom. “Because he was there to harm you, because he thought he could. And I needed him, and everyone else, to learn what happens when they try.”
The way he says it… like touching me is a death sentence. Like I’m something sacred, something untouchable.
Something his.
I take a step forward, my bare feet cold against the marble floor, closing the distance between us. “Did he bleed?” I ask. It’s fucked up, I know, but I need to hear the proof. I need to know he suffered.
“Yes,” he replies. “The bastard bled out every last goddamn drop for you.”
Brutal. Final. And somehow, hot as hell.
I step closer still, reaching out, my fingers fumbling, clutching the torn fabric of his shirt. “Did you think about me while you did it?”
His gaze drops to my mouth, lingering there for a fraction of a second, hot and possessive. “Every single moment. Every shot. It was for you.”
Damn… I should be scared. Instead, I’m soaking wet.
“I wanted to hate you for leaving,” I tell him. “For walking out without looking back. For making me wait here by myself, wondering if you’d be the next headline.”
His hand rises, his touch surprisingly gentle as he brushes a strand of hair behind my ear, then trails down my jaw. The unexpected softness of it undoes me. I don’t want soft. Not right now. But I lean into it anyway, needing the contact.
“I wanted to hate how much I needed to come back,” he murmurs, his thumb stroking my cheekbone. “But I did.”
“Then don’t you dare fucking leave me again.”
He lifts me then, like I weigh nothing, like he’s starving for this, for me. My legs wrap around his hips instinctively, my head resting on his shoulder as he carries me to the bedroom without another word. From the moment his arms lock around me, I know this isn’t going to be gentle.
My arms tighten around his neck, my hips grinding into him with every step he takes. The evidence of what he’s done tonight, the faint metallic tang of blood, the scent of sweat and gunpowder, it’s still on his skin, and it turns me on more than I want to admit.
He kicks the bedroom door shut behind us, the thud echoing, and presses me to it like a man on the very edge of his control. Our mouths meet, hot, wild, completely unhinged.
His hands yank my shirt open, buttons scattering across the floor. His mouth drags down my throat, over my collarbone, biting and sucking hard enough to leave marks. “Mine,” he growls into my skin. “You understand that now?”
“Yes,” I gasp, my fingers clawing at his belt, fumbling with the buckle. “God, yes.”
He pulls away, just slightly, his eyes burning into mine. “You’re wearing my shirt. Why?” He tears the shirt the rest of the way off, his hands already on my breasts, cupping them like he owns them, like they were always his.
“I wanted to smell your scent,” I answer honestly.
He drops to his knees, his movements quick, desperate.
He drags my panties down, not wasting a second.
His mouth is on me instantly, hungry, possessive, perfect.
His tongue works me open with ruthless precision, slow, deliberate licks that build into fast, desperate flicks.
His hands grip my hips, pinning me to the door, holding me in place.
I cry out, loud and unrestrained, one hand tangled in his hair, the other braced against the wood behind me, my nails digging into the solid surface.
When I come, it’s not soft or sweet. It’s feral. My knees buckle beneath me. My whole body convulses, every muscle seizing. He growls into me, not stopping, not slowing, coaxing every last tremor from my body before finally standing, licking his lips like he just won a war.
“I’m not done.” He lifts me again, throwing me onto the bed.
Damn right, he’s not done.
He strips quickly, and I swear I almost come again just looking at him. All muscle and rage and those eyes…fuck, those eyes. They’re still haunted, but now they burn with an intensity that promises oblivion.
“Turn over,” he commands. “Hands on the headboard.”
I obey, my body trembling with anticipation.
He slides into me from behind in one long, brutal thrust that knocks the breath out of me. I cry out, gripping the headboard, unable to think, to breathe, to do anything but feel. He fucks me like he’s staking a claim, like he needs to leave something behind inside me as proof of his ownership.
His hand slips around my throat, not tight, just enough to make me feel owned, possessed. “They tried to take you from me,” he grits out, his hips slamming into mine, the force of his thrusts driving me deeper onto the bed. “Tried to touch what’s mine.”
He pulls me upright, still thrusting, still holding my throat, his other hand sliding down to rub furious circles against my clit. “No one even looks at you unless I allow it. You belong to me, Nikki. Say it.”
“I belong to you,” I choke out, the words ripped from my throat.
When the second orgasm hits, it’s explosive. I clamp down around him, and with a low, guttural groan, he comes, pulsing inside me, burying himself to the hilt as we collapse together in a tangle of limbs and sweat.
When it’s over, he doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t even move. Just stays pressed against my back, breathing hard, his arms locked around me like he’s not sure I’m real, like I might vanish if he lets go.
And I don’t move either.
Because if I do, if I let go, he might disappear again.
And I’m not ready to be alone in this war.