Chapter 5
Reese
Low, guttural snarls roll through the slabs of bark forming our makeshift shelter. The sound is ancient and vicious. It hums in the marrow of my bones. Yellow eyes flash in the narrow gaps between the wood. Paws scrape against the frozen earth just inches from my boots.
The wolf pack has found us.
Without making a sound, Santi shifts in front of me, placing his body between mine and the gaps in the bark wall. He is not trapping me. He is blocking what is outside. The heavy wool of his sweater scratches against my cheek. His familiar scent cuts through the panic.
A snout shoves into the lower crack of our barricade. Teeth snap. Foam flicks onto the snow.
Santi raises the Glock. He does not aim wildly. He tracks. His gaze follows the movement of the largest silhouette outside our frail walls.
The gun fires.
The suppressed shot cracks through the small space. Fire flares from the muzzle, illuminating the sharp, aristocratic lines of his face for a fraction of a second. The scent of burnt powder overpowers the smell of damp pine and wet fur.
A sharp yelp echoes outside. Scrambling paws tear at the icy ground. The shadows scatter, retreating into the howling fury of the incoming storm.
The silence after the shot hits harder than the sound.
Smoke curls from the barrel of the Glock.
Santi lowers the weapon with slow, terrifying precision.
He doesn’t shake or turn right away. He stares at the gap in the wood, his chest rising and falling in a slow, measured rhythm.
He is unshakeable, undisturbed by the fact that we were just seconds away from being torn apart.
My ears ring. The terror of the wolves sends a sharp, sobering spike through my system. The blistering arousal from what he just did to me minutes ago is suddenly eclipsed by pure survival instinct.
Santi lowers the Glock, keeping his finger off the trigger. He tucks it away. Slowly, he turns to face me.
The space is too small. There is nowhere to retreat, even if I wanted to. His frame blocks out the thin gray light leaking through the storm.
Santi reaches out. His rough hands cup my face. His thumbs swipe over my cheekbones. He reads my face like a map, searching for panic.
He won’t find it. I’m not a wilting flower. I’m a pilot. I survive crashes. I manage emergencies. I don’t panic.
But I am shaking.
"You’re cold," he says. His voice is rough, unused. The first words spoken since the wolves.
"I'm not cold."
He frowns. The silver-streaked beard framing his mouth twitches. "You’re trembling."
"Because of you."
The words hang in the freezing air between us.
The truth is sharp and undeniable. My independence has been my only armor since I lost my father.
When my father died, I learned a brutal lesson: the only person who will save you is yourself.
Relying on someone else is a liability. Needing someone else is a death sentence.
I have survived alone for years. I chart my own flight paths. I maintain my own engines. I don't let men with dangerous eyes back me into corners.
But Santi Costa is not just a man. He is a fortress.
He took charge when the helicopter went over the cliff.
He stood guard all night. He just stared down a pack of wolves without blinking.
And right before the wolves arrived, he pushed me against this wall and made me come so hard I saw stars, denying himself just to keep me safe and warm.
He thinks he can just be a stoic, unfeeling shadow and I will accept it. He thinks his emotional detachment is a shield.
I am tired of surviving without living.
I reach up and grab the thick lapels of his jacket. My fists twist into the canvas.
Santi goes still.
"Reese." My name on his lips is a warning.
"Shut up, Santi."
I pull him down and crash my mouth against his.
Teeth clash. Noses bump. It is not sweet, and it is not careful. I kiss him with all the pent-up frustration and desperate need burning through my blood. My tongue sweeps into his mouth, tasting the sharp flavor of black coffee from yesterday, adrenaline, and pure male dominance.
Santi freezes for one second. The breath goes out of him.
Then he moves.
A raw groan tears out of him. His hands drop from my face and grip my waist with bruising force. He lifts me off the frozen ground. My boots dangle in the air. He slams me back against the rough bark wall, the impact knocking the air from my lungs.
He devours my mouth. His tongue meets mine, dominant and ruthless. He kisses me like a man who hasn’t let himself feel in decades. His restraint fractures, and what bleeds through is something quiet and devastating.
My hands tangle in his hair. The strands are thick. I pull hard. He groans into my mouth, the sound rolling straight down my spine and pooling directly between my legs.
"I have you," he says against my lips. "Only me."
He doesn't ask. He doesn't negotiate. He states it as a permanent fact of the universe.
"I'm getting you out of this jacket," he says, his voice a lethal pulse against my skin.
His hands fly to the zipper of my canvas jacket, the material that's kept me alive since the wreck.
He opens it with a sharp metallic sound that echoes in the shelter.
He finds my bra beneath the thermal—thin cotton that's a joke against the cold, but it's holding my breasts for him.
"Santi!" I scream his name, my voice raw with a need that eclipses the freezing air. I want him naked in the dirt. I want his thick, rigid cock stretching me wide until I can't breathe. I want to feel him bury himself so deep inside my pussy that he leaves a mark on my soul.
"Take it all off," I demand, breathless.
He drags my wool sweater up, pulling it over my head in one swift motion. The thermal shirt beneath follows. The freezing temperature of the shelter hits my bare skin, making my nipples pebble instantly into tight, aching points.
Santi stares at my chest. His eyes turn black. The stillness is gone. He looks at my heavy, curved breasts spilling over the cotton of my practical bra like they are religious artifacts.
"Beautiful," he whispers, the word raw. "Fucking perfect."
He tears his own jacket off, tossing it onto the dirt.
His sweater follows. Beneath it, his chest is a map of violence and survival.
Lean muscle cords across his frame, the ridges of old scars pale against his skin.
A long, faded line tracks down his left side from rib to hip.
The sheer power in his frame is undeniable.
I press my bare chest against his. The shock of skin-on-skin contact in the sub-zero air is pure electricity. He is burning up. A human furnace. The cold stops reaching me.
His hands unhook my bra. He tosses it aside. The weight of my breasts falls into his calloused palms. He groans, squeezing the soft flesh, his thumbs brushing roughly over my tight nipples.
Liquid fire shoots straight down to my clit. I arch into his hands, a shameless whimper escaping me.
"You like that?" he asks, his voice dropping an octave. He pinches my nipple. "You like my hands on you, pilot?"
"Yes," I gasp, my head falling back against the bark.
Santi drops his head. His mouth closes hotly over my breast. He sucks the peak directly into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the sensitive bud. The wet heat of his mouth is a staggering contrast to the freezing air on my shoulders. His teeth scrape gently.
My knees buckle.
He catches me effortlessly. His arm wraps around my waist, supporting my weight. His other hand drops to the zipper of my flight suit.
"Stand up for me," he orders.
I obey. My boots hit the dirt. I brace my hands on his shoulders.
Santi unzips my flight suit. He peels the canvas down over my hips, taking my thermal leggings and underwear with it. The freezing air hits my bare pussy. I shiver violently, my thighs trembling.
“I have you,” he promises. “I’ll keep you warm.”
He kicks my clothes into a pile. He stands fully clothed from the waist down, his charcoal wool trousers straining against a jutting erection. He is fully hard and desperate, but he doesn't immediately go for his own zipper.
Instead, he drops to his knees on the frozen dirt.
My eyes widen. "Santi—"
He grabs the backs of my thighs and pulls me forward until my bare pussy is lined up with his face. His dark hair gleams at my eye level. He looks up at me, his dark eyes holding mine with an intensity that pins me in place.
"Open for me," he commands.
I spread my legs.
Santi buries his face directly into my dripping center.
A high, sharp moan rips out of me. My fingers dig into his shoulders, my nails scraping against the bird of prey tattoo. His mouth is ruthless. His hot, wet tongue drags in a long, deliberate stripe straight up my slick slit, tasting the flow of my wetness.
He hums against my skin. "Honey," he murmurs. "And aviation fuel." His mouth presses deeper. "Mine."
He parts my slick folds with his thumbs, fully exposing my swollen clit. His mouth closes over it. He sucks hard.
My vision flashes white. My hips buck wildly against his face, unmoored. I cannot maintain my practical, composed pilot facade. I am undone by this mafia prince kneeling in the dirt, worshipping my curves in a freezing survival shelter.
Santi's hands grip my thighs, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh.
He holds me still as his tongue relentlessly lashes my clit.
He creates a suction that threatens to drag my soul straight out of my body.
The contrast of the freezing wind on my bare skin and the boiling heat of his mouth pushes me over.
"Santi!" I scream his name, the sound bouncing off the wooden walls.
"Give it to me," he says against my wetness. "Come for me."
He slips two thick, calloused fingers directly into my pussy.