Chapter 4
Sage
This is not what I expected.
I step into Havoc's cabin and freeze for a second, blinking like I walked into the wrong place.
It’s small. Quiet. Not some sprawling biker compound or bachelor cave stacked with whiskey bottles and bad decisions. The front door opens straight into the living room, and the first thing I notice is how clean everything is. Not spotless, but lived-in. Comfortable. Soft.
One big couch. A worn leather armchair. A coffee table made from what looks like reclaimed wood, scarred but solid. There’s a bookshelf in the corner. Real books. Military ones. And there’s a dusty old turntable with a neat stack of vinyl beside it.
The walls are a faded forest green. One has a framed black-and-white photo of a group of men in uniform, all hard eyes and dirt-streaked faces.
“This is…” I trail off, trying to find the right word.
Havoc brushes past me, setting my bag on the floor. “Not what you thought?”
“Honestly? No.”
He raises an eyebrow. “What did you picture?”
“Skulls. Naked lady posters. Maybe a punching bag made from someone’s ribcage.”
That earns a rough, short laugh. “You think I’m a barbarian, sweetheart?”
I shrug, stepping farther inside. “I don’t know what I think.”
“Take the full tour. It’s not much, but it’s home.”
The kitchen’s barely a nook. Just a counter, a few cabinets, and a small table with two mismatched chairs. But everything is tidy. Organized. There’s even a bowl of fruit on the counter. Fresh fruit. That shouldn’t be sexy, but somehow, it is.
He watches me while I move around, arms crossed. The leather cut still clings to his frame like it belongs there. But there’s no smirk. No pressure. Just quiet patience.
“You live alone?” I ask softly.
“Yeah.”
“How long?”
“Long enough that the quiet stops feeling strange.”
I glance toward the hallway. “Bedroom?”
He nods. “Down there. One bed. One bath. You can take the bed. I’ll take the couch.”
Something inside me tugs at that. At the offer. At how easily he makes it, like he's not trying to work an angle.
“I’m not kicking you out of your own bed.”
“You’re not. I’m offering.”
The way he says it, calm and certain, makes my chest tighten.
He steps back and tips his head down the hall. “Come on. I’ll show you the room.”
I follow him through the narrow hallway. The bedroom is simple like the rest of the house. Low light, clean lines, no clutter. Just a bed, a dresser, a folded quilt at the foot like someone actually bothers to make it each morning.
It smells faintly like cedar and soap.
As he sets my bag down, my eyes catch on a shelf above the dresser. I drift toward it. There’s a black-and-white photo of a unit of Marines. Gritty faces, tired eyes, hard stares. A framed medal. A worn compass. A military patch with HAVOC stitched into the fabric.
“You were a Marine,” I say, not quite asking.
“Yeah.”
“Did you like it?”
He’s quiet for a moment, then steps beside me. Not touching. Just there.
“I was good at it.”
That’s not an answer. But I don’t push.
My finger drifts to the compass. The metal is dull with age.
“You lost someone?”
His jaw ticks. “Yeah.”
“Someone close?”
He doesn’t look at me. His eyes stay locked on the photo.
“She was in my unit. Sharp. Brave. Had a laugh that could gut you.” His voice drops. “I didn’t tell her how I felt. Not until the last minute.”
“What happened?”
“Mission went sideways. She didn’t come back.”
The pain in his voice hits me harder than I expect. I reach for his hand. He lets me take it.
“You still think about her?”
He exhales through his nose. “She’s part of the past. I don’t carry her the way I used to. Just… respect. Memory. But this—” his eyes flick to mine, intense “—this feels nothing like that.”
My breath catches. The air shifts between us, charged and warm.
His gaze is darker now. Hotter. Like the grief cracked something open, and everything underneath is raw and real and pointed at me.
And maybe that’s why I kiss him.
Because he looks vulnerable in a way I don’t know how to resist. Because I want him. Because I’m tired of pretending I don’t.
The moment my mouth touches his, he responds like he’s been holding back for days. Weeks. Maybe longer.
It’s not gentle.
It’s all heat and restraint. Hunger and frustration. His hands grip my waist, dragging me into him. My fingers fist in his shirt. I rise onto my toes, chasing more.
When he breaks the kiss, it’s only to press his forehead to mine.
“Sweetheart,” he rasps, his voice rough with control, “if you knew the things I’m thinking, you would not be standing so close.”
I don’t move.
His thumb brushes my lower lip, slow and sure.
“You have no idea how hard it is not to pin you against something right now.”
My heart thunders. I swallow hard.
“I’m not stopping you,” I whisper.
He grins, but it’s not a boyish grin. It’s dark. Possessive. Hungry.
“You’re trembling.” His hand slides to the back of my neck, fingers warm. “I like it. Means you understand what you just invited.”
My forehead presses to his chest as I try to breathe past the pressure building inside me.
And he waits.
That’s the thing. He doesn’t take. He waits.
Maybe that’s why I want him even more. Because if I don’t say it, he won’t move.
So I say it.
“Kiss me again.”
My hands curl into his shirt and I pull him back down to me.
And he goes.
Like I gave him permission to burn.
The second kiss is sharper, deeper. His hands spread across my back, flattening me to him. Every part of me feels claimed. My legs wrap around his waist without thought as he walks me backward until my shoulders meet the wall.
He lifts me effortlessly, holding me against him with nothing but his grip and his body and the gravity of what’s happening between us.
His mouth moves down my neck, grazing heat into my skin. His breath makes me shiver.
I feel unmade. Exposed. Like he’s peeling back every part of me I keep hidden and liking what he finds.
His hands slide under my shirt, slow, rough palms against my bare skin. He pauses.
“You sure?”
“Yes,” I whisper, breath hitching. “I’m sure.”
His touch shifts. He releases me, our clothes come off in quiet urgency, no rush but no hesitation either. Each inch of skin revealed feels like a vow being spoken. His mouth finds mine again, and this time, nothing holds back.
Then he lifts me like I weigh nothing and lays me gently on the bed.
And just before we cross that final line, I press a hand to his chest.
“Wait.”
His body stills. Eyes lock on mine.
“I’ve never done this before,” I murmur. “With anyone.”
For a breath, he says nothing. Just watches me, eyes darkening, heat flickering behind the shock. But when he moves again, it’s slower. Softer. Like something in him just changed.
He leans in, brushes his mouth over my cheekbone, then the curve of my jaw. A kiss like a promise.
“Then I’m going to make damn sure you never forget it,” he says, voice rough with something that sounds like reverence.
He lays me back gently, like I’m breakable but he’s still hungry to know every inch. His hands map my skin with care, skimming from collarbone to hip with quiet authority.
“I’m not gentle,” he says into my throat, voice rasping against skin. “I’ve never had a reason to be. But right now, I’ll give you every ounce of patience I’ve got.”
I nod, words caught behind the tight ache in my chest. I’ve never been touched like this. Never even imagined it could feel like this.
He kisses lower. Trails heat down the inside of my thigh, parting them with careful hands. I tremble. He notices.
He looks up, eyes burning. “Tell me you want this,” he murmurs. “I already know. But I need to hear it. I need it in your voice.”
“I want this,” I whisper. “I want you.”
Something cracks open in his expression.
“Good,” he says, then lowers his head.
The first brush of his tongue is slow, and I swear it short-circuits my brain. Not soft. Not sweet. Focused. Like he’s settling in for a long, thorough study of me.
My hips jerk. His hands pin them down.
"Easy," he murmurs. "Let me learn you first."
Then he does.
His tongue moves in tight, devastating patterns. No hesitation. Just heat and pressure and maddening control.
I gasp, twist under him, but he doesn't let me go anywhere. One arm braces across my hips, the other strokes lazy heat along my thigh like he’s coaxing my body to bloom.
When he groans, it’s low and hungry. Like he likes how desperate I’m getting.
"You taste like sin," he rasps. "Like you’ve been waiting for me to do this since the day we met."
Then he flicks his tongue just right, and I go still, every muscle wound tight.
He feels it. Smiles against me. “There. That’s your spot.”
And then his finger slides inside me. Just one at first, slow and slick, his knuckle grazing that same spot from the inside.
I break.
My back lifts off the bed, a sound I’ve never heard myself make catches in my throat.
"More," I gasp, almost frantic.
He gives it to me. Another finger, curling slow and deep. His mouth never stops. He works me with obscene skill, like he’s memorizing how I fall apart and already planning to do it again.
My climax hits hard, sudden and ragged. My whole body locks up, thighs clamping, breath stolen. I cry out his name like it’s the only thing I know.
But he doesn’t stop.
He draws it out, keeps working me through the waves until I’m a shaking mess, slick and open and boneless beneath him.
When he finally lifts his head, his beard is wet with me, his eyes black with satisfaction.
He leans over, presses his palm to my stomach, grounding me. Watching me.
“Fuck,” he says, voice wrecked. “Look at you.”
I blink at him, dazed.
“You’re so goddamn beautiful like this,” he murmurs, dragging the back of his hand down my thigh. “All soft and ruined. That was just the beginning, sweetheart.”
He kisses me then, deep and hungry, and I taste myself on his tongue.
“You ready for more?” he asks against my lips.
I nod, breathless.
“Good,” he says. “Because I want all of you.”
He shifts, rising over me. The bed creaks under his weight.
My body’s still trembling, aftershocks making my muscles flutter.
He watches my face, unreadable except for the heat in his eyes.
Then his hand moves between us, knuckles brushing my still-sensitive inner thigh. I flinch, but not from fear.
“Easy,” he murmurs, voice low and patient. “Relax.”
He guides himself to my entrance, teasing me with slow presses and shallow retreats. My breath catches each time. My hips lift, desperate.
“Kane,” I whisper, “please. I want you inside me.”
His mouth twitches. “You’re not shy, are you?”
“Not when you’re looking at me like that.”
Something sharp and dark flashes in his eyes. “Like I’m about to ruin you for anyone else?”
I nod, swallowing hard.
“Good,” he growls. “You’re mine now. You belong to me. Say it.”
“I’m yours,” I breathe. “I belong to you.”
His eyes lock on mine as he presses inside.
Slow. Careful. Stretching me inch by inch. My breath stutters. The burn melts into pleasure. I’m slick, open, sensitive in a way that feels electric.
He pushes deeper. I gasp. My hands clutch at the sheets.
He groans, buried to the hilt, still and pulsing inside me. “Fuck, you feel good.”
Then he starts to move.
Measured at first. Deep thrusts that make me feel every inch of him. He watches me like he’s studying the exact shape of my pleasure. His hips shift, angling, then he hits something that makes me cry out.
“There,” he says, darkly satisfied. “Right there.”
He hits it again. Harder.
I arch, helpless.
“Please,” I gasp. “Don’t stop.”
He leans down, bracing on one arm, the other threading into my hair. His mouth grazes my ear.
“I’m not stopping,” he murmurs, “not until you’re screaming my name.”
The next thrust is sharp, deep, perfect. I cry out again.
His hand slides beneath me, lifting my hips. His rhythm shifts. Faster, rougher, pushing me higher.
“Look at me,” he says.
I force my eyes open. His are wild. Devouring. Like I belong to him and he’s only just now allowing himself to have me.
“I want to see you come again,” he says, voice low and rough. “On my cock this time.”
His pace builds, dragging me higher with every thrust. Pleasure gathers, tight and aching.
“Kane—”
“Come for me,” he growls, and the command shatters me.
I break with a scream, convulsing around him. My body locks down, fire in my veins. He thrusts through it, driving me deeper into the waves, then stills with a deep groan. I feel him spill inside me, hot and sharp and endless.
We collapse together, a tangle of sweat and shaking limbs.
He pulls out gently, then gathers me close, cradling me against his chest. His lips find my shoulder. A kiss, barely there.
“You okay?” he murmurs, voice thick.
I nod, still trembling.
He pulls the blankets up around us, settling me tighter against him. His heartbeat is steady beneath my ear. A slow, grounding drum.
“Sleep,” he says. “We’re not done yet. Not by a long shot.”