CHAPTER 33
Gemma
The house is quiet, but it’s a different kind of quiet than the one we had in the safe house in New York.
That silence was heavy, oppressive, and filled with the constant, terrifying expectation of violence. This silence is warm. It smells like woodsmoke from the massive stone fireplace and the faint, lingering aroma of the terrible coffee we drank in town.
I am sitting cross-legged in the center of the large bed in the master bedroom, a thick wool blanket draped over my lap.
The heavy blackout curtains are open. The moon is bright tonight, casting a pale, silver glow over the churning black water of the North Atlantic visible through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
I look toward the en-suite bathroom. The door is cracked open, a sliver of warm yellow light spilling out onto the hardwood floor. I can hear the shower running.
Callum has been in there for twenty minutes.
It is the longest he has ever willingly separated himself from me since we arrived in Iceland. For the first three weeks, if I was in the bedroom, he was in the doorway. If I was in the kitchen, he was at the island. He never let me out of his line of sight.
Today, he left his gun in the pocket of his coat by the front door. He drank coffee in a public place. And now, he is taking a shower with the door open, trusting that the perimeter sensors and the thick glass are enough to keep me safe.
He is actually trying.
I trace the raised, pink scar on my left side through the soft cotton of my t-shirt. The skin is tight, but it doesn't hurt anymore. Dr. Aris was right. The inner stitches dissolved perfectly, and the outer ones came out without a problem.
The water in the bathroom shuts off.
A few minutes later, Callum steps out into the bedroom.
He is wearing a pair of dark gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips. He doesn't have a shirt on. His dark hair is wet, sticking up at odd angles, and a few stray drops of water are still sliding down the broad, hard lines of his chest.
I stare at him.
I have seen him without a shirt before, usually when he was changing out of blood-stained tactical gear or checking his own bruises, but I have never seen him like this. Completely relaxed. Unguarded.
The physical map of his history is written across his skin. There is a jagged, white scar near his left collarbone where the ceramic plate of his vest caught the rifle round on the beach. There are older, faded lines across his ribs and a deep, puckered mark on his left shoulder.
He is a walking testament to violence.
But as he walks across the room, grabbing a towel to dry his hair, he doesn't look dangerous. He just looks incredibly, devastatingly human.
He tosses the towel onto a chair and walks toward the bed.
He stops at the edge of the mattress, looking down at me. The ambient moonlight catches the sharp angles of his face.
"You are staring," he says, his voice a low, gravelly rumble.
"I am," I agree, not looking away. "I’m assessing the variables."
A faint, genuine smile touches the corners of his mouth. He climbs onto the bed, the mattress sinking under his weight. He doesn't sit next to me. He crawls forward, his knees bracketing my hips, and settles back on his heels.
The proximity is immediate and overwhelming.
I have to tilt my head back to look at his face. The heat radiating off his damp skin is intoxicating.
"And what have you concluded?" he asks, his dark eyes locking onto mine.
"I have concluded that you are entirely too calm for a man who used to sleep with a knife in his hand," I say, my voice dropping to a whisper.
"I told you," he murmurs, reaching out to gently push a stray strand of hair behind my ear. "The war is over."
"I know." I lean into his touch, closing my eyes for a fraction of a second. "It’s just... weird. Not having to look over my shoulder. Not having to check the encryption logs every ten minutes."
"You checked the logs three times while I was in the shower."
I open my eyes, glaring at him. "I was verifying the server stability. It’s professional diligence, Callum. Not paranoia."
"Of course." His thumb brushes lightly over my cheekbone. "Professional diligence."
I let out a soft, frustrated breath. "Okay, fine. I’m still adjusting, too. It’s hard to just turn it off."
"We don't have to turn it off," he says quietly. "We just have to redirect it."
He slides his hands down my arms, his fingers wrapping loosely around my wrists. He pulls my hands forward, placing them flat against his bare chest, right over his heart.
The steady, powerful rhythm beats against my palms.
"I spent eight years calculating how to end lives," Callum says, his eyes never leaving mine. "I am going to spend the rest of mine calculating how to keep you happy. It is a much more complex algorithm."
The absolute sincerity in his voice makes my breath catch in my throat.
He isn't joking. He isn't trying to be romantic. He is stating a tactical objective. He has taken all the obsessive, protective energy that made him the most lethal man in the syndicate and focused it entirely on me.
"Callum," I whisper, my fingers curling slightly against his skin.
"You asked me what happens when we get bored," he continues, leaning down until his face is inches from mine. "We are never going to be bored, Gemma. Because I am never going to stop looking at you."
He doesn't wait for me to answer.
He presses his mouth against mine.
It isn't the desperate, violent collision from the motel room. It isn't a kiss born of adrenaline or the fear of impending death. It is slow. It is deliberate. It is a man who finally has the time to memorize exactly what the woman he loves tastes like.
I let out a soft, involuntary sound, my hands sliding up his chest to wrap around his neck.
I open my mouth, letting him deepen the kiss. The taste of mint and coffee is intoxicating. He shifts his weight, his hands sliding down to grip my hips, pulling me forward until my body is flush against his.
The heat between us flares instantly, burning away the last lingering shadows of the cold, dark world we left behind.
He pulls back slightly, his breathing harsh and ragged. His dark eyes are completely black with desire.
"Are your ribs okay?" he asks, his voice thick.
"They’re fine," I gasp, pulling him back down. "Stop asking about my ribs."
He lets out a low, rough laugh against my mouth.
He shifts his grip, his hands sliding under the hem of my t-shirt. His palms are warm against my bare skin, tracing the curve of my waist, his thumbs brushing lightly over the raised scar on my left side before moving higher.
I shiver, a sharp, electric jolt shooting straight down my spine.
I reach for the hem of my shirt, pulling it over my head and tossing it onto the floor.
Callum’s eyes drop, taking in the pale skin of my chest and the dark lace of my bra in the moonlight.
The absolute reverence in his gaze makes my heart hammer against my ribs.
He doesn't look at me like I am a fragile thing that needs to be protected.
He looks at me like I am the only thing in the world that matters.
He leans down, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss against the hollow of my throat.
I gasp, my fingers tangling in his damp hair, pulling him closer.
He pushes me gently backward until my shoulders hit the mattress. He follows me down, his heavy body covering mine, his weight supported on his forearms so he doesn't crush me.
"You’re beautiful," he murmurs, his lips trailing down my neck to my collarbone.
"Shut up," I breathe, my hands sliding down his back, feeling the hard, shifting muscles beneath his skin. "You’re ruining my cynical hacker aesthetic."
He chuckles, the vibration rumbling against my chest.
He reaches back, his fingers finding the clasp of my bra. He unhooks it with practiced, terrifying efficiency, tossing it aside.
The cool air of the bedroom hits my bare skin for exactly one second before his mouth replaces it.
I cry out, my back arching off the mattress. The sensation is absolute fire. My hands grip his shoulders, my nails digging into his skin as he moves lower, his kisses trailing down my stomach, his tongue tracing the edge of the scar on my ribs.
He doesn't ignore the scar. He honors it. He knows exactly what it cost me to earn it, and he treats it with a dark, possessive devotion.
He hooks his fingers into the waistband of my sweatpants, pulling them down along with my underwear. I kick them off, leaving me completely bare beneath him.
Callum moves back up the bed, his dark eyes locking onto mine.
He is breathing heavily, the muscles in his arms trembling slightly with the effort of holding himself back. He is giving me the control. He is waiting for my permission.
"Callum," I whisper, reaching up to cup his face. "Please."
He doesn't hesitate anymore.
He settles his weight between my thighs. I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him flush against me.
When he finally pushes inside me, the sensation is so overwhelming it completely short-circuits my brain. I gasp, my eyes squeezing shut as a sharp, intense wave of pleasure crashes over me.
He stops moving, his body completely rigid above me.
"Gemma?" he asks, his voice tight with concern. "Did I hurt you?"
"No," I breathe, opening my eyes. "No, don't stop. Please don't stop."
He lets out a harsh exhale, his control finally snapping.
He begins to move.
The rhythm is slow at first, deep and deliberate, letting my body adjust to the sheer size and heat of him. But as my hands slide down his back, my nails scraping lightly against his skin, the pace changes.
It becomes frantic. It becomes desperate.
It is the physical manifestation of everything we have been holding back for six weeks. The fear, the trauma, the absolute, terrifying certainty that we belong to each other.
I wrap my arms tightly around his neck, burying my face in his shoulder to muffle my cries. The friction is a building, agonizing pressure in the center of my body. The world outside the bedroom—the ocean, the wind, the past—completely vanishes.
There is only Callum.
"Look at me," he commands, his voice a rough, broken growl near my ear.
I turn my head, forcing my eyes open.
His face is a mask of dark, intense concentration. He is watching me fall apart, his eyes entirely black in the moonlight.
"You’re mine," he says, the words hitting me like a physical blow. It isn't a question. It is a vow.
"I’m yours," I gasp, my body completely surrendering to the truth of it.
The admission shatters the last remaining barrier.
The pressure inside me violently snaps. I cry out, my back arching off the mattress as wave after wave of blinding pleasure crashes through my system. My vision goes completely white, my hands gripping his shoulders with desperate strength as my body clenches around him.
Callum lets out a harsh, guttural groan, his own control finally breaking. He drives into me one last, deep time, his body going rigid as he finds his own release.
He collapses against me, his heavy weight pressing me into the mattress. He buries his face in the crook of my neck, his chest heaving, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my own.
I wrap my arms around him, my hands stroking his damp hair, waiting for our breathing to slow.
We lie there for a long time, tangled together in the dark.
The wind howls against the massive glass windows, but the sound doesn't bother me anymore. The cold can't reach us in here.
Callum shifts his weight, rolling onto his side and pulling me tightly against his chest. He pulls the thick wool blanket up over our shoulders, tucking the edges around me to keep the chill away.
He doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to.
I rest my head against his chest, listening to the steady, comforting beat of his heart.
I close my eyes, and for the first time in my life, I fall asleep without checking the locks.