Chapter 32 Lia
LIA
The ceiling of my bedroom has never looked so interesting. Five hours since I left Purgatory, since I left him, and sleep refuses to come. Every time I close my eyes, I see his face, feel his hands, hear his voice.
My body still bears the marks of our time together—rope burns, bruises blooming across my hips, the shallow cuts on my hip and chest that sting when I shift position. Each twinge of pain brings a corresponding surge of pleasure-memory, like phantom hands still touching me.
I roll onto my side, pulling the blanket tighter around me. The sheets feel wrong against my skin. Too cold. Too empty.
“This is ridiculous,” I whisper to the darkness.
I spent fifteen years building a life without him and convincing myself I'd made the right choice by leaving. And now, after just seventy-two hours back in his orbit, I'm lying here aching for him like a lovesick teenager.
My phone sits on the nightstand, screen dark. I could text him. Ask him to come over. The thought alone sends a flutter through my stomach that's equal parts desire and terror.
What would I even say? Can't sleep without you? Miss the feeling of being owned by you? The truth sounds pathetic even in my head.
But I do miss him. Miss the weight of his body against mine. Miss the safety I felt in his arms, which is ironic considering how dangerous he is.
This wasn't supposed to happen. The Hunt was supposed to be an experience, not a revelation. I was supposed to satisfy my curiosity, scratch the itch that's been there since prom night, and move on with my carefully constructed life.
Instead, I'm lying here in the dark, staring at my ceiling, feeling utterly lost without a man I spent fifteen years running from.
The worst part isn't wanting him here. The worst part is knowing that admitting it would mean surrendering the last piece of myself I've been holding back. The final wall would come down, and then what would be left of the independent woman I fought so hard to become?
I toss my phone onto the mattress and stare at it. This is madness. Pure, unadulterated insanity.
“Fuck it.”
Before I can second-guess myself, I snatch the phone back and press Vane's contact. My heart pounds against my ribs as the call connects.
He answers on the second ring. “Wildflower.” His voice is deep, alert—definitely not the voice of someone I woke up.
“You're still awake,” I say.
“Did you think I'd be sleeping?” A hint of amusement colors his tone. “Let me guess... You couldn't sleep without me? Maybe it was that good nap you had on my cock that spoiled you.”
Heat floods my face. “Don't be so cocky,” I mutter, even as I squeeze my thighs together, the memory of being filled by him during dinner making my body ache with need.
“Tell me why you called, Lia.”
I close my eyes, surrender washing over me. “Maybe I need your cock to help me sleep now.”
A growl rumbles through the phone, primal and possessive. The sound vibrates straight to my core.
“You know it's against the rules. Twenty-four-hour cool-off period, remember?”
“Since when have you been a rule follower?” I challenge, emboldened by the darkness and distance between us. “I never took you for someone who cared about rules before.”
The line goes silent for three heartbeats.
“Vane?”
The call ends abruptly. I pull the phone away, staring at the screen in confusion. Did I push too far? I sit up, even more awake, wondering if I've made a fool of myself.
Ten minutes pass. I'm about to throw my phone across the room when it pings with a message. I open it to find a photo of his green Kawasaki motorcycle parked on what looks like my street.
Below the image, three words.
See you soon.
My heart leaps in my chest as I read his message. Three simple words that have me jumping to my feet and tossing my phone onto the bed as I rush to the window. Pulling back the curtain, I scan the street below.
There it is—his green Kawasaki gleaming under the streetlight, but no sign of Vane himself. My breath fogs the glass as I press closer, searching the shadows. Where is he?
The sudden buzz of my doorbell makes me jolt. He's here. He's actually here.
I glance down at my oversized T-shirt and cotton shorts—definitely not the impression I want to make after practically begging him to come over.
Rushing to my dresser, I yank open the second drawer and grab the first thing my fingers touch—a sheer nightgown that I bought but never dared to wear.
The silky material slides over my skin as I pull it on.
The doorbell rings again, more insistent this time.
“Coming!” I call out. I don't bother checking my reflection—what's the point? He's seen me in every state now.
I unlock the door and pull it open. Vane fills the doorframe. Before I can even say hello, he's inside, kicking the door shut behind him. His body presses mine against the wall, one hand wrapping around my throat—not squeezing, just holding.
“Did you miss me that much, baby?” His voice is a rough whisper against my lips, his breath hot on my skin.
“Yes,” I whisper. “I missed you.”
His thumb traces my jawline, eyes never leaving mine. “Just tonight? Or have you missed me all these years, wildflower?”
I bite my lip, dropping my gaze. The question digs into places I've kept locked away, even from myself.
His grip on my throat tightens just enough to tilt my face back up to his. “Tell me the truth. I want to hear you say it.”
I nod slowly, my defenses crumbling under the intensity of his stare.
“Say it,” he growls, his body pressing harder against mine.
“I missed you,” I confess. “Every day. Every man I was with... none of them were you.”
Triumph flashes in his eyes before his mouth crashes down on mine. His kiss steals my breath and my resistance in equal measure. His leather jacket feels cold against my skin through the thin nightgown, the contrast of temperatures making me gasp into his mouth.
I run my hands over his shoulders, feeling the smooth leather under my palms. He looks so fucking gorgeous in his biking leathers. The scent of leather, cologne, and Vane’s unique musk surrounds me, intoxicating and somehow familiar.
My body responds to him instantly, arching into his touch like it's been programmed to seek him out. Three days with him after fifteen years apart, and I'm addicted. Or maybe I've been addicted since that night at prom, and I've been in denial, suffering the longest withdrawal in history.
His hands are everywhere at once, impatiently shoving the thin nightgown up my thighs. The sound of leather hitting the floor echoes through my apartment as he tears off his jacket without breaking our kiss.
“Need you now,” he growls against my mouth, his voice wrecked with desperation. “Fuck the rules.”
I cling to his shoulders as he yanks his shirt over his head, revealing the tattoos that are so fucking beautiful on his skin—tattoos he didn't have when we were eighteen. His belt hits the floor next, followed by the metallic rasp of his zipper. Everything happens in a blur of movement and need.
He lifts me against the wall, my legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. With one smooth thrust, he's inside me. My head falls back against the wall as he buries his face in my neck.
“All this time,” he pants against my skin, his hips driving into me with punishing force. “So many years and you still feel like coming home.”
There's no art to this, no elaborate bondage or carefully orchestrated dominance—just raw, primal need.
“You're everything,” he whispers, his voice breaking as his rhythm falters. “You're the air in my lungs, the blood in my veins. I've existed in grayscale since you left.”
Tears prick my eyes at his words. My body tightens around him, drawing him deeper.
“You're the color in my world, wildflower.” His lips brush my ear, each word punctuated by the thrust of his hips. “The green in every forest, the blue in every sky. I've been drowning without you.”
His words break open a truth inside me. Something I've kept locked away for fifteen years.
“I love you.” The words tumble from my lips.
Vane goes still inside me. His breathing halts, his muscles tense beneath my fingertips. My heart pounds against my ribs as seconds stretch into eternity.
The vulnerability of my position—pinned against the wall, physically and emotionally exposed—suddenly feels overwhelming.
Then his eyes meet mine. The intensity I find there steals what little breath I have left. His pupils are blown wide, ringed with that impossible green that's haunted my dreams for fifteen years.
“Say it again.” His voice is hoarse, desperate.
I swallow, suddenly shy despite our intimacy. “I love you, Vane. I think I always have.”
A sound escapes him—half growl, half roar—before his mouth crashes into mine. The kiss is devastating, consuming, like he's trying to devour the words I've given him. His hands cradle my face with such tenderness that tears spring to my eyes.
When he finally breaks the kiss, his forehead presses against mine.
“I love you,” he whispers, the words brushing against my lips like a prayer.
“Fuck, Lia, I have loved you since high school. Every day without you has been torture.” His hips start moving again, each thrust punctuating his words.
“You're mine. Always have been.” His voice intensifies, turning almost feral.
“I'm never letting you go again. Never.”
His fingers tighten in my hair, tilting my head back so I have no choice but to meet his gaze.
“My heart. My soul.” His eyes burn into mine, leaving no room for doubt. “No more running. No more denying what we are. You belong to me, and I belong to you.”
“Yes,” I whisper, tears blurring my vision. “I'm yours, Vane. No more running.”
The raw emotion in his eyes nearly undoes me. Without breaking our connection, he lifts me from the wall, his strong arms supporting my weight. I cling to him, my legs still wrapped around his waist, as he carries me the short distance to my living room.
“I want to see you,” he murmurs against my neck. “All of you.”
He lowers me onto the sofa with unexpected gentleness, following me down until we're lying together, our bodies still joined. The frantic urgency from moments ago transforms into something deeper, something that makes my chest ache with its intensity.
Vane brushes a strand of hair from my face, his touch reverent. “Fifteen years I've dreamed of this,” he says, voice husky with emotion. “Not just fucking you. Loving you.”
He begins to move inside me again, but this time with slow, deliberate strokes that make me feel every inch of him. My nightgown has ridden up around my waist, and he carefully pulls it over my head, tossing it aside. His hands caress my skin like he's memorizing the contours of my body.
“So beautiful,” he whispers, pressing soft kisses along my collarbone, up my neck, across my cheeks where tears have fallen.
I cradle his face between my palms, overwhelmed by the tenderness replacing his earlier ferocity. This is a side of Vane I've only glimpsed before—the vulnerable boy beneath the dangerous man. His movements remain measured and deep, each thrust punctuated by whispered endearments against my skin.
My body responds differently to this gentler approach, pleasure building slowly rather than crashing over me. I arch against him, seeking more of this exquisite sensation.
“I love you,” I say again, because now that I've finally spoken the words, I can't stop. “I love you, Vane.”
His answering smile is breathtaking.
His gentle touch traces patterns across my skin as our bodies move together in perfect rhythm. This isn't the frantic claiming from the maze or the possessive display at the ceremony. This is something else entirely—a communion, a promise exchanged without words.
Vane's eyes never leave mine, holding me captive in his gaze more effectively than any rope ever could. The vulnerability I see there matches my own, raw and unguarded. For a man who's spent years constructing walls around himself, letting me see him like this is the greatest surrender of all.
“I never stopped thinking about you,” he whispers, pressing his forehead against mine. “Not for a single day.”
I wrap my arms around him, pulling him closer, needing to eliminate any space between us. His body covers mine completely, protective and possessive all at once. His weight grounds me, anchoring me to this moment that feels almost dreamlike in its perfection.
As the pleasure builds between us, slow and sweet and devastatingly intense, Vane captures my lips in a kiss so tender it brings fresh tears to my eyes. There's no demand in this kiss, no conquest—just pure devotion that steals my breath and mends something broken inside me.
When we finally break apart, I gaze up at the man I've finally stopped running from, and I know with absolute certainty that I'm exactly where I belong.
For so long, I thought independence meant standing completely alone.
I built my life around proving I didn't need anyone, especially not the boy who made me feel too much, too fast. I crafted a perfect New York existence, filled with accomplishments and experiences, all while ignoring the Vane-shaped hole in my heart.