Chapter 11
Clare
The first coherent thought my brain managed: No sirens.
Fantastic. I was awake, breathing, and nobody was actively hunting us with dogs and helicopters. Really raising the bar for morning victories.
Second: Warm.
Holy shit. I was actually warm. Not shivering, not teeth-chattering, not contemplating hypothermia as a lifestyle choice.
The radiator was doing its job, the space heater glowing orange in the corner.
My body felt loose, rested, like I’d actually slept instead of passed out from blood loss and exhaustion.
Third: Where the hell am I?
The room came into focus. Sloped ceiling, exposed beams, dormer window showing gray morning light over Lyon rooftops. Right. The hideout Xavier found on a piece of paper on a streetlamp on our way from the bus station. Six flights up, cozy as promised, small enough to be forgotten.
Fourth: Yesterday happened.
The clinic. The chip in Xavier’s spine. Two dead cops.
Blood pooling. Bodies dropping. The wet thud of...
Stop.
Normal people didn’t wake up after witnessing brutal murder feeling rested and hungry.
Then again, normal people didn’t harbor mute assassin fugitives either.
Speaking of which...
I turned, scanning for him. Where was...
There. On the floor beside the bed.
My chest tightened.
He’d fallen asleep against the mattress, upper body slumped forward. Face angled toward me in sleep. One arm curled beneath him, the other stretched across the duvet.
Still on guard. Protecting me even unconscious, like some kind of deadly security system that refused to quit. Choosing to watch over me instead of rest, even though he was still recovering from trauma that should have killed him.
Stubborn, self-sacrificing bastard.
In the daylight, I could see him clearly for the first time since that alley. Really see him, not the injuries and crisis.
He was beautiful. Dangerous assessment, but true. Strong jaw relaxed in sleep, lips parted, those ridiculous cheekbones casting shadows. Dark blond hair mussed, falling across his forehead in a way that made my fingers itch to smooth it back.
The scar through his left eyebrow was pale silver, old. Violence survived, pain endured, a killer’s body harboring unexpected softness.
My palm drifted toward his forehead.
Just checking for fever. Making sure the infection hadn’t returned.
Right. Keep telling yourself that, Clare.
Skin carried heat but not fever when I made contact. The recovery was remarkable... what should have taken weeks was happening in days. His stomach wound had knit clean, his shoulder moved smoothly, even the gash on his scalp was barely visible.
Fingertips brushed his temple. Everything appeared fine. Recovery on track. No swelling, no inflammation, no...
Oh, who was I kidding?
This wasn’t medical. This was me craving contact.
Because yesterday people died and I needed to feel something alive. Someone who chose to stay.
My thumb grazed the scar through his eyebrow, wondering what had caused it. A blade? Impact? Someone’s fist splitting skin and leaving their mark?
He’d survived everything thrown at him. Built to endure, to keep going, to refuse surrender even when flesh should fail.
Kind of like me, actually. Though he was significantly better at the violence part.
Fingers slipped into his hair, soft and thick between my knuckles. He shifted, leaning into the contact. Trusting even unconscious.
Heat flared low in my belly. Sharp. Sudden.
Want.
Not the gentle kind. The ravenous kind. The kind that made my thighs clench and stole my air.
I needed this. Needed to feel something besides terror and the wet thud of bodies hitting pavement. Needed to prove I was still human, still capable of wanting something that didn’t involve survival.
Fingertips traced from hair to neck. His pulse beat steady and strong beneath them.
He’s not just someone you saved.
He’s someone you want.
Crave.
Outstanding. Lusting after a sleeping fugitive. Really living your best life, Clare.
But I kept going. Sliding to his shoulder, feeling the solid muscle beneath the shirt. The way he radiated warmth. The way he smelled, musky, male, him.
So close to my thigh. If I shifted, just a little...
You’re caressing a killer and getting wet. Therapy. You need so much therapy.
Arousal pulsed between my legs. Insistent. Impossible to ignore.
Right there. One movement and I could...
Control yourself. He’s asleep.
But I couldn’t stop. Tracing along the line of his neck, his collarbone, back up to his jaw. Claiming him.
Because that’s what this was. Not medical assessment. Not concern.
Hunger. Raw and simple.
And now I wanted...
Craved...
His breathing changed.
I froze, palm cupping his jaw.
Xavier’s eyelids lifted. Green and clear, meeting mine.
He didn’t move. Didn’t pull away.
Just stared at me. At where I held him.
Something shifted in his expression. Recognition. Understanding.
Desire answering desire.
Warmth flooded my face. “I was just...”
He knew.
Understood exactly what I craved.
Then he moved. Fast. Urgent.
Turned into my palm, lips scorching against my skin. Pressed hard to my wrist, right over my pulse point where it hammered against him.
Gaze stayed fixed on mine. Dark. Hungry. Asking without words.
Permission. He was asking permission.
“Yes.” The word escaped. “God, yes.”
Fingers covered mine, gripping tight, holding me to him while his tongue traced my pulse. Teeth scraped skin, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to make me gasp.
Never breaking contact.
Sharp and desperate and overwhelming.
Hunger.
My free palm grabbed his neck, dragging him closer.
Yes.
Fuck it. I’m in.
Xavier rose from the floor, fast, predatory, ignoring whatever pain it cost him. Never breaking our connection.
He caged me with his frame, knee shoving between my thighs before I could process. Weight settling hard and immediate, no hesitation, no careful positioning.
I grabbed his shirt, yanking him down. My pulse hammered so loud he had to hear it.
The pressure of him between my legs made me arch. Already slick. Already aching.
I crashed into him before he could be gentle about it.
No tentative. No testing.
Just hunger colliding.
He kissed like he was drowning and I was air. Consuming. All teeth and tongue and raw need.
His tongue swept in and I made a noise I’d never heard myself make, utterly wrecked.
More. Now.
Tearing at his shirt. He was pressing closer, weight settling more fully, grinding against me hard enough to make the bed creak.
Rough, callused palms shoved under my shirt, dragging up my ribs. I arched.
“Yes.” I couldn’t catch my breath. “God, yes.”
He pulled back enough to study me. Dark with lust.
The careful control he always maintained... gone. Shattered. Chest heaving, jaw tight, throat working. Finally as desperate as I was.
Weapon being feral. Raw. Uncontrolled.
Finally.
I snapped.
His shirt came off first, pulled over his head, breaking the kiss just long enough to clear fabric before diving back in.
He yanked my sweater up, dragging it off with zero finesse. My bra followed. He didn’t bother with the clasp, just shoved the cups down, freeing my breasts.
Cold air hit my skin for half a second before he was there. Scorching. Sucking hard enough to make me cry out.
I arched. He made a low noise.
“Fuck.”
Teeth scraped. Tongue soothed. Then he bit down, not hard, just enough, and pleasure shot straight to my core.
I grabbed his hair, dragging him closer, grinding against him while he worked me.
Alive. This is alive.
Not yesterday’s carnage. Not corpses. This.
Alive.
Fingers went for my jeans, yanking at the button. It popped free. Zipper down. I lifted my hips, and he dragged denim and underwear down in one rough pull until I could kick them off.
Naked. Finally fucking naked.
He pulled back, gaze dragging down my body. Possessive. Starving. Like he wanted to devour me.
Palms trembled where they gripped my hips. That small tell, the only crack in his control, made my breath catch.
Dangerous man. Lethal touch. Shaking for me.
I should’ve felt exposed. Vulnerable.
Instead I felt powerful. Craved.
Then he shoved between my thighs.
“Oh...” My hips bucked when he found me slick and ready, and he made a guttural sound at how prepared I was.
Two fingers pushed inside. No teasing. No build. Just filling me, stretching me.
“Fuck...”
He watched my face while he worked, adding a third finger, stretching me wider, thumb finding my clit and circling hard.
Not gentle. Not careful.
Frantic.
My hips rocking to meet him, chasing sensation, chasing the pressure building in my core.
“More. Please...”
Lips found my throat. Sucking hard enough to bruise. Teeth scraping. Marking.
The combination, his fingers inside, his thumb on my clit, him on my throat...
Fire. Pressure. Can’t think. Can’t...
“Fuck, yes, there...”
Fingers curled, found that spot, and...
White. Blazing. Gone.
So close. Right there. Just...
He pulled away.
I made a noise of protest, but he was already moving, kissing down my stomach, positioning himself between my thighs, spreading me wider with his shoulders.
Oh god.
The first stroke of his tongue made my hips buck. He made that guttural noise again and devoured me. No finesse. Just hunger. Tongue flat and broad, licking through me like he was starving.
Desperate. As desperate as I was.
I threaded my fingers through his hair, yanking him closer, grinding.
He made a rough noise and gripped my thighs hard enough to bruise, holding me open while he worked.
When he added two fingers, sliding inside while closing around my clit, the combination nearly broke me.
“Don’t stop.” My grip tightened. “Don’t you fucking dare stop...”
He didn’t.
Pumping hard, curling to hit that spot that made my vision white out. Tongue circling my clit, relentless, while his stubble scraped my inner thighs, pleasure and pain twisting together until I couldn’t separate them.