Chapter 27
We wade through a sea of bodies, pressed tight by the crush of the covered market.
Everything smells like cumin, roasted meat, sweat, and perfume—no inch of air unclaimed.
Alejandro leads, moving with the kind of confidence only someone raised on chaos can pull off.
He turns sideways, slipping between two women arguing over oranges, then glances back at me with a smirk, a wink. He holds his hand out.
I take it. His palm is warm—steady. I catch the sharp bite of his cologne, some expensive blend undercut with sweat and gun oil, all tangled up in the heat of his skin. He pulls me through the crowd with practiced ease, never hesitating, never letting go.
The market is a maze, but he navigates like he was born in it, weaving us through stalls and tight alleys until we duck through a plain metal door.
On the other side, the world shifts: we cut through a kitchen, the staff hardly looking up.
One guy on the grill gives Alejandro a nod, grease-slicked spatula tapping the counter.
Alejandro returns it with the ghost of a smile.
A second door swings open and we’re somewhere else entirely.
Overhead, strings of yellow lights web the air, casting everything in a forgiving glow.
Music thumps, layered with laughter and the rise and fall of voices.
Bodies press and twist on a makeshift dance floor in the center; a bar glows at the far corner, crowded with regulars and newcomers alike.
Tables dot the shadows, high and low, everyone draped in the easy pleasure of a night unburdened by consequence.
Alejandro leans in, voice pitched low for my ears only. “We’ll be safe here. Try to enjoy yourself tonight.”
I arch a brow. “I’ve got a knife strapped to my thigh.”
His smile is all sin, white teeth and promise. The devil himself would fall to his knees right there.
He leads me to the bar, orders two shots of tequila, sliding one toward me. “To not being dead yet.”
I raise one eyebrow, glass to my lips. “Yet.”
We eat. We talk. We drink. The table fills with little plates—gambas al ajillo, pulpo a la gallega, crispy patacones on the side.
The best paella de mariscos I’ve ever had in my life.
Alejandro orders everything in rapid Spanish, laughing with the bartender.
I stick to seafood and vegetables; no land meat, but I’m not above devouring half the shrimp on the table.
He keeps the plates coming and refills my glass whenever it’s empty.
“How do you know this place is Guild-free?” I ask, spearing a grilled octopus tentacle, pretending it’s not the best thing I’ve tasted in months.
He grins. “My cousin’s back in the kitchen. There are little pockets everywhere the Guild doesn’t know exist. This—” He gestures at the strung lights, the crowd, the music—“this little piece of paradise, hidden behind three buildings, is one of them.”
I blink. “Didn’t realize you had family.”
He laughs, soft and dangerous. “What, you think I was born one day from a sniper’s scope? Just—” He makes a gun with his fingers, “—appeared, fully grown, ready to piss off the world?”
I shrug, taking another bite, then chase it with cold beer. “Just figured you were an orphan. Like me.”
He goes still, smile fading a notch. “I didn’t know that.”
I wave him off. “Don’t sweat it. Kenji’s the only other person who does.”
He turns thoughtful. “Your old teacher—Kenji Takahashi, right? Never had the fortune to meet the man.”
A smile tugs at my mouth. “Kenji was…relentless. Hard. Never gave up on me, not once. First person who ever came into my life and stayed there.”
We let the conversation drift, both of us eating slower, talking around old wounds. The music swells, the crowd shifts, and for a moment the world is just the two of us at a battered wooden table, sharing plates and memories.
I break the spell. “Guess as close as we were, we didn’t really know anything about each other.”
He looks at me then—really looks. His eyes darken, slow and intent. He reaches over, callused thumb brushing my cheek, palm warm. “I suppose we didn’t.”
The silence hums, loaded with everything we’ve never said. He holds it a second longer, then breaks away, rising with a sudden breath. “We’re dancing.”
He drains his beer, nods to the bartender for two more, then pulls my chair back, hand outstretched.
“No, we’re not,” I protest, but the words are hollow. There’s no bite to it. He knows it.
“We are. There’s no way we’re leaving before I see that dress move around the dance floor, mi Picarita.”
I sigh, making a show of irritation, but I take his hand all the same. He pulls me up, spins me straight into the current of dancers, and suddenly, I’m not thinking about knives or death or anything but the music and the heat of his hand in mine.
Alejandro dances like he fucks—precise, confident, hands in exactly the right place at exactly the right time.
The way he moves makes it easy to let go, to let him lead, and that’s exactly why he’s dangerous.
I should be thinking about Guild contracts, assassins, escape routes.
But he’s like gravity, and I’m all iron filings.
The music swells and the lights blur, and it’s just us in the center, pressed close, heat rolling off him in waves. His eyes never leave mine, not for a second. He steps in, slow and deliberate, so close our faces almost touch.
“Have you seen anyone…since me?” he asks, voice pitched for me alone. There’s something almost desperate in the way he says it, like he needs the answer to be what he hopes.
I could lie. It’d be easy, would save us both from where this is going. But I don’t. “No,” I say, honest as sin. It makes the air go thick, charged.
His arms slide all the way around my waist, pulling me flush against him. I loop my arms over his shoulders, feeling the tension wind tighter. His mouth hovers over mine—so close I can feel the heat, the promise, but he doesn’t touch.
“Why?” he breathes, voice rough.
There’s that look again. He’s waiting for a truth that will either cut him or set him on fire. I don’t look away. “I didn’t want anyone else.” The words are barely there, but he hears them.
He doesn’t wait another second. He closes the distance, taking my mouth in a kiss that’s slow and deep, one hand sliding down to grip the back of my thigh, pulling me hard against the evidence of just how much he wants me.
I’m breathless when I break the kiss, our bodies still swaying, tangled in the beat. “We said we weren’t itching any more scratches.”
A tray of tequila sweeps past. I grab a shot, tilting my head as Alejandro’s tongue traces the column of my throat, tasting sweat and salt and promise.
“You said that. Not me.” His mouth works up my neck and I tip back, half the tequila burning its way down.
I offer him the rest, holding the glass up. “Want some?”
He nods, mouth brushing mine, tongue sweeping into my mouth as he tastes the tequila straight from my lips. “Delicious,” he murmurs, breath ghosting across my skin.
I push him back with a wicked grin, finish the shot, never breaking eye contact. I step away, slow—one step, then another. “I need the little girls’ room.”
I walk toward the stairs, his eyes tracking every move and I glance back just as I reach the top. There’s a clear moment when he makes a decision, throwing back a shot of his own as I disappear through the bathroom door, heart thundering, already knowing he’s coming after me.
The bathroom is empty, the hum of the dance floor muffled by the thick door. I slip off my panties and tuck them behind my back, settling against the sink. The anticipation crackles—every second is a dare.
Alejandro enters a moment later, eyes locked on mine, and shuts the door with a decisive click. His gaze drops, taking me in and the way I’m waiting for him, hands hidden.
He closes the distance, grabbing my jaw and kissing me hard—hungry, devouring, his tongue staking its claim. His hand drops to my thigh, fingers skimming up to my holster. He slides my knife free, and drags the flat of the blade along the curve of my hip, barely touching.
“Looking for these?” I murmur, and flash him my panties—taunting, challenging.
He growls, dark and low, and drives the knife into the metal stall wall beside us. The handle vibrates. “You’re a dirty girl, Saint James.”
He kisses me again, rougher, and grabs my hips, spinning me so my back’s pressed to the stall. “Hold on,” he commands.
I barely have time to reach up, grabbing the knife’s handle overhead, when he drops to his knees. He lifts my dress, spreads me open, and drags his tongue over me, slow and deliberate.
He hooks my leg over his shoulder, angle perfect for him to feast. The first stroke of his tongue has me gasping, hips stuttering, my hand gripping his hair as I tip my head back, mouth open for the sounds I don’t care who hears.
He pulls back just enough to speak, breath hot on my skin. “Tell me how good I make you feel.”
He wants praise—needs it, craves it—and I’m happy to give. “So fucking good, Alejandro. You know exactly how to ruin me—don’t stop,” I release a sigh, “just like that.”
He hums, tongue working deeper, lapping, sucking, his hands holding me steady when my legs threaten to give out. My hips roll, chasing every pulse of pleasure, every flicker of his tongue. I shudder, thighs trembling as the orgasm hits—sharp, consuming, white-hot.
I cry out, body arching against him, and he rides it out, mouth relentless until I have to push him away, spent and shaking.
He stands, face slick, eyes bright with triumph and hunger. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, leans in close, mouth grazing my ear.
“Now,” he whispers, voice rough, “ask me, Saint.”
He kisses me as his fingers fumble with his belt—one arm around my waist. I hear the rasp of the zipper, the heavy drag of denim.
“Ask what?” I manage, voice thick.
His mouth barely leaves mine as he frees his cock, pressing in close, like he’s starving for me. “Ask me who I’ve been with.”
I meet his eyes, lips brushing. “Who?”
He hooks my leg over his arm, balances me on one foot—my grip tight on the sink, the other on his shoulder.
He holds my gaze, voice guttural: “No one.” The word cracks like a whip as he drives into me with one hard, deep stroke.
He doesn’t give me a second to breathe, to answer, to do anything but gasp as he starts to fuck me like he’s got something to prove.
He’s pounding into me, hard enough my teeth rattle, sweat running down both our bodies.
I dig my nails into his back, locked onto his wild eyes. “You could fuck half of Chicago and still come crawling back for my dick.”
“You wish.” I bite out before I take his mouth in a claiming kiss.
He grins, savage. “You’re a fucking liar—listen to you, soaking wet, dripping down my cock. That’s for me, Saint. Always has been.”
He picks me up, barely breaking rhythm, slamming me back against the stall, fucking me deeper. “Don’t pretend you haven’t thought about me these two years. I know you have. Every goddamn night.”
I try to sneer, defiant. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
He sets me on the sink, opens me wide, starts driving in harder—ruthless, demanding. “Admit it. You touch yourself thinking about me. Every fucking time. Say it.”
His hand finds my throat, squeezes just enough to make the world spin. His voice is a growl in my ear. “I think about you every time I make myself come, Saint. Every fucking time.”
“Oh my God.” I groan out, head falling back as my orgasm tightens.
“Admit it baby while you come on my fat cock.”
I fall apart around him, hips slamming up to meet every brutal thrust. “Yes—fuck—yes, I do. Harder, Alejandro—fuck me harder—”
The last few pulses rip through me, and that’s when the sink gives, snapping off the wall.
Water explodes everywhere. He shifts quickly, holding my weight.
His hand on the mirror to steady himself for the last few thrusts, making sure I finish coming.
That his dick pulses one last time deep inside me.
He slides out, steadying me back on my feet and grabbing paper towels. Fisting his cock and wiping himself clean, we both look around the demolished bathroom and burst out laughing.
He tosses the used towels and kisses me, still rough, still hungry, before finally letting me go to zip himself up.
I pick my ruined panties out of a puddle. “You think the restaurant’s gonna know we’ve been fucking when we walk out of the bathroom dripping wet?”
He snatches the panties from my hand and tosses them in the trash. “I don’t fucking care. You won’t need these, Picarita.”
He swipes two fingers through the mess between my thighs, gathering cum and slick, then sucks them clean, eyes locked on mine.
“Because I’m nowhere near done with this pussy tonight.”