CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN
The darkness wraps around us like a velvet shroud, soft and heavy, sheltering us from everything beyond the bed. There is no past here. No lies. No names. Just the rhythm of our breathing and the tension thrumming between us like a live wire.
He lays beside me, still cloaked in mystery.
Still hard.
Still wanting.
And I—I am trembling, not from fear, but from the confusing swirl of hunger and need and something far more intimidating.
His hands move over me with slow, commanding care. Not rushed. Not frantic. Just steady, like he’s trying to commit every part of me to memory.
Like every inch of my skin holds some secret he’d been aching to uncover. The pads of his fingers skim the curve of my waist, the dip of my belly, the rise of my breasts. I suck in a breath as his thumbs brush over my nipples, circling until they peak under his touch.
I arch for him, helpless.
“Please,” I whisper, not sure what I am begging for.
His mouth finds my neck with no restraint left.
The mask is gone. These are no longer the calculated kisses of the Warden — they’re raw and hungry.
His lips drag hot and open down my throat, sucking slow, possessive marks into my skin, claiming me with every pull of his mouth.
He moves lower, lavishing the same unrestrained attention on the soft swell just above my breasts.
His breathing is completely ragged now, harsh and uneven through clenched teeth, as if touching me like this is costing him the last threads of his control.
And yet still restrained.
Still fighting whatever war brews behind those guarded eyes.
"You belong to me," he murmurs. Not a question. Not a plea. A claim.
And God help me, I believe him.
I nod, throat tight. My hands find his chest, clutching his shirt he hasn’t taken off yet, needing to hold something solid in the storm he stirs inside me.
"Then show me," I whisper, voice thick with heat, with fear, with need.
He doesn’t hesitate.
His hand slips beneath the sheet, possessive, hungry. He parts my thighs, exposing the mess he’d already made of me, and slides two fingers through my slick folds.
I gasp.
His touch is intentional. His fingers press into me slowly—one knuckle, two—then curl in a rhythm that makes my breath catch in my throat. He moves with precision, stroking a spot inside me that no one has ever touched quite like he has. Like he already knew me.
Like he’d been dreaming about this for a very long time.
I cry out, my hips jerking against his hand, my body already spiraling, desperate for more. His other hand comes up, gently cupping one breast, his thumb flicking my nipple.
Fucking tormenting me.
I writhe beneath him, breathless. Coming undone. My walls flutter around his fingers, every movement dragging me closer to that edge I both fear and need.
“Say my name,” he murmurs against my breast, voice deep and wrecked. “Say it.”
I freeze. Just for a moment. My heart thunders, my lips part. I can taste the hesitation on my tongue.
His fingers slow—but stay inside me, still pulsing. Still commanding.
The silence stretches.
My mind fractures between two men.
Montgomery—the ghost of sunlight and freedom, the dream that once felt safer.
And Shoomaker—the man who found me, who promised I was safe.
Both names tangle on my tongue, both pulling at different pieces of my heart. But in the end, only one name feels like the full truth.
I exhale it, trembling, voice barely more than a broken whisper:
“…Warden.”
His groan is guttural. Like the word has broken something in him.
Or maybe healed it.
His forehead pressing to mine, breath mingling, body shaking with the effort it takes not to fall apart.
"Yes," he whispers, voice fraying at the edges. "That’s right. You’re mine. And I'm not letting you go."
He thrusts his fingers deeper, curling them with rough precision. His palm presses against my clit, grinding slow and filthy, and I shatter beneath him—my body tightening, trembling, breaking open all over again.
But this time, it isn’t just pleasure.
It is everything.
Tears slip down my cheeks, silent and unchecked. I realize he wasn’t just fucking me.
He is claiming me.
“I’m not what you think,” he whispers, voice broken glass and silk.
I blink up at him in the dark, heart pounding, breath caught somewhere between disbelief and desperate hope. His face is still hidden, swallowed by the shadows filling the room.
“Who are you?” I ask, my voice barely audible, thick with something fragile. Something real.
His hand presses flat against my chest, steadying my racing heart. I can feel the tremble in his fingers—whether it comes from restraint or fear, I don’t know.
“The Warden you need me to be,” he says quietly. “Someone you can trust.”
The duality in his voice twists something deep inside me. I want to believe him. I want to trust him.
His cock slides inside me with a delicious stretch, still thick, still hard, still greedy. But the rhythm he finds unrestrained now—it is deep and patient, as if we are learning each other through every careful thrust, every ragged inhale.
I wrap my legs around his waist and hold him there, anchoring us together like I can keep us from unraveling.
I moan, nails dragging down his back, grounding myself in the man who had once only been a shadow.
Hours pass in whispered confessions and silent promises.
“Stay with me,” he says, voice raw.
I nod, heart full, wrapped in the mystery of the man behind the mask.
The night wraps around us like a fragile promise, but sleep doesn’t come easily.
My mind drifts into restless shadows, memories folding into dreams, the lines between past and present blurring beneath closed lids.
I was back in the compound.
The sterile corridors, the cold steel doors, the distant hum of machines—everything felt suffocating, trapped in a nightmare I couldn’t escape.
But then—
A figure appeared.
Strong. Silent. Resolute.
Captain Shoomaker.
His eyes—sharp, steady—locked onto mine as he reached through the chaos and pulled me from the darkness. His arms were warm and sure, shielding me as we slipped through the shadows.
I whispered his name, relief flooding through me, safe for the first time in so long.
But then his face shifted into the Warden’s mask.
No longer the Captain’s face.
The dream twisted, a cruel trick of the mind.
I felt the mask’s cold weight pressing down, suffocating, a reminder of the man I thought I knew.
“Shoomaker…” I murmured, voice barely a breath.
Suddenly, the darkness around me tightened.
I jolt awake.
His hand is on my wrist—firm, controlling.
The mask is back in place.
The man who claims to be the Warden sits up beside me, jaw clenched, eyes flashing with something fierce and raw.
“You said his name,” he growls, voice low and hard.
I blink, still caught between sleep and waking.
“I—” I start, but he cuts me off.
“Don’t,” he warns, voice sharp like a blade.
My heart pounds as I meet his masked gaze, the tension thick in the room.
“Why would you say his name?” He asks.
I swallow, words caught in my throat.
He stands abruptly, pacing the room like a caged animal.
The mask hides everything, but I can hear the torment beneath—the fight between the man he is and the mask he wears.
Without a word, he moves toward the door.
His hands fumble for the robe draped over the chair, fingers tightening around the fabric as he yanks it on with swift frustration.
The heavy cloth swallows his frame, concealing the heat still radiating from his skin beneath.
“Don’t ever say his name again,” he says quietly before retreating into the shadows.
And I am left alone with the echo of a dream, the mystery of the man beneath the mask, and a thousand questions I’m not sure I want answered.
He pauses at the threshold, one last flash of those fierce eyes catching mine before he turns away.
Then, without another word, he steps into the hallway—and closes the door behind him with a sharp click.
The room feels suddenly too quiet, too empty.