Chapter 9
LEIF SAT alone in the dark, the Dallas skyline burning against the glass, neon and streetlamps and headlight trails stretching into the night like veins of fire.
His shirt was gone, given to Mariah hours ago, and the glass of whiskey he cradled had long since warmed in his hand.
The ice had melted, the drink untouched for too long, but he kept it anyway.
Something to hold. Something that wasn’t the heat pulsing in his palm.
The Brand.
It sat there like a living thing, the lion’s head etched in black, faintly throbbing with a pulse he hated acknowledging.
He turned it over in the soft light, flexed his fingers, watched the lines shift as though they were ink laid over tendons.
He’d tried ignoring it, tried burying himself in work, in rage, in the hunt for her.
But she was here now, in his space, under his roof, wrapped in his shirt like a claim he couldn’t deny.
And the Brand was louder than it had ever been.
His body stirred restlessly. He’d tried stretching across the couch, but every position reminded him of her—of the smell of her hair, the lightness of her in his arms, the sound of her voice saying his name when she was wet and needy beneath him.
He closed his eyes, fighting memory, but the Brand pulsed like it wanted to call her to him, wanted to remind him she was only down the hall, lying in his bed in nothing but his shirt.
He thought of his mother. The silence she’d carried, how she’d never once spoken about her family.
He’d grown up learning to live with gaps in his knowledge, teaching himself to never need what she refused to give.
But now the absence pressed harder. If this Brand meant hidden bloodlines, maybe the truth had been buried in her quiet all along.
He hated that the thought made him vulnerable.
He hated more that Mariah might be the only key to understanding it.
A faint sound of movement pulled his gaze up.
Bare feet whispered over the floor. She padded out of the bedroom like some midnight phantom, hair tousled from sleep, face soft in the shadows, his shirt hanging loose on her shoulders and brushing her thighs.
Just his shirt, its hem teasing glimpses of bare skin every time she shifted.
Her legs were pale and smooth, longer than he had any business staring at.
She looked fragile, but the glint in her eyes told him she wasn’t.
She was a live blade wrapped in temptation.
She didn’t speak at first. Just curled herself into the armchair across from him, tucking her knees up like a girl hiding inside a man’s shirt.
Only she wasn’t hiding. Not from him. One hand came up, fingers sliding across her palm, rubbing it in a slow, restless circle over the mark he knew was there.
She was Branded too.
The sight slammed into him, harder than it should have.
Her rubbing at it like it itched, like it burned, like it wouldn’t let her go, it made something sharp twist in his chest. Every part of him demanded he tear her hand away, demanded he silence the Brand with his mouth on her palm.
The wanting itself set his nerves on edge.
It made him weak. And Leif Severin didn’t do weak.
“There’s one thing we never talked about,” she said at last, voice low, carrying across the silence like a blade. Her thumb still rubbed over her hand. Her gaze was steady, shadowed, unafraid. “The Brand.”
Leif took a slow sip of whiskey to buy himself a second. He hadn’t expected her to go there. They’d talked about enemies, the bomb, alliances, even the word together. Everything but that.
He set the glass down with a soft click. “You want to have this conversation at two in the morning?”
She pulled her knees tighter to her chest, chin resting on them, hair falling forward to shadow her face. “If not now, then when? We can’t pretend it doesn’t exist.”
He leaned back into the couch, every inch of him a careful sprawl of muscle and control. “According to the Dantes, only they get the Brand.” He lifted his hand, the lion glaring from his palm. “So either they’re wrong, or one of us has a Dante somewhere in the family tree.”
Her gaze flicked down to his hand, then back up. “Not me.”
“Not me, either.” His voice was flat steel. “I’m a Severin.”
“My mother’s a Jones,” she said quietly.
He narrowed his eyes. “And your father?”
Her lips pressed together, hesitation painting shadows over her face. Finally: “Not a Jones. But not a Dante either.”
He studied her, suspicion a live wire under his skin. She wasn’t lying. He’d learned to smell lies, hear them in the catch of breath, the flicker of eyes. But she wasn’t telling the whole truth, either.
“My mother never talked about her family,” he admitted, the words tasting strange. He didn’t like admitting gaps in his knowledge. Didn’t like remembering the silence his mother had carried like a shield. “Not once. Could be nothing. Could be something.”
Her gaze softened. “So maybe it’s you.”
His mouth curved in a humorless line. “No. I know who I am. Severin.”
“Then maybe it’s me.” She rubbed her palm harder, as though she could erase the mark with sheer stubbornness. “But I’m telling you the truth. My mother was a Jones. My father—” She cut herself off.
Leif leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the whiskey forgotten. “Your father what?”
Her silence was answer enough. The refusal hit like a wall thrown up between them. His chest tightened with anger, with something darker. “You’ll tell me eventually.”
She looked away, out toward the city lights. “Why us?” she whispered. “Why would we be Marked?”
The words cut through him. Why them? Out of every Dante in existence, every Severin. Out of every chance encounter in Dallas, in the world. Why the two of them?
Leif’s answer came raw, unfiltered. “Because the Brand doesn’t lie. It doesn’t care about your excuses or my bloodline. It burned itself into us. That means something.”
“Means we’re a couple?” She gave a short, incredulous laugh. “That we’re supposed to be… what? Soul mates?”
His gaze locked on her, and the silence between them turned thick. He didn’t answer, because saying yes came close to surrender. And yet, the lion in his hand pulsed, hot and certain.
She shifted in the chair, the shirt sliding off one shoulder, exposing the pale curve of skin. His shirt on her. His mark in her palm. It all spun together in his head, winding the coil of tension tighter.
“You don’t believe in fate,” she said.
“I believe in control,” he shot back.
“And this isn’t control.”
He laughed once, sharp. “No. This is chaos wearing your face.”
Her lips parted, a soft breath catching in her throat.
His gaze dropped there, then lower, tracing the line of her legs curled under her, the way the shirt rode up to bare the smooth line of her thighs.
Heat licked down his spine. He imagined the shirt sliding higher, imagined his palms closing around her knees and prying them apart until she had no choice but to show him everything.
“Get over here,” he said.
Her brows lifted, cautious amusement sparking in her eyes. “You ordering me, Mr. Severin?”
“Yes.” His voice left no room for doubt.
She uncurled slowly, bare legs swinging down, toes brushing the carpet as she crossed the short distance.
His gaze tracked every step. She was barefoot, vulnerable, wearing nothing but his shirt and defiance.
When she came within reach, he caught her wrist and pulled her down onto the couch with him.
His hand covered hers, pressing her palm open until the Brand glowed faintly under both their skin.
His thumb brushed the mark, a slow, purposeful stroke that made her breath hitch.
She lifted her gaze, and they were close enough that her hair brushed his bare chest, close enough that the heat of her thighs warmed his. Her mouth hovered a breath away. The almost of a kiss was unbearable.
But instead of surrendering, he went for the truth. “Who were you running from at the Alabaster Club?”
She stiffened instantly. “Leif—”
He tightened his grip on her wrist. “Tell me.”
She resisted, eyes flashing, until the silence grew heavy enough to crush. Then she whispered: “My brother.”
His fury spiked, sharp and immediate. “You used me. You slept with me to hide from him.”
She snapped back, fire in her eyes. “I slept with you because I wanted to. Because I couldn’t not.”
His chest heaved. He ached to call her a liar, but the Brand under his thumb pulsed hot, beating in rhythm with hers. It burned with truth.
“Prove it,” he growled.
For a long heartbeat, she didn’t move. Then, slowly, she slid down off the couch, settling between his knees. His breath caught as her hands moved to his waistband, steady, measured. She looked up once, hazel eyes molten in the dim light. “You think I’m lying?”
His pulse thundered. “Show me.”
Her fingers unfastened him, pushing fabric aside until he was bared, thick and heavy in her hands. He swore under his breath, hips tensing as her mouth lowered. Heat closed around him, wet and hot, and his head snapped back against the couch.
“Fuck.”
Leif’s hands clenched in the couch cushions, then in her hair, dark strands slipping through his fingers as she worked him deep.
She was slow at first, unhurried, like she was savoring it as much as proving it.
Each drag of her mouth stripped away his control.
Each swirl of her tongue burned through the last of his restraint.
He looked down, and the sight of her on her knees in his shirt—his shirt hanging open, bare thighs spread, his cock disappearing between her lips—nearly undid him. She wasn’t hiding. She wasn’t running. She was giving herself to him, fierce and unflinching.