Chapter 13
HARPER
T he morning sun cut across Reed’s sheets like a brand, casting a golden blade of light over the wreckage of the night.
It landed on Harper’s bare shoulder, tracing the outline of his bite from the night before—still dark, still tender—and she sucked in a quiet breath at the sting.
Her fingers drifted to it, the raised skin warm under her touch. He hadn’t marked her by accident.
No, she knew exactly what he’d been doing. He’d claimed her, not with ceremony or words, but with teeth and heat and intention. A brand that said she was his. It still stung, a deep throb beneath her skin, but she didn’t mind. That ache grounded her.
The feeling reminded her she was wanted—marked in a way that was personal, primal, and entirely hers to accept. Not like before, not like the times she’d been touched out of greed or utility, passed off like currency in the hands of men who only saw her as a tool. This was different.
Reed didn’t just take. He branded her with intention, and for the first time, she felt the difference between being used and being chosen.
This wasn't possession out of dominance—it was reverence in the shape of control.
Every stroke of his touch had spoken a distinctly different language than the ones from her past. Where others had stripped her down to nothing, he layered her in worth.
In his hands, she wasn't a means to an end. She was the destination.
Her body was sore in all the right ways—from the pressure of the cuffs, the bruising grip of his hands, and the way his body had driven into hers with wild, possessive certainty.
Her thighs ached, her wrists bore faint indentations, and her skin still hummed where his mouth had claimed her.
Every mark was a memory. Every ache, a reminder. And she welcomed them.
Because in those moments, she hadn’t just given herself over—she’d been claimed, consumed.
For that brief stretch of time, she hadn’t been a thief or a liability. She’d been his. Entirely. Absolutely. And somehow, terrifyingly, it had felt like home.
And now, she had no idea what came next.
No script, no fallback plan, no con to play.
The freedom she’d chased for years was suddenly in her hands—and it terrified her.
She wasn’t sure who she was without the job, the chase, the need to survive.
But here, surrounded by Reed’s scent and his sheets, she thought maybe she could learn.
Maybe freedom wasn’t about escape. Maybe it was about choosing to stay.
She stretched beneath the heavy quilt, muscles aching and skin hypersensitive, every inch of her body a living echo of what they’d done.
Her thighs throbbed with bruised satisfaction, her wrists remembered the pressure of restraint, and her lips tingled with the ghost of his mouth.
Beneath the fabric, her skin felt tight, too raw, too alive—as if his touch had rewired her nerves and left her body tuned to him.
She didn’t want to move, not yet. She wanted to feel every flicker of sensation as it faded slow and sweet into memory.
Every movement reminded her of the night before—of his hands, his mouth, the weight of his body over hers. The soreness was a map of memory, and she let it bloom through her.
She let the warmth of the bed seep into her bones, grounding her in the now.
It wasn’t just comfort—it was confirmation.
She was here. She’d survived. She was his.
And for once, she wasn’t afraid. Every shift reminded her of how thoroughly he'd taken her, how completely she'd given herself over.
The quilt weighed heavy—not just with fabric, but with memory.
The bed smelled like them. Like sex and sweat, salt and skin. Like surrender and something rawer, something unspoken. Regret? Maybe. But woven through it all was something steadier, warmer. Something that made her breath catch and her eyes sting.
Safety. It seeped into her bones, unfamiliar and fragile, like a language she hadn't spoken in years. She wasn’t used to feeling safe.
Not without conditions, not without an exit plan.
And she was definitely not used to feeling wanted—not like this.
Not stripped bare, unguarded, tangled in sheets that still held the imprint of his body.
Wanted not just for her skill, her sharp edges, but for all the messy, vulnerable pieces she usually hid. Wanted for who she really was.
"You're awake." His voice was gravel and honey from the other side of the room.
She looked up to see him shirtless, muscles cut and golden in the early light, a mug of coffee in his hand.
For a second, her breath caught. He looked like something out of a fever dream—too good, too solid, too real to be hers.
She remembered the first time she'd seen him, all arrogance and command, the kind of man who looked like he'd never kneel for anything.
And yet, here he was, bringing her coffee and watching her like she was gravity itself.
It made something tight and warm uncurl deep in her chest. He leaned against the doorway, his gaze fixed on her with an intensity that sent heat curling low in her belly.
He watched her like she was the most fragile, most dangerous thing in the world—and he had no intention of letting her vanish again.
"That obvious, huh?"
"You make the cutest faces when you're sleeping. Right before you wake, your brow furrows and it looks like the one you make when you're overthinking."
She snorted. "It's called having a brain. You should try it sometime." She nodded toward the mug of steaming coffee.
His smile was slow and lethal. "Got it from the kitchen," he said, as if reading her mind. "You were out cold. Figured you might need something warm when you came back to the land of the living."
He crossed the room with that unhurried prowl that always made her thighs clench, each step radiating a controlled power that set her pulse skittering. The morning light traced his bare torso, highlighting the sinew of muscle across his shoulders and the ink at his ribs.
He set the coffee on the nightstand with deliberate care, his movements calm, but she could feel the tension underneath—like a fuse lit and waiting.
He sat on the edge of the bed, close enough that the warmth of his skin brushed against her, a heat that seeped beneath the covers and surrounded her like a claim. She inhaled, and the scent of him hit her full force—rich coffee, clean sweat, leather, and the raw, unmistakable musk of sex.
Her thighs clenched. Her skin prickled. Just that scent, just that proximity, and her body remembered everything they'd done, everything she'd begged for. It pulled her in all over again, like gravity bending her back toward him.
"Don’t start something you’re not ready to finish, little thief."
God, that name. It did things to her. She bit the inside of her cheek, then glanced down at the sheets. "Last night was..."
"Everything," he finished.
She nodded.
He brushed a hand down her arm, his fingers grazing the same bite mark. "You're not running again."
It wasn’t a question.
"No."
His eyes darkened. "Say it."
She swallowed, her heart thudding. "I'm not running."
The next moment, he was on top of her, his weight pinning her to the mattress with a force that made her breath hitch and her thighs part on instinct.
He pressed into her like he needed to fuse their bodies together, like the space between them had become intolerable.
His hands tangled in her hair, yanking just enough to make her gasp, tilting her head to bare her throat.
His teeth found her skin, scraping, biting, marking with a slow intensity that sent lightning through her nerves.
The growl in his chest vibrated against hers as he pressed his hips forward, his cock hot and hard, grinding against her slick heat through the thin barrier of sheets.
He was rough, relentless—his grip bruising, his mouth demanding—but underneath it pulsed something raw and desperate.
He devoured her like a man afraid this was the last time. And she welcomed it with a hunger just as feral.
Desperation.
Need.
He was letting go. And in return, she did too.
As she arched her back into him, she let out a sharp gasp of surprise when he forcefully parted her legs with a ferocious growl, exclaiming, "Mine."
His powerful hand grasped her hair with an unyielding grip, yanking her head back with a dominance that drew a moan from her lips.
The intense tingling sensation at her scalp where his fingers clenched ignited her arousal further.
The sudden, forceful tug caused her spine to curve even more, lifting her chest and exposing her throat in a vulnerable manner that sent an electrifying jolt straight to the depths of her core.
Her eyes flew open just in time to lock onto their reflection in the mirror across the room.
What she saw was more than just raw—it was pure, unbridled passion.
Her skin appeared flushed, as if glowing with the heat they generated together; her hair, a wild tangle that mirrored the intensity of their coupling; his eyes held a fierce possession as he towered behind her, every muscle in his body taut with control and burning need.
It was an obscene yet beautiful tableau—an unfiltered reality that was intensely erotic and made her thighs tremble uncontrollably.
Her breath caught as the pressure of his grip and the sheer intensity of his gaze scorched through her.
She could see her own mouth parted in a gasp, her body flushed and pliant, and his expression—fierce, reverent, undone—stole whatever resistance she had left.
Watching herself like that, being possessed like that, stripped her down to something wild and worshiped all at once.
She felt completely undone—skin flushed, muscles trembling, every nerve fired raw—yet there was no question in her. She belonged to him.
Not because he demanded it, but because every savage thrust, every whispered command, every greedy kiss had carved it into her body, into her bones.
At that moment, she wasn’t hiding. She was claimed, adored, consumed—and she wanted more.
“Watch yourself as I take you. See what effect you have on me.”
His words were filthy, laced with possession and lust, and they seared through her like a live wire.
Every syllable lit her up, unraveling her from the inside out.
When he drove into her—deep, hard, claiming—her entire body arched, pleasure erupting so violently it left her gasping.
His mouth, a brutal kiss that devoured the sounds of her surrender, swallowed her cries.
The rhythm of his thrusts was merciless, dragging her higher with each stroke until her body shattered against his in a crescendo of heat and helpless need.
He showed no signs of stopping. He prolonged each climax by nipping at her sensitive flesh, driving himself into her over and over again, holding her in place with an unyielding determination, as if he had no intention of ever letting go.
When she succumbed beneath him for the last time—boneless and wrecked—his arms enveloped her protectively. He was panting. So was she. Their breaths mingled together in the aftermath of their passionate encounter, a testament to the fervent energy they had shared.
He pressed his forehead to hers. "You’re not just mine. I’m yours."
Her eyes burned, vision blurring as raw emotion swelled in her chest. A memory flashed—of cold motel rooms and borrowed names, of nights she stared at ceilings, wondering if she’d ever be more than someone’s convenience or liability.
This moment—this man—was nothing like that.
With Reed, it wasn’t survival. It was surrender.
And it was safe. Her throat tightened, words caught between panic and revelation.
Her heart pounded like a drum in her ears, but somehow, through the chaos, the ache, and the beautiful ruin of what they'd just shared, she found the strength to whisper back.
"I love you."
His mouth crashed into hers. Not tender. Not soft. Just truth.
"I love you, too."
And when they finally breathed again, they did it together.