Chapter 40
T he ride home is a blur.
Everything around me feels like echoes, as if I’m flying too fast through a tunnel and the world can’t keep up. I hear the wind, but it sounds hollow. I see lights, but they blur into meaningless color.
My arms are locked around Lucian, but even that feels distant—like I’m floating somewhere outside myself.
When the bike finally leans into the turn onto his long, winding driveway, something inside me breaks loose.
I start shaking.
Almost there. Just hold on a little longer.
I repeat it like a prayer.
I need off this bike. I need out of this jacket. I need this suffocating bodysuit peeled off me. I need to be held… or I might come apart entirely.
Lucian must feel it—sense the shift in me—because the moment he cuts the engine and kicks down the stand, he’s already turning around and I’m in his arms.
Strong. Steady. Unyielding.
He lifts me like I weigh nothing, one arm under my knees, the other tight behind my back, pulling me against his chest. Our helmets are on the ground in a second.
His lips find the top of my head, pressing soft kisses there, again and again as he murmurs low, calming words against my scalp.
“I’ve got you, angel. You’re okay. I’ve got you now.”
The tremble in me becomes a full-body quake, and I don’t realize I’m crying until the tears slide down over my lips. Silent. Hot.
Lucian doesn’t let go.
Inside, the house is dim. He moves through it like a man possessed, never once jostling me as he strides back toward his bedroom. Then—his bathroom that surrounds me in soft golden lighting.
He sets me down gently on the cool tile and steadies me, both hands on my waist until I nod. I can stand. I think I can stand.
He turns to the tub, checking the water, adjusting the temperature.
And that’s when I look down.
That’s when I see it.
A dark, wet stain spreads low on the front of the jacket he gave me—just below my ribs. At first, I think it’s water. Or oil from the motorcycle.
But when I unclip the front and peel the material open, a sharp, cold shock crashes over me like a tidal wave.
Blood.
A deep red smears across my mesh bodysuit, just above my hip. I touch it. My fingers come away slick. Shaking, I do it again, pressing against the wet heat blooming through the thin fabric.
Lucian turns just as I sway.
“Sienna—”
I look up at him. My voice doesn’t work. I hold up my hand instead, stained red with blood.
His eyes go wide and everything tilts.
I think I’m dying.
I know it sounds dramatic, but there’s blood on my hand—a lot of blood—and I can’t remember where it came from or when it happened. My stomach feels cold, my fingers even colder, and my vision swims like I’m underwater.
Then he’s there.
Lucian’s hands are on me in an instant, firm but careful. I think I hear him praying— please, God. Please, devil. Please, someone.
His voice is hoarse. Wrecked.
“Let me look, baby. Let me see.”
He pulls the jacket off of me, and I see his eyes dart over every inch of me like he’s memorizing my body just in case. But then he exhales a breath so deep it shakes his chest.
“It’s not yours,” he says, his voice ragged. “It was on the jacket. It’s not yours.”
He says it again, over and over, holding my face in both hands now. His forehead presses against mine, and for the first time since the gunfire started, I can actually focus.
“You’re okay, Angel,” he murmurs, brushing my hair back. “You’re not shot. You’re okay.”
My knees finally give out, but he’s already holding me so tight it doesn’t matter. The sob tears out of me so fast, I don’t even feel it until I hear the broken sound echo in the bathroom tiles. Then I crumble.
I cry like a child. Like a woman who saw death up close. I cry for the fear, the confusion, the panic I buried to stay alive. I sob until I can’t breathe, and still Lucian holds me—shelters me—like he’ll never let go.
At some point, he undresses me. I don’t even remember when. All I know is the cold is gone, replaced by warmth and strong arms lifting me again.
He carries me into the bath, the water hot and perfect around us. I curl into his chest, my cheek against his skin, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat. One hand strokes up and down my spine. His voice is a quiet hum of praise and reassurance.
“You’re safe now, Angel. I’ve got you. I’m here.”
My breathing starts to steady. The panic ebbs. The ache in my bones dulls beneath the water’s warmth and the safety of him.
But in its place, something else stirs.
Heat. Desire. A fire that spreads slowly but surely through every part of me as I become acutely aware of his arms, his chest, the feel of his skin under my fingers.
He doesn’t stop touching me. Doesn’t stop whispering, comforting, claiming me without even trying.
I tilt my head up and find his eyes already on mine. The look in them nearly undoes me.
Desperate. Tormented. Fiercely tender.
I kiss him before I can stop myself.
It’s not soft. It’s not shy. It’s all the emotions I can’t say out loud—everything I’m feeling, everything I need. Our mouths crash together like a storm, and he answers me with the same intensity.
I climb into his lap, straddling him without a second thought. When I feel his cock, hard and thick between us, I moan into his mouth.
I need this. I need him. To feel alive. To feel wanted. To remind myself that I made it out.
He doesn’t stop me. He just growls deep in his throat as I shift, lining us up.
I slide down on him, slow and steady, and we both groan. He fills me completely. Stretching me, claiming me in the most primal way possible.
Everything else fades.
The world falls silent. The fear is gone. The blood, the screams, the guns—it all disappears.
There’s only us.
We move together like we’ve done it a thousand times, but it still feels brand new. Intimate. Deep. His hands roam my body like it’s sacred. My nails dig into his shoulders as I roll my hips, and his lips never stop kissing me.
He holds my face when I come. Whispers my name. Tells me I’m perfect.
And when he follows—his body tense beneath mine, his release thick and hot inside me—I swear I feel it in my soul.
He buries his face in my neck, breathing hard, clutching me tight like letting go would break him.
Maybe it would break me too.
But right now, in this moment, I’ve never felt more whole.
He washes my hair like it’s the most important thing he’s ever done.
His strong fingers massage the shampoo into my scalp, slow and soothing. I sigh as he moves with care, rinsing and conditioning, his touch gentle but thorough.
When he wraps my hair in a towel, he makes me bend forward for him to twist and secure it like a makeshift crown. I’m swaddled in warmth and tenderness and a robe so soft it feels like clouds.
It swallows me whole—and I love it.
“I can walk,” I mumble, wriggling a little in his arms as he carries me from the bathroom.
“I know.” He doesn’t stop. Just tightens his hold and keeps moving until I’m seated on the cool marble counter of his kitchen.
“You need to eat something.”
His voice is steady again. Controlled. Like he’s trying to reestablish some version of calm—for both of us. He moves around the space with confidence, pulling ingredients like it’s second nature.
A bottle of red is opened and poured. He hands me a glass, the rim clinking against mine with a soft cheers before he takes a sip and starts to cook.
And holy hell—he knows what he’s doing.
He minces garlic with exact precision. Blisters cherry tomatoes in olive oil until they pop and burst. Tosses fresh basil in like a flourish. When the pasta is al dente, he drains it and swirls everything together with a handful of grated parmesan.
The entire space smells like heaven.
But nothing compares to the view. The towel slung low on his hips reveals the defined cut of his abs and that sharp V that disappears beneath the cotton. I can’t stop looking.
Especially not when the outline of his cock shifts beneath the fabric as he moves.
My thighs clench, heat coiling in my belly like instinct. I’m seconds from dropping to my knees right here in his kitchen when his eyes catch mine.
He grins. Smug. Dangerous. Fucking perfect.
“I didn’t peg you as someone who knows how to cook,” I say, voice casual, but my insides are a war zone of arousal.
“Contrary to what you may think,” he murmurs, lifting a wooden spoon to my lips, “I don’t survive off eating your pussy.”
The bite is perfect. Garlicky, salty, rich—and my stomach growls in appreciation.
He kisses me quickly. “Though it is my favorite delicacy.”
I hum. “I actually thought you lived off espresso.”
That earns me a real laugh. Deep and warm.
The whole pot goes to the table—no plates, no pretense. Just two forks. Just a few bites in and I set my utensil down.
He pulls me into his lap without warning, positioning me sideways with one leg on either side of his thighs. The robe falls open between us, exposing the soft heat of my center.
“You need to eat a little more for me, Angel,” he murmurs, holding a forkful up to my mouth.
His other hand slides between my legs. No warning. No hesitation.
His fingers graze my folds, parting them as I gasp.
“Can you do that for me?” he whispers, voice like gravel dipped in sin.
I nod, lips parted, eyes already heavy with lust.
“Such a good girl. Open.”
I do. I take the bite and moan—not from the pasta but from the way his fingers curl inside me a second later.
He works me slow. Gentle. Unhurried.
Each thrust matches his praise. Each bite is followed by a deeper ache.
Another forkful. Another finger stroke. Another good girl whispered against my throat.
It doesn’t take long.
I’m moaning. Rocking. Clenching.
And then I’m coming, soft and slow, everything melting around me as he holds me in his arms.
He licks his fingers clean, eyes locked on mine. I kiss him. Desperately. Tasting myself on his lips.
“I want you to fuck me one more time before we go to sleep,” I whisper between kisses. “Soft.” Another kiss. “Bring me back to life.”
His arms are under me in a second.
He carries me to the bedroom, laying me down with care, untying the robe and letting it fall away. His towel hits the floor. His body lowers into mine.
And it’s everything.
He doesn’t just take me—he worships me. Our bodies move in perfect tandem. His mouth speaks things I never thought I’d hear. Filthy. Reverent. Full of devotion I’m scared to name.
When I come again, it’s with his name in my throat and his breath in my mouth. He follows, his arms shaking around me, his release spilling into me like a vow.
I’m drifting. Sleep tugging at the edges of my mind when he moves again.
“Come on, baby. Don’t fall asleep with my cum inside you.”
I hum, barely awake, but I let him lift me, clean me, and tuck me under the sheets. I feel him curl around me. His warmth. His strength.
And then his lips at my temple.
“I’m so sorry, Angel,” he whispers.
A kiss. Another. Then softer still.
“I hope you’ll forgive me.”
I don’t think he’s talking about tonight.
And just before sleep takes me completely, it hits me.
Lucian Vale is saying goodbye.