Chapter 18 – Tiziano
The shack’s still burning behind her.
She stands just beyond it—mud up to her ankles, ash on her arms, hair twisted from heat and fight. The map’s still holed up in her left hand, but her blade’s gone.
She doesn’t see me at first.
Then she does.
No reaction.
No relief. No fear. Not even surprise.
Just recognition.
We’re both still alive.
Barely.
I take two steps forward.
She doesn’t move.
“I figured you’d already gone,” I say.
She shrugs. “I burned it first.”
“You always do.”
“Don’t start.”
I don’t.
I step closer. One more pace. We’re almost chest to chest now, her body tight with adrenaline, mine still soaked in smoke.
“Are you hurt?” I ask.
Her eyes flick up. “Not enough to matter.”
I look down at her hands. There’s dirt under her nails and a small cut along her left thumb.
She notices me staring.
“Don’t touch me because you feel bad,” she snaps.
“That’s not why I’m here.”
“Then why?”
“Because I saw you walk through fire,” I say. “And I need to know if you’re still standing.”
“I’m standing.”
“And shaking.”
“Fuck off.”
I grab her wrist.
Her expression cracks, just for a breath.
Then, she snarls, “You want to feel something?”
Before I can answer, she grabs the front of my shirt and pulls.
Hard.
The fabric stretches. Buttons tear.
Her mouth crashes into mine.
She kisses me like she wants to tear something open. I kiss her back because I need to bleed too.
Her hands shove under my shirt, fingers dragging across my ribs like she’s counting every mistake.
“I hate how much I want this,” she mutters against my lips.
I break the kiss. “Then tell me to stop.”
She pants, eyes glassy from heat, from anger, from everything we haven’t said.
“Don’t you dare,” she whispers.
She shoves me back. I stumble against a cypress trunk. Bark digs into my spine. She follows, pressing into me, hands dragging down my chest like she’s sculpting me out of fury.
I grab her hips, twist her fast, and pin her back against the other tree.
She gasps.
Her eyes flash. “You’re still angry.”
“You lit a war.”
“You lit it first.”
I press my forehead against hers, breathing roughly now. Her skin is hot. Her chest rises fast.
“I came here to find you,” I say. “Not to fight you.”
“Then stop acting like you don’t want both.”
I press my hand against her thigh, slide it up slowly, testing. She doesn’t stop me.
“Is this what you want?” I ask.
She glares. “Ask again and I’ll bite you.”
“You already did.”
She leans up, grabs the back of my neck, and drags my mouth down to hers.
The kiss is harder this time. Less anger, more need.
It builds like that.
Her hips grind once against me, slow.
Her breath catches.
Then she pulls away.
Just a few inches.
Her fingers trace the edge of my belt.
“We’re not done here,” she says.
“Not even close.”
“I want all of it, Tiziano,” she says. “But I want to take it. I want to make the rules.”
I nod. “Then tell me what to do.”
She pulls her shirt over her head—not fast, not teasing. Just precise.
It drops to the mud behind her.
Her skin’s streaked in ash and heat.
“Wait,” I say.
She raises an eyebrow.
I drop to one knee.
Reach up.
Touch the side of her leg, drag my hand up the inside of her thigh, slow and steady.
Her breath hitches again.
“I want to worship you before I fuck you,” I say.
That makes her go still.
“Say it again,” she says.
“I want to worship you,” I repeat. “Every inch. Every scar.”
She swallows hard. Her hands drop to my shoulders.
I lift her leg over my shoulder, kiss the inside of her knee.
She grabs the back of my head.
“Then don’t talk,” she says.
Her hands are on my chest again—pushing, grabbing, tearing.
We hit the ground hard.
Her body slams into mine, and the impact knocks the breath from both of us. Mud coats her thighs. My palms slide against the back of her hips and drag her against me, rough and fast.
She rolls me over like she’s fighting me for control—and maybe she is.
I let her win.
This time.
Her mouth finds mine again—open, desperate. Not gentle.
Her tongue moves like she’s still angry.
Still hungry.
Her fingers tangle in my hair and yank.
I grunt. “Fuck—”
She bites my bottom lip and pulls. “Shut up.”
She kisses down my neck, grinding against me through clothes that are already half undone. Her nails slide under my shirt again, dig into my ribs like she’s searching for weakness.
And she finds it.
I groan, arching up into her. She grabs my belt.
“Off.”
I don’t argue.
I undo it fast, fingers fumbling, heart hammering.
She shoves my jeans down. My boxers. Everything.
Then hers.
No pause.
No pretense.
We’re naked in seconds, mud slick between us, heat thick on our skin.
She straddles me, one hand braced on my chest, the other guiding me against her entrance.
I reach up, touch her cheek. “Look at me.”
She does, her gray eyes sharp.
“I need this,” I say.
“I know.”
She sinks down onto me.
My whole body locks.
“Fuck—”
She gasps, too, teeth clenching, hips shifting until we’re flush—tight—full.
Her breath stutters.
“Don’t move,” she whispers.
I freeze.
Her fingers curl around my bicep, anchoring.
She leans down, mouth at my ear.
“I want to feel every inch before you ruin me.”
I growl. My hands slide up her back, fingers splayed.
She starts to move, hips rolling slowly, every shift calculated.
She drags her body against mine, her pace steady. Her breasts brush my chest. Her breath fans across my cheek.
“Don’t hold back,” she says.
“I won’t.”
She rides me harder.
Each bounce slaps against my thighs. Mud flies up. Our bodies slide together in sweat and grit.
She slams down again and again.
I grip her hips tighter, guiding her.
She throws her head back, mouth open.
Her nails scrape down my chest.
I hiss.
“God—fuck, Vespera—”
“Say it again.”
“Vespera.”
“Louder.”
“Vespera.”
Her rhythm falters.
I take over, thrusting up into her. Harder. Deeper.
She screams, “Right there—”
Her nails dig into my shoulders. Her thighs tremble around me.
“I’m—” she gasps.
“Let go,” I say.
I keep thrusting.
Faster.
“Let go, baby—”
She shatters.
Whole body shaking and clamping, mouth open in a soundless cry.
Her hips jerk.
Her hands grip my wrists.
She comes hard.
So hard I feel it everywhere.
She collapses forward, breath ragged against my neck.
And I’m not done.
I flip her under me, pin her wrists above her head.
Her legs wrap around me again without asking.
I drive into her, once, twice—
She cries out, “Yes—fuck—yes—”
I keep going.
My hands bruise her hips, pulling her down onto me every time I slam in.
Her body bucks.
Her cries turn hoarse.
“You feel so fucking good,” I groan.
She tightens around me again.
I’m close.
Too close.
She arches up.
“Inside,” she says.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
That’s all I need.
I slam into her, deep, hard, relentless.
My body seizes.
And I break.
Spilling into her with a groan so low it shakes through both of us.
We freeze.
Pressed together.
Sweat-drenched. Mud-slicked. Spent.
I stay inside her, my forehead against hers.
Neither of us speaks for a while.
Our bodies do the talking.
She eventually shifts beneath me, soft now, more breath than voice.
“This fixes nothing.”
I nod. “I know.”
She rolls to the side. I follow.
Her head rests against my chest.
Her fingers trace the raven tattoo across my ribs.
I close my eyes.
“It’s enough,” I whisper.
And for now, it is.