Chapter 25 – Vespera
His words on the rooftop still echo in my mind: “Run with me.” I pace the apartment, boots hammering the worn hardwood, each step a jolt of fury vibrating through my bones, threatening to splinter the floor.
Tiziano’s offer—new life, new names, leave it all—claws at my chest, a raw wound spilling heat, not blood.
It’s a betrayal of my bar, my fight, everything I’ve carved out with sweat and defiance.
“You think I can just run?” I mutter, breath sharp, blood roaring like a wildfire in my veins. “This is my world, my heart, and you want me to torch it?”
“Never asked you to burn it,” Tiziano’s voice echoes in my mind, low and steady from last night’s argument, cutting through my rage. “Just to build something new with me.”
My eyes catch the candlelight, glinting like molten steel, sharp enough to slice. The walls feel tighter, the storm outside pressing against the windows, rain pounding like fists, daring me to explode. I’m not thinking—I’m burning, rage tangling with him, me, the world, a knot I can’t unravel.
He stands in the doorway, silent, his silhouette a dark challenge against the storm’s glow, lightning flashing behind him. His presence is electric, a live wire sparking across the room, searing my skin even from this distance.
“You stand there like you’ve got the right,” I say, teeth grinding, fists clenching, nails biting into my palms. “Like you can offer me a cage and call it freedom.”
“Weak’s the last thing I think of you,” he replies, voice low, rough, stepping closer, his dark eyes unyielding, meeting my storm with a calm that sets me ablaze.
I shove him, hard, palms slamming into his chest, fingers digging into muscle, pushing with every ounce of fury, needing him to feel this, to hurt like I do. “You think I’m weak?” I roar, voice a thunderclap, raw, splintering through the jazz’s wail from the old speaker.
“Never,” he says, grabbing my arms, fingers tight, fierce but not cruel, holding me as I thrash, anchoring me to him, to us. “You’re a damn hurricane, Vespera.”
I bite his lip, sharp, desperate, tasting blood and salt, a claim that’s half-punishment, half-prayer, marking him as mine. “You’re my rage,” I say, breath hitching, body trembling with the truth, the need to break him, to break myself on him. “My release.”
“And you’re mine,” he growls, pulling me closer, eyes burning into mine, seeing every wound, every spark, his lips grazing my jaw, sending heat racing down my spine, pooling low.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I snap, chest heaving, fury faltering under his gaze. “Don’t make me want you when I’m trying to hate you.”
“Too late,” he murmurs, voice rough with need, his breath hot against my skin, making me crave his fight, his heat.
The jazz screeches, warped notes clawing through the room, mirroring my screams, jagged and alive.
Rain pounds the windows, glass rattling, echoing the storm in my blood, reckless and raw.
I kiss him, brutal, teeth clashing, a war of tongues and hunger, tasting blood, storm, and the bitter truth of us.
His hands slide to my waist, gripping hard, pulling me flush against him, his body a furnace, searing through my clothes.
“Don’t make this soft,” I say, voice cracking, but my body betrays me, pressing into him, craving his fire. “Keep it what it is.”
“Never soft,” he replies, voice a rumble, his fingers digging into my hips, grounding me in this chaos.
The candles flicker, their light dancing across his face, catching the blood on his lip, my mark glowing red in the dark.
Thunder crashes, shaking the walls, the storm raging with us, urging us deeper into this fire.
I tear at his shirt, buttons popping, scattering across the floor, nails raking his chest, leaving red trails that make him hiss, pressing harder against me.
“You’re mine,” I say, breath ragged, hands claiming scars, muscle, heat. “You don’t walk away from this.”
“Never will,” he says, spinning us, pinning me against the wall, wood groaning under our weight, his body a storm, demanding. I arch into him, legs wrapping around his hips, pulling him closer, needing his weight, his fight, needing him to match me.
“Tell me you’re not running,” I growl, lips against his throat, teeth grazing his pulse, tasting sweat, feeling it jump.
“Never,” he says, hands sliding under my shirt, rough, callused, sparking fire across my skin. “I’m right here, Vespera.”
I rip my shirt off, tossing it aside, baring my skin to him, to the storm, to the fury that’s all I am. His mouth finds my neck, biting, sucking, leaving marks that sting, a map of want drawn in bruises.
“Fight for it,” I say, moans spilling as his teeth graze my collarbone. “Fight like I do.”
“Always,” he replies, his hands cupping my breasts, thumbs brushing my nipples, hard and aching, sending shocks through me, my breath catching.
I grind against him, feeling him through his jeans, thick, straining, a promise I’m not ready to let him keep. “You want me?” I hiss, fingers twisting in his hair, pulling, forcing his eyes to mine, gray clashing with dark.
“Always,” he says, voice raw, slicing through my rage, making me burn hotter. I slide down, hands tearing at his belt, metal clinking, jeans shoved low, freeing him, hard and heavy in my palm. “This is mine,” I say, grip firm, stroking slow, teasing, watching his jaw go tight, breath hitch.
“Yours,” he groans, hands fisting in my hair, not forcing, just holding, as I drop to my knees, the floor cold against my skin.
My lips brush him, a whisper of heat, then take him in, slow, deliberate, tongue tracing every inch, tasting salt, power, him.
His groans grow louder, hips twitching, so close, and I stop, pulling back, leaving him gasping, my lips curling into a wicked smile.
“Not yet,” I say, standing slow, pushing him back, keeping control. “You don’t get it that easy.”
“Vespera,” he says, voice a plea, eyes blazing, letting me lead, letting me burn. I shove him onto the bed, straddling his thighs, jeans still on, a barrier for control. His hands grip my hips, pulling me down, but I hold firm, leaning back, guiding him lower.
He moves fast, flipping us, his strength a sudden storm, pinning me beneath him, jeans yanked down, tossed aside. His mouth finds me, hot, relentless, tongue circling my clit, slow, then faster, a rhythm that unravels me, makes me arch, scream.
“Yes,” I gasp, hands in his hair, pulling, urging, “take me there.”
“Always,” he murmurs against me, fingers joining, sliding inside, curling, finding that spot, driving me higher, merciless. The candles sputter, shadows leaping, painting us in gold and black, warriors in a war of want. Thunder rolls, vibrating through the bed, syncing with my gasps, my cries.
I grind against his mouth, chasing the edge, my moans raw, echoing with the storm.
His tongue flicks faster, fingers relentless, and I shatter, orgasm crashing through me, a firestorm of release, body trembling under his will.
He doesn’t stop, not until I’m shaking, spent, breath ragged, heart pounding.
He rises, lips glistening, eyes dark with want, and I pull him down, kissing him, tasting myself, the storm, us. “More,” I say, voice fierce, legs wrapping around him, guiding him to me. He thrusts in, slow, deep, filling me, making me gasp, nails digging into his back, drawing blood.
“Feel me,” I say, hips rocking, meeting his rhythm, claiming every thrust, every groan. “Feel what I do to you.”
“Every damn second,” he growls, thrusting harder, faster, hands gripping my thighs, our bodies syncing, a collision of fire and flesh. The bed creaks, protesting, but we don’t stop, caught in this chaos.
“Don’t you dare leave me,” I say, eyes locked on his, gray burning into dark, a vow, a command.
“Never,” he says, voice breaking, thrusting deep, holding me like he’ll never let go. The jazz wails, rain slams, and we move, wild, untamed, until I feel it again, the edge, my body tightening, cries sharp, echoing.
He follows, a low roar, spilling inside me, hot, fierce, binding us. We collapse, tangled, slick with sweat, blood, storm, breaths ragged, hearts pounding. The candles flicker, jazz fading, storm easing, but the fury smolders, ready for the next spark.
The room is heavy with heat, my breath still ragged, chest rising and falling, skin slick with sweat and the lingering warmth of Tiziano’s touch.
I’m sprawled across the bed, legs trembling from the orgasm he coaxed out of me, his head resting against my thigh, warm, heavy, grounding me to this moment.
But the fury inside me hasn’t faded—it’s coiled tighter, a live wire sparking, ready to ignite.
“You think that’s enough?” I say, my voice low, rough, pulse pounding as I meet his gaze. “You think you can unravel me and walk away?”
Tiziano lifts his head, dark eyes glinting in the candlelight, hungry, mirroring my own fire, promising we’re far from done. His lips curve, not a smile but a challenge, daring me to push harder. “Never walking away, Vespera,” he says, voice a growl, raw and unyielding. “Not from you.”
“Better not,” I reply, my tone sharp, a blade wrapped in heat, stoking the rage and need burning in my veins.
The jazz wails from the record player, its notes jagged, slicing through the air, a wild rhythm that drives us.
Rain pounds the windows, relentless, thunder rumbling deep, vibrating through the bed, syncing with my heartbeat, his breath.
The room smells of wax, sweat, and the faint copper of blood from earlier, a reminder of the fight we’re still in.
I sit up, slow, deliberate, my body humming, every nerve screaming for more, for him. “You’re still here,” I say, voice rough, daring him to prove it.
“Always,” he says, his hands sliding up my thighs, firm, claiming, grounding me in their heat.