Chapter 18 – Nico
Marco didn’t show.
But blood’s still fresh in my mind—Marco’s thug, gutted in the alley an hour ago. Elara’s knife was faster than mine, her eyes burning when she wiped the blade. Now we’re here, underground, away from the city’s claws. I close the basement door, the lock clicking heavy and final. It’s just us now, the world shut out.
“Lock the world out,” I say, voice low. “Just for tonight.”
Elara stands in the middle of the room, breathing uneven, her chest rising sharp. Her eyes are wired, still carrying the kill’s edge. “We never get a full night.”
“Then we take pieces.” I grab a black velvet cape from a crate, tossing it to her.
She catches it, raising an eyebrow. “What’s this?”
I kneel, slow, eyes on hers. “You’re the fugitive. I’m the one sent to catch you.”
Her lips twitch, not quite a smile. “You planning to bring me in?”
I lean closer, voice dropping, teasing. “Eventually.”
She isn’t running from me. She’s letting me chase her. That’s trust. That’s all I need.
She slips the cape around her shoulders, the velvet brushing her skin, chain glinting at her hip. “Come find me,” she says, stepping back into the shadows.
I stand, moving deliberate, eyes locked on her. The lantern’s flicker catches her outline—boots, jeans, the curve of her waist under the cape. I cross the room, slow, letting the tension build. She doesn’t move, but her breathing shifts, faster, expectant. When I reach her, my hands find her hips, fingers digging into denim, pulling her close. Her body’s warm, solid against mine.
“Caught,” I say, lips grazing her jaw, feeling her pulse jump.
Her hands grip my shirt, tight. “Maybe.”
I kiss her neck, slow, teeth scraping lightly. She tilts her head, giving me more, a low sound catching in her throat. My hands slide up, under the cape, finding the hem of her tank top. I tug it up, exposing her stomach, and my fingers trace her skin, rough from scars, warm from her heat. She pulls at my jacket, yanking it off, her nails scraping my arms as it hits the floor.
I press closer, mouth moving to her collarbone, tasting sweat and steel. Her hands are in my hair, tugging, urging me on. I lift her tank top higher, over her head, tossing it aside. Her bra’s black, simple, and I unhook it with one hand, letting it fall. She’s bare now, cape draped loose, and I take her in—her chest rising fast, skin flushed, eyes locked on mine.
My lips find her shoulder, then lower, kissing the curve of her breast. She gasps, fingers tightening in my hair. I take my time, mouth exploring, tongue tracing her skin, feeling her shiver. Her hands move to my shirt, pulling it up, and I help, tossing it to the cot. Her fingers roam my chest, nails dragging over scars, making me hiss.
I back her toward the cot, hands on her hips, guiding her. She sits, cape pooling around her, and pulls me down, lips crashing into mine. The kiss is hard, hungry, her tongue pushing against mine, teeth grazing my lip. I groan, low, and slide my hand to her jeans, unbuttoning them slow, giving her time to stop me. She doesn’t. She lifts her hips, helping me tug them off, boots hitting the floor with them.
I kneel between her legs, hands gripping her knees, spreading them gently. My lips start at her ankle, kissing up her calf, slow, deliberate. She leans back, propped on her elbows, watching me. I reach her thigh, teeth grazing the inside, and she moans, loud, the sound hitting me hard. My hands slide higher, fingers brushing her underwear, feeling her heat through the fabric.
“You want this?” I ask, voice rough, pausing to look at her.
Her eyes burn. “Don’t stop.”
I pull her underwear down, tossing it aside, and kiss her inner thigh again, closer now. Her breath hitches, hips shifting toward me. I take my time, lips and tongue exploring, tasting her, feeling her tense and shudder. Her moans grow sharper, hands gripping the cot’s edge, and I keep going, steady, until she’s trembling, gasping my name.
I stand, unbuttoning my jeans, kicking them off. She sits up, hands reaching for me, pulling me closer. Her fingers trace my skin, nails scraping my hips, and I groan, feeling the heat of her touch. She kisses my chest, teeth grazing my collarbone. I lift her chin, kissing her hard, tasting her need.
I push her back onto the cot, cape spreading beneath her. She pulls me down, legs wrapping around my hips, urging me closer. I enter her slow, feeling her tighten around me, her breath catching. The cot groans under us, but I don’t care. I move steady, deep, watching her face—eyes half-closed, lips parted, moans spilling out.
“You good?” I ask, voice low, pausing to check.
“Better than good,” she says, hands gripping my shoulders, nails digging in.
I pick up the pace, harder now, feeling her match me, hips rising to meet each thrust. Her moans turn to gasps, loud, raw, and I feel the heat building, sharp and urgent. I pull back, shifting her to her side, lifting one leg over my shoulder. The angle’s deeper, and she cries out, hands clutching the cape, knuckles white. I keep moving, steady, feeling her pulse around me, her body trembling.
She pushes up, rolling us until she’s on top, cape draped over her shoulders. Her hands brace on my chest, nails biting skin, and she moves, slow at first, then faster, setting the rhythm. I grip her hips, guiding but not controlling, letting her take what she needs. Her head tilts back, moans filling the room, and I watch her, the way she moves, the way she claims this.
“Fuck, Nico,” she gasps, voice breaking, leaning down to kiss me, hard and messy.
I thrust up, meeting her, feeling the edge closing in. She’s close too, her breaths sharp, body tensing. I flip us again, pinning her beneath me, one hand gripping her thigh, the other tangled in the cape. I move fast, relentless, her moans turning to cries, loud and unrestrained. She tightens around me, shuddering, and I feel her release, her nails raking my back as she gasps my name.
I’m not far behind, thrusting deep, the heat overwhelming. I groan, low, burying my face in her neck as I finish, body shaking against hers. The cot creaks, threatening to break, but it holds.
We stay like that, breathing hard, her hands still on me, mine on her hips. The cape’s tangled between us, velvet warm against our skin. I pull back, looking at her—flushed, eyes bright, lips swollen. She’s steady, even now, no regret in her gaze.
“You okay?” I ask, voice rough.
She nods, fingers brushing my chest. “More than okay.”
I kiss her, slow this time, tasting the salt on her lips. The lantern’s flicker catches her face, and I see it—trust, raw and real. This wasn’t escape. It was us, grounding each other.
I’m about to kiss her again, deeper this time, when a crash splits the silence from the upper stairwell, loud and wrong.
Footsteps pound down, fast, clumsy. The door slams open, and a thug bursts in, gun raised, eyes wild, mouth already moving. “Drago!”
I don’t flinch. “Wrong fucking time,” I say, voice low, blade already flashing from my belt.
He’s got no chance. I’m off the cot, crossing the room in one step, my knife slicing across his gut before he can aim. The cut’s deep, steel tearing through muscle and fat. Blood sprays, hot and thick, hitting the concrete with a wet slap. His gun clatters to the floor, useless, as he collapses, clutching his stomach. His insides steam in the damp air, the smell sharp, metallic, mixing with the basement’s heat. He twitches once, then goes still.
Elara’s already moving, knife in hand, covering the door. She glances at me, quick, checking. Her eyes are steady, no panic, just focus. I nod. I’m fine. She’s fine. We’re fine.
The silence creeps back, layered now with the scent of blood, sharp against the sweat and want still clinging to the room. I step toward her. She’s by the door, cape draped loose over her shoulders, knife low but ready.
“You good?” she asks, voice calm, eyes flicking to the body, then back to me.
I close the distance, hand brushing her arm. “Better when you’re closer.”
Her lips curve, sharp and real. She slides the cape back on, letting it fall over her bare shoulders, chain glinting at her hip. “Then catch me again.”
We’ll keep playing this game. Not because it’s pretend—but because it gives us room to breathe in a world that won’t.
I grab her waist, pulling her back to the cot, my lips finding hers before she can say more. The kiss is hard, urgent, tasting of salt and heat. My fingers slide under the cape, finding her bare waist, warm and rough from scars. She presses closer, chest against mine, her breath hitching as my hands roam higher, thumbs brushing the curve of her breasts.
“You sure about this?” I ask, voice rough, pausing to meet her eyes.
“No interruptions this time,” she says. “Just us.”
I nod and lift her onto the cot. She pulls me down, legs parting, cape pooling beneath her. My lips move to her neck, slow, teeth grazing her pulse, feeling it race. Her hands are in my hair, tugging, urging me lower. I kiss her collarbone, then her chest, taking my time, tasting her skin, feeling her arch into me. She moans, soft but raw, and it hits me like a shot.
My hands slide to her thighs, spreading them gently, fingers tracing the inside, slow and deliberate. She shifts, hips lifting, and I feel her heat, her need matching mine. I kiss her stomach, lips brushing scars, then lower, teasing the edge of her hip. Her breath catches, hands gripping the cot, knuckles tight.
“Nico,” she says, voice low, almost a growl. “Don’t tease.”
I grin against her skin, kissing lower, slow, letting the tension build. “Patience,” I murmur, but I don’t make her wait long. My lips find her, gentle at first, then firmer, tasting her, feeling her tense and shudder. Her moans grow louder, hips moving against me, and I keep going, steady, until she’s gasping, fingers tangled in my hair, pulling hard.
She pushes up, rolling me onto my back, cape falling over us like a shield. Her hands brace on my chest, nails biting skin, and she kisses me, hard, tongue pushing against mine. I groan, hands gripping her hips, feeling her heat as she straddles me. She moves slow, teasing, brushing against me but not yet giving in. My pulse hammers, need sharp and heavy.
“You’re killing me,” I say, voice rough, hands tightening on her.
Her grin’s wicked. “Good.”
She leans down, kissing my jaw, then my neck, teeth scraping just enough to sting. Her hands roam my chest, fingers tracing scars, nails dragging lower, making me tense. I pull her closer, kissing her hard, one hand sliding to her back, pressing her against me. She shifts, guiding me, and I enter her slow, feeling her tighten around me, her breath catching.
The cot creaks as I move, deep and steady, watching her face—eyes half-closed, lips parted, moans spilling out. Her hands grip my shoulders, nails digging in, and I pick up the pace, harder, feeling her match me, hips rising to meet each thrust. The heat’s intense, raw, building fast.
“Fuck, Elara,” I groan, shifting to sit up, pulling her onto my lap.
She wraps her legs around me, cape tangling between us, and moves with me, slow at first, then faster, setting the rhythm. I grip her hips, guiding but letting her lead, feeling her pulse around me. Her moans turn to gasps, loud, unrestrained, and I kiss her neck, teeth grazing, tasting her sweat.
She pushes me back, hands braced on my chest. She moves hard, relentless, hips grinding against me, and I thrust up, meeting her, feeling the edge closing in. Her breaths are sharp, body tensing, and I know she’s close. I slide a hand between us, fingers finding her, moving in rhythm, and she cries out, shuddering, nails raking my skin as she hits her peak.
I’m right behind her, thrusting deep, the heat overwhelming. I groan, low, gripping her tight as I finish, body shaking against hers.
We collapse together, breathing hard, her forehead against my chest, cape draped over us. My hands stay on her, fingers tracing her spine, feeling her pulse slow.
I kiss her, slow, tasting her heat. “Elara,” I say, voice low.
She grins, soft but sharp. “Hunter.”
The lantern flickers, casting shadows across her face. The blood on the floor’s still there, but it’s distant now. This—us—is what matters.
“We need to move,” she says, voice steady, sitting up.
“Yeah.” I pull her close one more time, lips grazing her shoulder. “But not yet.”
She nods, leaning into me. “One more minute.”
I hold her, feeling the weight of her trust, the heat of her skin. The world’s waiting upstairs—blood, blades, Marco. But down here, we’re choosing this.
We’re not running. Not hiding. We’re choosing this—blood, heat, and all.