Chapter 12, Mira
I wake up in the small bed of the unfamiliar room, alone and disoriented, my mind heavy with the thought of last night. Reality hits. I'm in the warehouse, wide awake.
I shift under the blanket, my body stiff, my mind sluggish, and it all comes crashing back. The blood. The violence. The way Julian’s betrayal cut deeper than any blade ever could.
I really watched a man have his eye torn from its socket and I really heard Julian barter my life away like a cheap commodity, all for the promise of power. The man I once saw a future with—the one I foolishly believed could have been my husband, even the father of my children—had discarded me like trash.
Now, I am here. Trapped in a place I don’t recognize, under the control of a man I can’t predict, feeling like prey in a den of wolves.
I push myself upright, running a hand down my face while an intriguing scent stops me. No—multiple scents. Toasted sesame. Rich, dark coffee. The buttery warmth of something sweet—muffins, maybe. Or chocolate. Beneath them all, threading through the air, is a scent that makes between my thighs prickle and my pulse waver.
Xan. Deep, masculine, and unmistakably intoxicating.
I only notice I have moved once I’m already on my feet, ghosting over the cold floor, drawn toward the slightly ajar bathroom door. The steam curls lazily through the gap, carrying heat and the crisp, sharp scent of soap. And through that narrow sliver of space—I see him.
His reflection in the mirror—his bare torso, the tattoos winding across his skin like stories etched in ink. More than that, I see the scars. Raised and jagged, some faint with time, others still exposed. I wonder how many battles he has survived. How many times he has bled and healed. My fingers twitch at my sides, a strange compulsion rising. I want to touch them. To trace the lines of his pain with my own hands.
I should look away. But I remain fixed. I swallow hard, my breath unsteadies as I watch him rake his fingers through his wet hair, slicking it back, exposing the strong cut of his jaw. The water trails down each sculpted line, following the defined ridges of his spine, disappearing over the curves of his waist, his hips, his…—
The door creaks. A single betraying sound. Xan freezes. The bar of soap slips from his grasp, landing with a dull thud against the porcelain. Every muscle in his back locks, his entire body going rigid. His shoulders tense, the slight tilting of his head. The air in the room turns razor-sharp.
Shit.
“Mira...” His tone is a low, deadly warning. “Get. The. Fuck. Out.”
I stumble back, my heart hammering. As I turn, my eyes catch on his mask, lying on the counter near the sink. My stomach drops. I almost saw his face. I lunge for the bedroom door, my fingers curling around the handle—it refuses to budge.
Panic flares, sharp and sudden. I try again. It won’t turn. I am trapped. I startle as the bathroom door swings open behind me. That’s when I see him.
Towering. Dripping wet. Naked.
His body gleams under the dim light, every defined muscle of his abdomen chiseled in stark relief, water trailing slow, sinuous paths down the sharp cut of his hipbones, disappearing into the shadows below. His mask is back in place—shielding his identity, guarding whatever secrets lurk beneath. But nothing hides the rigid length of him. Thick. Hard. Indisputable.
A single breathless second passes. Then another. The air between us crackles like a live wire. Xan tilts his head slightly, voice laced with mischief.
“Well, well.” A slow smirk ghosts in his gaze. “You already have your mouth open. Saves me the trouble.”
The words snap me out of my trance.
“You know it is not very nice to spy on people, little fox?”
A sharp, dry laugh spills from me, jagged and mocking.
“You are out of your fucking mind if you think you get to lecture me about spying, Xan. You, of all people.”
The slap comes fast. A sharp, biting crack against my cheek. But I don’t flinch. Instead, I lift my chin, meeting his eyes through the mask, my breath trembling, still my resolve unwavering.
His tongue drags lazily over his teeth, his fingers flexing at his sides.
“I like girls with fire,” he muses, absentmindedly.
His hand lifts, threading through my hair—gentle for a heartbeat. A brutal yank. I gasp as I am dragged forward, forced onto my knees, his grip unrelenting, his other hand wrapping around his cock, stroking himself with a slow, controlled motion.
“But not when I’m already seconds from bursting.”
He grips my hair tightly, his movements forceful as he presses himself deeper, the action coming in sharp, relentless thrusts. I’m surprised at first, but a part of me, perhaps the more primal side, adjusts swiftly.
I lift my head, locking it with his. I want Xan to understand—really understand—that I am not some fragile thing, easily overpowered. That I am not just a victim in this twisted dance. I can be strong. I will not always let him win.
To my surprise, his grip loosens. Slowly, the force in his fingers fades, replaced by a surprisingly gentle touch against my scalp. His hand runs through my hair, soft and almost affectionate. I try to decipher what this shift means in his eyes, but before I can understand, his head tilts back, his body arching with a quiet groan of satisfaction.
The room seems to shrink, and all I can focus on is the contrast between his intense, controlled movements and the fleeting tenderness that I’m not sure he wants to acknowledge.
His breath quickens as I move with a new sense of purpose, feeling him unraveling, bit by bit. The tension builds, a slow burn, as his words slip from his lips, the finality of them sinking in deep.
He’s marking me, claiming me in a way I cannot ignore. Despite everything, despite how I have fought to maintain control, I know now I am losing myself in him.
“Fuck,” he rasps. His fingers flex against my scalp, not to restrain—just to anchor. “You feel so good, Mira.”
I drag my tongue along his length, savoring every pulse, every sharp inhale, every small, ruined sound that escapes him. His head falls back further. A deep, wrecked groan rumbles in his chest.
“You belong to me, little fox. Your mouth to my cock. Your soul to me.”
The moment shatters. His hips tense. His body jerks. A hoarse curse rips from his throat as heat floods my mouth, thick and heady. I swallow, my fingers digging into his thighs, my heartbeat thrumming as his body slowly unwinds. His torso heaves, breathing ragged.
Xan’s hand tilts my chin up, his thumb brushing over my jaw. A whisper-soft touch. Deadly in its finality.
“I swear to you, Mira—” A slow, possessive caress. “You will never put your lips on another man again.”
His grip tightens.
“And that’s not a threat.”
His voice dips lower.
“It’s a fucking promise.”
The scent of fresh bagels, coffee, and muffins fills the air. I grabbed literally everything I knew she might enjoy that was fresh from the corner store while she was still asleep this morning. After a night like yesterday, she must be starving, and that is only fair.
I let her have a moment with her breakfast, the silence almost peaceful as I pull on a pair of black jeans and a hoodie, the fabric cool against my skin. I adjust my watch, trying to ignore the gnawing feeling that is building in my chest. It is still early, but there is no time for complacency. Just as I slip my phone into my pocket, it vibrates.