Chapter 13
Colleen found Anchor there an hour after the assault ended, standing at the edge with his hands braced on the parapet, staring at the Philadelphia skyline like it owed him answers.
She was still wearing his cut. Still had gunpowder residue on her hands. Still running on the electric high of survival that made everything feel sharper, brighter, more alive.
"You're supposed to be resting," she said.
"So are you."
"I tried." She moved to stand beside him, close enough to feel his body heat. "Couldn't stop shaking."
He turned to look at her. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, the same adrenaline coursing through his veins that was setting hers on fire.
"Shaking," he repeated.
"Not fear." She held up her hand, let him see the tremor. "Something else."
Something that felt like need. Like hunger. Like every survival instinct she had was screaming that she was alive and she needed to feel it.
Anchor caught her wrist. His grip was hard—not gentle, not careful. The grip of a man running on combat energy with nowhere to put it.
"Something else," he echoed.
"I killed three men tonight." Her voice came out steady despite the trembling. "Put them down and didn't hesitate. Stepped over their bodies and kept moving."
"And?"
"And I'm not sorry." She stepped closer, close enough that their chests almost touched. "I should be horrified. Should be crying, or throwing up, or falling apart. Instead I'm—"
"Burning."
The word hit her like a match to gasoline.
"Yes."
Anchor moved.
He grabbed her hips and spun her, pressing her back against the parapet, his body covering hers like a wall of muscle and heat and barely leashed violence.
"I watched you fight tonight," he growled. "Watched you put men down without flinching. Watched you wear my cut into battle like you were born to stand beside me."
"Anchor—"
"Michael." His hands tightened on her hips, hard enough to bruise. "You call me Michael when it's this."
"Michael." The name tore out of her like a prayer. "I need—"
"I know what you need."
He kissed her.
Not tender. Not sweet. This was conquest, pure and brutal, his mouth claiming hers with the same ferocity he'd used to clear the courtyard. Colleen grabbed his shoulders and kissed him back just as hard, teeth and tongue and the metallic taste of blood from a split lip neither of them cared about.
"Inside," she gasped when they broke for air. "Your room—"
"Too far."
He lifted her onto the parapet's edge, spreading her thighs to make room for his body between them. Cold concrete against her back, hot muscle against her front, the Philadelphia skyline spinning behind his head.
"Someone could see—"
"Let them." His mouth found her throat, biting down hard enough to mark. "Let everyone see you're mine."
The possessiveness should have made her push back. Should have triggered every independent instinct she'd spent six years building.
Instead it made her moan.
"Yours," she gasped. "God, Michael—yours."
His hands were everywhere. Rough and demanding, stripping away barriers, finding skin. The cut stayed on—his cut, his patch, his claim visible even as he took her apart.
"Three men," he said against her collarbone. "You killed three men tonight."
"Yes."
"Fighting beside me."
"Yes."
"Mine." He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, and what she saw there made her breath stop. Not just hunger. Not just want. Something deeper, darker, more permanent. "You're mine, Colleen. Every part of you. The hands that kill for me. The body that burns for me. The heart that—"
"Shut up and prove it."
He laughed—raw and savage—and then he did.
The roof was hard beneath her back, but she didn't care.
Everything was sensation. The friction of his body against hers. The bite of his fingers digging into her thighs. The sounds he made—low and desperate and completely undone.
This wasn't like their first time.
That had been slow, deliberate, two people learning each other's boundaries. This was war translated into want. Combat energy channeled into claiming. Both of them proving they were alive in the most primal way they knew.
"Harder," she demanded, and he gave it to her.
"More," he growled, and she took everything he had.
They fought each other for control, neither willing to submit, both pushing toward something that felt like breaking and healing all at once. Colleen raked her nails down his back hard enough to draw blood. He pinned her wrists above her head and swallowed her cry with his mouth.
This is what survival feels like.
This is what claiming feels like.
This is what being his feels like.
When she shattered, she screamed his name—the real one, the one only she got to use—and he followed her over the edge with a roar that echoed across the rooftop.
After, they lay tangled together on the cold concrete, staring at stars that were fading toward dawn.
Her body ached in places she'd feel for days. Bruises forming on her hips. Bite marks on her throat. The burn of muscles pushed past their limits.
She'd never felt more alive.
"We should go inside," Anchor murmured, his breath warm against her temple. "Before someone comes looking."
"In a minute."
He laughed softly, pulling her closer. His cut was still draped over her shoulders, smelling like leather and gunpowder and him.
"You okay?" he asked.
"Better than okay." She traced patterns on his chest, following the lines of the memorial tattoo. "That was..."
"Different."
"Yeah." She tilted her head to look at him. "Is it always like that? After a fight?"
"Never been with someone after a fight before." His fingers tangled in her hair. "Never wanted anyone that close to the violence."
"But with me?"
"With you, I want you in all of it." His voice roughened. "The battles and the aftermath. The blood and the burning. Everything."
She should have been scared. Should have recognized how deep she was falling and pumped the brakes.
Instead she asked the question that had been forming since she'd watched him execute Dominic Talley with cold efficiency.
"Does the violence bother you?"
Anchor was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was careful, measured.
"Not the violence itself."
"Then what?"
"Being too slow." His arm tightened around her. "When I'm not fast enough. When people I'm supposed to protect get hurt because I waited too long, or hesitated, or—"
He stopped. Breathed.
"Talley coordinated that assault. Every gun, every entry point, every second of it traced back to his planning.
" His jaw hardened. "If I'd moved faster after the safehouse—tracked him down before he could organize—tonight might not have happened.
Bayonet wouldn't be in the infirmary. Turnpike wouldn't need stitches. "
"You can't predict everything."
"I can be faster." His eyes found hers in the darkness. "I should be faster. That's what bothers me. Not the killing. The failing."
Colleen pushed herself up on one elbow, looking down at him. The man who'd strangled Neil Garrett for threatening her. Who'd shot Dominic Talley for coordinating an assault on his home. Who carried the weight of everyone he couldn't save like chains around his heart.
"You were fast enough tonight," she said. "We're all alive because of you."
"We're all alive because of us." He cupped her face, thumb tracing her cheekbone. "You fought beside me. Killed beside me. Stood your ground when trained professionals tried to take our home."
"Our home?"
The words slipped out before she could stop them. But Anchor didn't flinch. Didn't pull back.
"Yeah," he said softly. "Ours. If you want it."
Her chest ached with something too big to name.
"I want it," she whispered. "I want all of it. The compound and the brotherhood and—" She swallowed. "And you. Especially you."
His exhale shuddered through both of them.
"You're the first thing I've wanted to protect in years," he said. "Not because you need protecting—you've proven you don't. But because you're mine. Because the thought of losing you makes me want to burn down everything Warren Driscoll ever built."
"Then let's burn it down together."
He kissed her—soft this time, tender in contrast to everything that had come before.
"Together," he agreed. "Always."
The sun was rising over Philadelphia, painting the rooftop gold. Below them, brothers were cleaning up the aftermath of battle. Somewhere in Kensington, Warren Driscoll was waking up to find his operation gutted and his best tactician dead.
But up here, there was only Anchor and Colleen.
Two people who'd survived the night.
Two people who'd found each other in the chaos.
Two people who weren't letting go.
"We should go inside," she said again, making no move to stand.
"In a minute," he echoed, pulling her closer.
The minute stretched into ten.
Neither of them minded.