CHAPTER 7 #2
Logic is dead. Rational thought is gone.
Running purely on a desperate, unhinged survival reflex, my hands fly out.
I don't push him away this time. I grab the front of his shirt, my knuckles turning bone-white as I bunch the crisp, expensive fabric in my fists. I cling to him like he’s the last piece of debris floating in the middle of a black ocean.
My fingers are trembling so violently that I accidentally pop the top button of his shirt, the small plastic disc pinging off the marble floor.
"I... can't..." I sob, dry and ragged. "Everything's... spinning. Please."
I am anchoring myself to the man who literally engineered my trauma, and I hate myself for it.
But Leon doesn't pull away. He doesn't flinch. He covers both of my small, shaking hands with one of his own, pinning them firmly against his chest. The heavy, solid weight of his hand is undeniable. He forces my palms flat over his heart. Beneath my knuckles, through the thin cotton, I can feel the steady, slow, utterly unbothered rhythm of his pulse. It’s infuriating.
His other hand drops from my jaw and moves to the small of my back, gripping me tight and pressing my pelvis directly against his. The sudden, intense grounding of his body against mine forces my scattered nervous system to short-circuit.
"Feel that?" he demands, his voice a dark rumble against my hands. "That's reality, Alessia. Your heart is racing. Mine isn't."
He’s colonizing my physical reactions. Asserting absolute dominance over my own body by proving his is stronger.
"Match it," he orders.
He takes a slow, deliberate breath. His broad chest expands beneath my trapped hands, forcing me to feel the exact mechanics of his breathing.
He holds it for a count of four, his eyes locked dead onto mine, before he exhales in a long, controlled stream.
He repeats the motion. Silently demanding my lungs obey his rhythm.
I am staring wide-eyed at his throat, watching the steady, hypnotic movement of his Adam's apple as he swallows.
"In," he commands softly.
My lungs hitch, but I drag a pathetic breath of air in.
"Hold it."
I hold it.
"Now out. Again."
I am literally living because he’s telling me how.
I breathe his air, following the rise and fall of his chest. Slowly, agonizingly, the edges of the room stop spinning.
The paralyzing grip on my throat loosens just enough to let oxygen back into my brain.
My focus narrows down until the entire world is just his face.
My eyes lock onto the small, jagged split in his bottom lip.
The one I gave him. The bruise on his jaw catches the ambient light.
It’s violent, tangible proof of our mutual aggression.
I am just as unhinged as he is. That’s why I’m still standing.
My thumb twitches against his chest, a microscopic urge to reach up and touch the scar on his lip, but I force my hand to stay flat.
"You're still here," he says, his voice losing the harsh command. "Better?"
I don't answer. I just keep staring at his mouth.
"Don't look away."
Finally, my breathing settles into a shaky, rhythmic imitation of his.
The massive spike of adrenaline that was keeping me upright suddenly curdles in my veins, leaving behind a toxic, heavy exhaustion.
My limbs feel like dead lead. I let go of his shirt, my cramped, stiff fingers uncurling uselessly.
I completely sag against him, all the fight draining out of me in one pathetic rush.
My forehead drops heavily onto his solid shoulder.
The panic recedes, replaced by a hollow, aching void in the center of my chest. I could sleep for a hundred fucking years right here if he’d just let me.
"There you go," he murmurs, his hand still resting heavily on my lower back. "The crash is always the hardest part."
He just stands there holding my dead weight. "Stay right there."
He nods slightly, a dark, predatory satisfaction smoothing out the hard lines of his face.
He knows he won. He just rewired my nervous system in under two minutes.
He doesn't pull away, but I can feel his gaze shift, traveling from my face down to my white blazer. It’s a complete ruin of sweat, warehouse dust, and those three damning drops of blood on the hem.
He lifts a hand, brushing a stray, damp strand of auburn hair away from my sweat-slicked forehead.
The touch is surprisingly gentle, the harsh contrast of his rough hand against my pale skin sending a completely different kind of shiver down my spine.
I hate that he's looking at me like a broken toy he's deciding whether to fix or throw in the incinerator.
"You're a mess, Alessia," he says quietly. "Look at what you're wearing."
I don't move.
"You can't keep this on."
"This is ruined," he murmurs. His voice shifts from the drill sergeant’s bark into something twisted, something resembling soft care. It’s a million times more dangerous.
He reaches out and takes hold of both lapels of my blazer.
His heavily bruised knuckles brush casually against the hollow of my throat.
I give a weak, instinctive flinch, my shoulders tensing up, but I have absolutely no physical strength left to fight him off.
My hand comes up, my fingers weakly wrapping around his thick wrist in a pathetic protest.
"Don't..." I whisper, my grip totally frail. "I can do it myself."
He ignores me. "It's just a jacket."
He doesn't stop. With dark, focused eyes, he slowly slides the blazer off my shoulders.
The movement is deliberate, agonizingly slow.
He pins my arms slightly to my sides as he pulls the sleeves down, effectively trapping me for three excruciating seconds before the fabric clears my wrists.
He forces me to stand there in my thin, lace-edged silk camisole.
The cool, climate-controlled air of the penthouse hits my sweat-damp skin, making my nipples harden instantly.
I feel entirely exposed, stripped of the last piece of professional armor I had.
His gaze drops, lingering heavily on the faded, angry friction scars on my shoulders from years of wearing a tactical shoulder holster.
"Let it go," he says softly. "You don't need this anymore. Be still."
The ruined blazer slides off entirely, hitting the marble floor with a dull, heavy thud.
But Leon doesn't pull his hands away. Instead, his perpetually bruised, rough knuckles drag slowly, possessively down the bare skin of my arms. From my shoulders, over my biceps, all the way down to my wrists. The friction of his calloused skin against mine sends a heavy, dark shiver racing straight to my core. It’s a visceral, entirely biological reaction, a sudden flush of heat pooling in my stomach that has absolutely nothing to do with fear.
Motherfucker. I am leaning into it. My body is completely betraying me.
I let out a small, broken sound, my breath hitching in my throat.
Leon’s eyes darken instantly. "You're freezing."
He tracks the goosebumps rising on my flesh. "Look how you react to me. Shit, you're sensitive."
He kicks the ruined blazer aside like it’s meaningless trash.
Immediately, his hand shoots back up, but he doesn't grab my waist. He grabs the back of my neck. His large palm cups the nape of my neck firmly, his long fingers wrapping around the side, his thumb pressing directly, deliberately over my racing pulse point. He tilts my head back sharply, forcing me to look up into those cold, calculating eyes. It’s not the grip of a lover.
It’s the grip of an owner claiming his property.
Reminding me that every single beat of the artery under his thumb is happening because he is allowing it.
His thumb traces the sharp line of my jawline.
"You're mine now, Claire," he says, his voice devoid of any hesitation. "Every inch."
He holds my gaze, letting the reality of my absolute isolation sink into my bones. "Do you understand?"
I don't speak. I just stare at him in defeated, furious silence.
He leans down, the heat of his face hovering right over mine, until his lips are brushing the delicate shell of my ear. I can smell the clean, minty danger of his breath.
"The Agent is dead," he whispers. It’s a dark, lethal promise that sends a fresh, uncontrollable wave of tremors down my spine. "She died in that basement. Go wash the rest of her off."
He nips lightly at my earlobe, a sharp, sudden scrape of teeth that makes me gasp.
"I want you clean when I come for you later," he murmurs against the skin. He steps back, suddenly cutting off his heat and leaving me standing in the freezing air. "Go to the shower. Scrub until the skin is red. I don't want to see a trace of her left."
He releases his grip on my neck. The sudden lack of his touch makes the wide, open hallway feel like a massive, empty tomb.
Stripped of my jacket, shivering in a thin camisole with Russo's blood still splattered on my left shoe, I don't argue.
I turn around. I start walking toward the master bathroom with the stiff, mechanical gait of a prisoner of war marching toward a cell.
I wrap my arms tight around my own ribs, clutching my bare shoulders to keep myself from shaking apart.
I can feel the heavy weight of his ice-blue eyes burning into my spine with every step I take across the marble.
"The water," I mutter to myself, staring blankly at the dark hallway ahead. "I just need the water."
I don't look back. I just need to figure out how the hell I'm going to get the blood out of the white leather before it completely sets.