Chapter 17
ROJA
She’s still asleep when I open my eyes.
There’s a shaft of dusty gold light cutting through the slats in my wall, striping her bare back like a painting I’ve never deserved to look at.
Her breath is even, soft. Her mouth parted just enough to let out those quiet little sighs I’ve only ever heard in the dead of night, when the city’s too scared to breathe and we’re the only ones left alive.
And me? I just watch her.
I’ve watched a lot of things in my time—targets, marks, exits, timers—but this is different.
This is Kelsea. Curled into the space we made.
Scars and shadows, yes. But warmth too. Sleep hasn’t stolen the tension from her bones, not entirely, but there’s peace in the curve of her spine.
A kind of truce. Maybe temporary. Maybe not.
But it’s enough to make me want to kill anyone who dares take it from her.
I used to think what I felt for her was hunger. The kind that lives in the chest and rises fast, messy and sharp. But this? This isn’t that.
This is quieter. Heavier. More dangerous.
I shift, lean in, and press my mouth to the crook of her neck. Right where her pulse flutters beneath the skin.
She stirs, doesn’t wake.
I kiss her again, slower this time, letting my lips drag against her skin like I’ve got nowhere else to be.
Her breath hitches.
“Roja,” she murmurs, not quite awake. Her voice rough with sleep.
I hum against her neck. “Still early.”
Her hand finds my wrist where it rests on her waist. She squeezes once. Then she flips over and pulls me down in one hard tug.
I laugh into her mouth, but she doesn’t.
She growls—a low, guttural thing from the back of her throat—and wraps her legs around me. Her fingers dig into my back like she’s not here to ask. She’s here to take.
“Rough morning?” I manage to ask between kisses.
“Shut up,” she says.
I do.
Because whatever’s coiled up in her chest—whatever tension she’s been carrying—it’s burning through her like fuel now. She’s not looking for comfort. She’s looking for surrender. For fire. For something to burn down the fear still wrapped around her ribs.
And I give it to her.
I grip her hips hard enough she arches, and she snarls into my shoulder like I’ve given her back a piece of herself.
No games this time. No holding back. Her teeth graze my jaw, her nails drag across my sides.
And I let her have all of me. Let her climb and scratch and breathe through the ache until her voice is a gasp against my neck.
“More,” she says. It’s not a plea. It’s a promise.
And I answer it.
The cot creaks under us, metal frame protesting every motion, but neither of us cares. There’s nothing polished about this—nothing tender. It’s raw. Honest. Like we’re fighting something off with every kiss, every scrape of skin.
And maybe we are.
Her mouth finds mine again, fierce and open, and I lose myself in the rhythm she sets.
It’s the snap of old metal that does it—the sharp, final twang of surrender from the cot’s frame beneath us. A brittle groan, a pause, then the unmistakable clatter of metal hitting concrete. We hit the floor in a heap, and for a second, I brace for curses or silence or pain.
But what I get?
Laughter.
From her.
A deep, uncontrolled burst of sound that bubbles up from her chest like it hasn’t had permission in years. She’s wheezing, gasping for air, eyes squeezed shut as her whole body shakes with it.
I blink. Then I break.
It hits me sideways—my own laugh, raw and rusty, clawing its way out like it’s been trapped somewhere deep. I laugh so hard my ribs ache, the kind of laugh that steals your breath and loosens your grip on everything else.
“You—you broke your damn bed,” she says between breaths, voice warbled with amusement.
“It broke under duress,” I argue, wiping tears from my eyes I didn’t know were there.
She flops onto her back, panting, hair fanned out in a halo of chaos. “Well, congrats. You’re officially a homewrecker.”
“That bed was already half-dead.”
“So are we,” she mutters, still smiling.
I crawl over to her, lean on one arm beside her head. “That a complaint?”
She arches a brow. “Do I look like I’m complaining?”
“No. You look…” I search her face, the freckle under her eye, the hair stuck to her cheek, the new edge of softness in her voice. “You look alive.”
The smile falters. Just for a second. “Yeah,” she says. “I think I forgot what that felt like.”
We lie there, the chill of the concrete sneaking up through our skin, the heat from our bodies still clinging in the air.
She turns to me. Her voice is quieter now. “So... Roja. What are we doing?”
My throat tightens. “You want the real answer?”
She nods.
I sit up, brush a hand through my hair. The strands feel damp, clinging to my temple. I stare at the broken bed frame, the bent metal legs, the torn corner of a blanket hanging off the edge. I’ve faced interrogations with less fear than this.
I look back at her. “I want you,” I say. “Every part. Not just the parts you show when you’re scared or mad or trying to fight. I want the quiet moments, the soft ones. The anger. The ache. I want it all. And I don’t want to hide it anymore.”
She doesn’t speak. Just stares.
My voice lowers. “You don’t have to say anything right now. I just needed you to know.”
She sits up slowly, legs folding under her. Her hand reaches out, brushes lightly across my shoulder. “You’re serious.”
“I am.”
“I thought this would just be—” she pauses, chews her lip, “—you know.”
I smirk. “Just a fling between fugitives?”
She laughs, but it’s quieter this time. “Yeah. Something like that.”
“I can do that,” I say. “But I’d be lying.”
She studies me. Her eyes don’t blink. Then she scoots closer, knees bumping mine. She presses her forehead to my shoulder. “I’m not good at... this.”
“I know.”
“I might never be.”
I wrap an arm around her, pull her against me. “That’s fine. I’m not expecting easy.”
She stays like that for a long beat. Breathing in the space between us.
Her voice barely above a whisper: “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Roja.”
“I’m not promising forever,” I say. “Just... right now. Just here. With you.”
She doesn’t pull away.
Instead, she shifts into my lap again. Her arms loop around my neck, her forehead still tucked beneath my jaw.
“I’ll take right now,” she murmurs. “But don’t let go.”
I tighten my grip around her. “Never.”