Chapter 13 #2
Remy must sense my spiraling because he crosses to where I'm sitting, tilts my chin up with two fingers. "Where's your head?"
"The numbers. The hostiles."
"Us plus Luc's team. Better odds than some ops I've run."
"That's supposed to be comforting?"
"No. It's supposed to be reality." His thumb brushes my jaw. "You proved last night you don't freeze under fire. In real time, you do exactly what we practiced. Identify compounds. Follow my orders. Trust the team to handle security. That's all you need to focus on."
"And if something goes wrong?"
"Then we adapt. Same as we did last night when the safe house got hit." His eyes are dark, intense. "I will get you out, Isabella. Even if it costs me everything. Understand?"
The certainty in his voice makes my throat close. Makes me want to argue that his life matters as much as mine. But I know he won't hear it. Won't accept that his safety is as important as completing the mission.
So I just nod. "Understood."
"Good." He releases my chin, steps back. "Luc, I need two hours to finish prep. Keep her occupied."
Luc looks up from his tablet. "We'll run scenarios. Make sure she knows the facility layout by memory."
Remy nods. "Use the blueprints your contact sent this morning. Fire exits, guard stations, everything."
The next two hours are brutal. Luc pulls up detailed facility blueprints on his tablet—architectural plans acquired through his Rotterdam security contacts, people who worked port infrastructure and had access to building records.
He drills me on the layout until I can navigate the floor plan with my eyes closed.
Entry points, guard stations, storage sections, emergency exits.
He makes me repeat it until the information is automatic.
"North wall emergency exit," he says.
"Twelve meters from the southwest storage section, behind the loading equipment. Card reader access, but Remy can bypass with—"
"Tools he'll carry. Good. Security station."
"East wall by personnel entrance. Controls camera feeds and alarm system. First target for neutralization."
"Extraction rally point if primary egress is compromised."
"Loading dock east side. Luc's team maintains vehicle there with suppressing fire coverage."
We run through scenarios until my brain feels like it's going to leak information. But by the time Luc calls a break, I know that facility like I designed it myself.
Remy finishes with the explosives around the same time. He packs them carefully in a tactical bag, runs final checks on detonators and timers. Everything precise. Everything controlled.
"We're as ready as we're going to be," he says finally. "Briefing with extraction team at nineteen hundred hours. Op launches at midnight."
Hours until the briefing. Hours until we coordinate final details with Luc's people. Hours before we commit to an assault that could kill us all.
The apartment goes quiet. Luc disappears into one of the back rooms to handle coordination. Remy secures the explosives, then turns to me.
"Come here."
I cross to where he's standing. He pulls me against him, hands settling on my hips. Possessive. Grounding.
"How are you really doing?" he asks.
"Scared. Focused. Ready." I meet his eyes. "All of it at once."
"Good. That's exactly where you should be." His hand slides up my spine to cup the back of my neck. "We have a few hours before briefing. I need you with me. Not spiraling. Not thinking about tomorrow. Just here."
I understand what he's offering. What he's demanding. Connection before we walk into fire. Claiming before we potentially die.
"Yes," I say.
His mouth crashes into mine. Brutal. Consuming. Kissing me like he's trying to devour every breath, every sound, every piece of me before we both die. I kiss back with matching violence, nails raking down his back, needing him closer, harder, more.
He walks me backward until my spine slams against the wall.
Pain blooms sharp and immediate. His body cages me there, all muscle and controlled violence.
One hand fists in my hair hard enough to sting, wrenching my head to the angle he wants.
The other hand shoves under my shirt, fingers digging into my ribs like he's trying to reach through skin to claim what's underneath.
"If I'm too rough tonight, if I take you somewhere you can't go, you tell me. Immediately." His voice is gravel and threat. "Understand?"
"Yes."
"Not good enough. Give me a word. Something you'd never say when I'm inside you. Your safeword. You use it, everything stops."
My brain scrambles through chemistry terms. "Benzene."
His mouth curves sharp and predatory. "Chemical compound. Very you." He releases my hair, frames my face with both hands. Gentler now but no less intense. "You say that word, I stop. No matter what. No questions. No explanations. Your safety is absolute."
The care underneath the dominance makes my throat tight. "I trust you."
"I know you do." His mouth captures mine again, slower this time, savoring.
The kiss deepens as his tongue slides against mine, tasting, claiming.
One hand fists in my hair while the other spans my throat, thumb pressing against my racing pulse.
He kisses me like he's memorizing every response—the way my breath catches, how my body melts into his, the small sound that escapes when his teeth graze my bottom lip.
When he finally pulls back, I'm gasping. "Now take off your clothes."
I strip fast. Shirt yanked over my head, pants shoved down my hips. My hands shake with urgency and fear and desperate need. When I'm finally naked, he circles me slowly. Eyes tracking every inch of exposed skin like he's cataloging targets.
"Bedroom. On the bed. Face down."
The small bedroom has a double mattress on a metal frame. It's basic. Functional. I move to it, lie face down like he ordered.
Behind me, I hear him removing his own clothes. The clink of his belt. Fabric hitting the floor. Then the mattress dips as he climbs on.
His hands slide up my calves, over my thighs, gripping my hips to pull me up to my knees. I'm face down, ass up. Completely exposed.
"You did good today," he says. His palm smooths over the curve of my ass. "Learned fast. Stayed focused. Proved you can handle pressure."
"Thank you."
"But during the raid, people are going to be trying to kill you.
Put bullets in this beautiful body." His hand tightens on my hip.
Bruising. "One mistake and you're dead. So I need you marked.
Need you carrying my teeth on your skin when those bullets start flying.
Need you to remember who the fuck you belong to. "
His teeth sink into the junction of my shoulder and neck without warning. It doesn't break skin but it's hard enough to bruise, hard enough that I cry out.
"Mine," he growls against my skin. "Say it."
"Yours."
He bites again, lower. Each one is deliberate, a brand. His mouth moves down my spine, teeth sinking in, tongue soothing after. Leaving a trail that will bloom purple-black by morning.
By the time he reaches the small of my back, I'm shaking, wanting, needing more.
His fingers slide between my legs. Finding me soaked. He makes a dark, satisfied sound. "Look at you. Desperate for it. My teeth on your skin and your cunt's already this wet for me."
"Please."
"Please what?"
"Please, Sir." The title falls from my lips automatically. Right.
"That's my good girl." He positions himself behind me. Thick head pressing against my entrance. Stretching. "Remember your safeword."
"Benzene."
"Use it if you need it."
Then he slams inside in one brutal thrust.
I scream into the mattress. The fullness, the stretch, the overwhelming invasion of him taking me with nothing between us. Just skin and heat and possession.
He doesn't give me time to adjust. Just starts fucking me—hard, deep, relentless. Each thrust drives me into the mattress, forces sounds from my throat I've never made before.
"This is what you need, chère." His voice is rough, broken. "Need me to fuck the fear out. Fuck you so hard you can't think about anything but my cock inside you. Can't think about dying because you're too busy taking what I give you."
He's right. I need this. Need the violence, the claiming, the reminder that we're both still alive. Still breathing. Still here.
His hand fists in my hair, wrenching my head back, arching my spine until it hurts. Changing the angle so he drives deeper, hits harder, reaches places that make me see stars.
"Touch yourself," he orders. "Get your fingers on that clit. I want to feel you come around my cock."
My hand slides between my thighs. Finding myself swollen and slick. The dual sensation builds fast, too fast. Pressure coiling tight in my belly.
"Not yet," he snarls. "You don't come until I tell you. Understand?"
I whimper. Trying to hold back the orgasm building like a storm ready to break.
His other hand grips my hip hard enough I know it'll bruise. Another brand. "Who do you belong to?"
"You."
"Who's the only man who gets to be inside you like this?"
"You."
"Who's going to keep you alive when the bullets start flying?"
"You are."
"Who owns every fucking part of you?"
"You do. Sir, please, I can't—"
"Come," he commands. "Come on my cock. Now."
I shatter. The orgasm detonates through me with violent intensity, my body clenching around him, muscles seizing, vision whiting out. I'm crying out his name, gasping, drowning in sensation.
He follows me over with a harsh groan. Driving deep one last time, grinding against me, filling me with heat. Marking me from the inside out.
We collapse together on the mattress, both gasping, both slick with sweat. Marked and claimed and alive.
After a moment, he withdraws carefully and checks the damage. His fingers trace each bite with something like reverence mixed with savage satisfaction.
"These will bruise," he says.
"Good."
"You'll feel them under the tactical vest."