CHAPTER 23
THE BLOOD RUSH
POV: IVY
The city blurs past the window of the Bronco like a streak of neon paint on a wet canvas. Red taillights, white streetlamps, the yellow glare of taxis—it all merges into a river of light that we are cutting through like a knife.
I am shaking.
Not from fear. Not anymore.
I am shaking from a high so potent, so electric, that I feel like my skin is too tight for my body.
I look at my hands. They are resting on my knees, stained with grime and sweat. Ten minutes ago, these hands held a ceramic knife. Ten minutes ago, I slashed a man who terrifying half of the Eastern European underworld.
I cut him. I saw his eyes widen. I saw the fear.
I look over at Silas.
He is driving with one hand on the wheel, the other gripping my thigh so hard his fingers are digging into my muscle. He isn't looking at the road; his eyes are darting between the mirrors and the windshield, scanning for threats, but every few seconds, his gaze flicks to me.
And when he looks at me, it’s not with the cold, calculating assessment of the captor.
It’s with the raw, starving hunger of a man looking at his salvation.
"You’re quiet," he growls, his voice rough over the roar of the engine.
"I’m buzzing," I whisper. I turn fully in the seat to face him. "Silas, did you see his face? Did you see him when I stepped on his foot?"
Silas lets out a dark, ragged laugh. "I saw. I saw you dismantle him."
He squeezes my thigh, his thumb rubbing circles against the fabric of my tactical pants.
"You were magnificent, Ivy. You were terrifying."
The praise hits me straight in the chest. A week ago, I wanted to be invisible. I wanted to paint in quiet corners and hide from my father’s debts. Now, the idea of being invisible feels like death. I want to be seen. I want to be feared.
"Where are we going?" I ask as he takes a sharp turn, tires screeching, heading toward the industrial labyrinth of DUMBO.
"Safe house," he says. "Loft on Water Street. It’s secure. Lead-lined walls. No digital footprint. Purchased through a shell company three years ago."
"Does Nikolai know about it?"
"No one knows about it. Not even Luca."
He pulls the Bronco down a narrow, cobblestone alleyway that looks like a dead end. He presses a remote clipped to the visor, and a rusted corrugated metal door rolls up, revealing a dark garage.
We glide inside. The door rattles shut behind us, sealing out the sirens, the city, and the chaos.
The silence that follows is heavy. Thick. Suffocating.
Silas kills the engine.
For a second, neither of us moves. We just sit there in the dark, the ticking of the cooling engine counting down the seconds. The air in the cab is saturated with our scent—adrenaline, pheromones, old leather, and the metallic tang of dried blood.
Then, Silas unbuckles his seatbelt.
The sound of the click is the trigger.
I don't wait. I scramble over the center console, ignoring the gear stick digging into my hip.
He meets me halfway.
His hands grab my waist, hauling me into his lap. My back hits the steering wheel, the horn letting out a short, muffled honk, but we don't care.
His mouth crashes onto mine.
It’s not a kiss. It’s a collision. It’s a desperate attempt to consume each other. He tastes like violence and victory. He tastes like the only thing that matters in a world that just tried to kill us.
I tangle my fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, grinding my hips against his. He is hard. Painfully hard. The erection pressing against me through his tactical pants is a solid bar of heat.
"You’re alive," he murmurs against my mouth, biting my lower lip. "You’re alive. You’re here."
"I’m here," I gasp. "I’m yours."
He groans, a guttural sound that vibrates through his chest and into mine. He fumbles for the door handle, shoving the driver’s side door open with his elbow.
"Inside," he commands, dragging me out of the truck with him. "Now."
We stumble toward the elevator at the back of the garage. Silas doesn't let go of me. He keeps one arm wrapped around my waist, lifting me off my feet as we move, my boots barely skimming the concrete.
He swipes a key card. The elevator doors slide open.
We fall inside.
He slams me against the mirrored wall. The glass is cool against my back, a sharp contrast to the furnace of his body pressing into my front.
"You cut him," Silas whispers, his eyes blown wide, staring into mine. He sounds amazed. He sounds obsessed. "You put a knife in Nikolai Sokolov’s chest."
"He touched me," I say, breathless. "He touched my hair."
"I should have killed him," Silas snarls. "I should have put a bullet in his brain right there."
"We got the money," I remind him. "We won, Silas."
"We’re not done winning."
He reaches for the zipper of my tactical jacket. He yanks it down. The sound is a harsh zzzzzt in the quiet elevator.
He pushes the jacket off my shoulders, trapping my arms. He doesn't stop. He grabs the hem of the thermal shirt I’m wearing underneath and rips it.
The fabric tears easily in his hands.
I am exposed. My chest heaves, my skin flushed and damp with sweat. I’m not wearing a bra—we didn't have time for one in the cabin.
Silas stares at me. His gaze is heavy, tactile. It feels like he’s touching me even when he isn't.
" beautiful," he breathes. " covered in dirt and chaos. My corrupted saint."
The elevator dings. The doors open directly into a sprawling, dark loft.
I don't see the room. I don't care about the furniture.
Silas lifts me up. I wrap my legs around his waist instinctively. He carries me into the darkness, kicking the door shut behind us.
He doesn't make it to the bedroom. He doesn't even make it to the couch.
He presses me against the nearest wall—rough brick that scrapes against my skin—and devours me.
His hands are everywhere. rough. Possessive. He squeezes my ass, my thighs, my breasts. He needs to verify that I am whole. He needs to map every inch of me to ensure no piece was lost in the escape.
"I need you," he growls against my neck. "I need to be inside you. Right now."
"Do it," I beg. "Please, Silas. Now."
He fumbles with his belt. The buckle jingles. He shoves his pants down, freeing himself.
He doesn't bother taking my pants off. He just unbuttons them and yanks them down to my knees, along with my panties.
It’s awkward. It’s messy. It’s perfect.
He lifts me higher, bracing my back against the brick.
He enters me in one smooth, powerful thrust.
I scream.
It’s a sound of pure release. The tension of the last twenty-four hours—the heist, the fear, the knife, the running—it all explodes in that single moment of connection.
He fills me completely. He stretches me. He anchors me.
"Fuck," he grunts, his head falling back, the cords in his neck straining. "You’re so tight. You feel so good."
He begins to move. fast. Hard. The friction is intense. My boots bang against the wall with every thrust. The platinum anklet on my leg glints in the moonlight filtering through the high windows.
I cling to his shoulders, digging my nails into his shirt.
"Silas," I cry out. "Harder. Don't stop."
"I’m never stopping," he vows. "I’m going to fuck the fear out of you. I’m going to make you forget everything but this."
He pounds into me. relentless. Animalistic. It’s not lovemaking. It’s a claiming. It’s a frantic affirmation of life in the face of death.
I look at his face. His eyes are squeezed shut, his brow furrowed in concentration. He looks in pain. He looks in ecstasy.
He loves me.
He admitted it in the cabin, but seeing him now, unraveling in my arms, I believe it. He needs me. The Wolf needs a mate.
The pleasure builds fast, sharp and jagged.
"I’m close," I gasp, biting his shoulder to stifle a sob.
"Come for me, Ivy," he orders, his voice ragged. "Come on my cock. Show me you’re mine."
He hits that spot deep inside me, angling his hips to grind against my clit.
I shatter.
It’s violent. My vision goes white. My body convulses around him, milking him, pulsing with a rhythm that matches his own.
The sensation breaks him.
He roars my name, driving into me three more times, hard and deep, before pouring himself into me. He holds me there, pressed against the brick wall, trembling as the aftershocks roll through us both.
Slowly, the world comes back into focus.
The sound of our ragged breathing fills the empty loft. The distant wail of a siren reminds us that the city is still out there, hunting us.
Silas lowers his forehead to rest against mine. He is drenched in sweat.
"I’ve got you," he whispers, the mantra he always repeats. "I’ve got you."
He kisses me softly, a stark contrast to the violence of a moment ago. He lowers me slowly until my feet touch the floor, but he keeps his arm around my waist, supporting me as my knees buckle.
"Are you okay?" he asks, brushing the hair back from my face.
"I’ve never been better," I say honestly.
He chuckles, a low rumble in his chest. "You’re an adrenaline junkie, Mrs. Vane."
"I learned from the best."
He pulls back to look at me, and his expression shifts. He frowns, his eyes narrowing as he looks at my arm.
"You’re bleeding."
I look down. There is a jagged scratch running down my forearm, oozing blood. I must have scraped it against the door frame when we were running from the vault.
"It’s nothing," I say. "Just a scratch."
"It’s not nothing."
He pulls my clothes back together, buttoning my pants with efficient, caring fingers. Then he scoops me up into his arms again.
"Bathroom," he says. "We need to clean this."
The bathroom in the loft is industrial—exposed pipes, subway tiles, a massive clawfoot tub that looks out of place in the warehouse aesthetic.
Silas sits me on the edge of the closed toilet lid. He rummages through a first aid kit he pulled from under the sink.
He cleans the scratch with antiseptic. It stings, but I don't flinch. After everything else, this pain is barely a whisper.
He applies a butterfly bandage with the precision of a surgeon.
"There," he says, smoothing the adhesive down. "It shouldn't scar. Unless you want it to."
"I have enough scars," I say quietly.
He pauses. He looks at me, then takes my hand. He turns it over, kissing the palm where the phantom blood of the man I shot used to be.
"We have the money," he says. "I checked the account on my phone in the elevator. Fifty-two million dollars. It cleared the Panama wash."
"Fifty-two?" I blink. "I thought it was fifty."
"The exchange rate favored us," he says with a smirk. "And I skimmed a little off Henderson’s personal account for the inconvenience."
I laugh. It sounds a little hysterical. "So we’re rich."
"We were always rich," he says. "Now we’re liquid. And untraceable."
He stands up and walks to the sink, washing his hands. He looks at me in the mirror.
"We can go, Ivy."
"Go where?"
"Anywhere," he says. "With this kind of capital? We can disappear. I have a contact who can get us new passports in twelve hours. New names. New faces."
He turns around, leaning against the sink, crossing his arms.
"We could go to Bali. Buy an island. You could paint all day. I could... learn to fish. We could never look over our shoulders again."
He’s watching me closely. It’s a test. I know it’s a test.
I picture it.
Bali. White sand. Blue water. No Nikolai. No guns. Just me and Silas, living a normal life. Or as normal as life can be with a man who keeps a tracker on my ankle.
It sounds like paradise.
It sounds like running away.
I look at the bandage on my arm. I think about the fear in Mr. Henderson’s eyes. I think about the way Nikolai touched my hair, the entitlement in his voice. Problematic.
And I think about the Estate. Silas’s home. The place where he grew up. The place where his father hurt him, yes, but also the place he built into a fortress. Nikolai broke it. He rammed a truck through the gates. He killed the guards.
If we run... Nikolai wins. He keeps the territory. He keeps the fear.
And we spend the rest of our lives looking at the door, waiting for it to be kicked in.
I stand up.
I walk over to Silas. I stand between his legs, placing my hands on his chest.
"You hate fishing," I say.
He blinks. A slow smile spreads across his lips. "I do."
"And I don't want to paint sunsets in Bali," I continue. "I want to paint here. In New York. In our home."
"The Estate is compromised," he reminds me.
"So we fix it," I say. "We have fifty million dollars, Silas. We can rebuild the wall. We can hire an army."
I reach up and grab the collar of his shirt, pulling him down until our faces are inches apart.
"We aren't running," I whisper. "We didn't steal his money just to use it as a retirement fund. We stole it to hurt him."
"Yes," Silas breathes. The hunger in his eyes flares up again, darker this time. "We did."
"So let’s finish it," I say. "Let’s take the rest. Let’s take his territory. Let’s take his life."
Silas wraps his arms around me, crushing me to him.
"You are bloodthirsty," he murmurs admiringly.
"I’m a Vane," I say. "Isn't that what you wanted?"
"It’s more than I dared hope for."
He kisses my forehead.
"Okay," he says. "No Bali. No running."
He walks past me, heading back into the main room.
"Where are you going?" I ask.
"To make a call," he says over his shoulder. "If we’re going to war, I need to call the cavalry."
"Who’s the cavalry?"
He stops at the laptop he set up on the coffee table. He looks back at me, his eyes gleaming with cold, calculated violence.
"Everyone Nikolai Sokolov has ever pissed off," he says. "We’re going to buy the loyalty of every gang in New York City. And then..."
He types a command.
"...we’re going to invite them to a party."