Chapter 32 | Anna
Three days since the facility. Three days since I’d broken a man’s arm without hesitation. Three days since I’d left that message for Vormund and walked away while his research burned.
I should have been thinking about that. About what it meant that the violence had come so easily. About whether Vormund had gotten the message. About what would happen when he came for me.
I knew what I was doing—using this obsession to avoid thinking about that—but I couldn’t seem to stop.
And I’d been obsessing about it for days. Days. Like I couldn’t stop thinking about it to the point that I was actively trying to stop thinking about it and failing fabulously. And if he was listening to my thoughts at any point, then he would know how much I was obsessing and that was not okay.
But I couldn’t stop. I was at the point where I was imagining different scenarios and none of them were working. And I didn’t know how this was going to go down.
We were out of whiskey, so there was no getting any liquid courage, either.
So, I told myself to chill out and forget it because it wasn’t going to happen anytime soon anyway, especially with my brain deciding intense emotions were a threat.
I heaved an exasperated sigh.
“What’s wrong with you?” he asked.
I hadn’t realized the sigh was so… loud.
“Nothing,” I said and flushed to the roots of my hair.
Perhaps I was still running high on adrenaline after leaving a message for Vormund and my hormones had decided now was the time.
His gaze flickered up from the table where he was studying the next facility map, one brow lifted, and I knew that look. He was about to call me out on my lie.
Sometimes, I disliked his internal lie detector.
But he didn’t. Instead, he said, “It doesn’t sound like nothing.”
I finished eating and snatched up my plate. “I’m restless, that’s all.”
Restless. Actively trying not to think about what he looked like without a shirt. Or anything else. My mouth went dry.
“Why are you staring at me?”
Oh, shit. I hadn’t realized I stopped to stare.
I flushed and walked into the kitchen, trying to act casual and ignore my traitorous thoughts that were determined to get me into bed. With him.
I scrubbed the plate so hard I could see my reflection in it—and it was stoneware. I dried it, set it aside. When I turned, he was standing right there, inches away.
It startled me. My heart fluttered. I’d never heard him move.
“What are you—shit, you scared me!” I snapped.
But his eyes… were golden. Burning. Fire. Oh. He’d heard everything.
Well. So much for him not hearing my thoughts. That ship had sailed, hit an iceberg, and sunk spectacularly.
His hands came up, cupping my face. My knees went weak. Then he pressed a kiss to my forehead.
How… chaste.
“You should get some rest.”
Yeah. Sure. Rest. It was an awfully long day. I was tired, but that hum of obsession was still there buzzing underneath my skin. Which was giving my body mixed signals. Everything from let’s do this! to this is a terrible idea.
I should step away, but I didn’t. Instead, I placed my hand on his chest and tucked my head under his chin.
Sometimes, when we were this close, it still surprised me how tall he was. Especially when I was barefoot, and he still wore boots. I never thought about it under normal circumstances. For some reason, this didn’t feel normal. This felt like playing with fire and I was ready to get burned.
I focused on the hollow at the base of his throat. Saw the rapid beat of his pulse matching mine. Knew I couldn’t resist touching it. His skin was warm, smooth.
He went absolutely still. Then wrapped one arm around me. Like he knew both would make me feel caged. It might. I didn’t know. He hadn’t held me like that since everything changed.
I stood there trying to regulate my breathing, trying to steady my heart, trying to pretend standing this close did nothing. It wasn’t nothing. It was the last thing we hadn’t done. And before I changed my mind, I needed to forge ahead.
“Kincade?”
“Yes?”
My pulse jumped. I took a step down the path of no return. “I—I think I’m ready.”
He said nothing for a long moment, then, “We don’t have to.”
He was giving me an out. Or he was giving himself an out. He was afraid of what I might do. So was I. But I was tired of waiting and wanting and obsessing.
“I want to,” I said. “If you do.”
“I do,” he said.
And then we stood there. Neither one of us moving. Like we couldn’t decide what to do next. But I hadn’t moved my hand, the tips of my fingers still grazing the base of his throat. His heart pounded as hard as mine. His arm was still around me, still holding me close.
I tipped my head back to look up at him, and he looked down at me. His mouth slanted over mine. Soft at first. Tentative. Calm. Like testing me. Seeing if my brain would register threat and react.
It didn’t.
He deepened the kiss, pulling me closer. Stealing my breath. Couldn’t think. Heat flooded me, swooping low. My legs threatened to give out.
He stopped long enough to sweep me up, cradling me against his chest. My breath caught. Then he was walking to the bedroom, and I buried my face against his neck.
It was likely the most romantic thing he’d ever done. And it nearly broke me.
When he set me down, I turned into him. His hands slid into my hair. His mouth landed on mine again. Fierce. Claiming.
And then it happened. Desire tripped that part of my brain that screamed threat. It burned hot and wild and I stiffened. My fingers fisted his shirt. Nails scraping down material. I jerked away.
My breath was ragged as I pushed it back down. Forced it away. But it still threatened. I closed my eyes and stood there, trembling, clutching him like a lifeline. The only thing that could save me from myself.
Then there was fury. Not at him. At them. Fury they tried to take this away, too. Hadn’t they stolen enough? Wasn’t it enough they forced me to become something I hardly recognized?
“We can stop,” he said.
“No. I need—” I halted, trying to say what I needed. What would help keep me grounded.
He waited. Standing still. This was uncharted territory, and I wasn’t sure how to navigate it. I knew what I wanted. What I needed. But had never put it into words.
“Tell me what you need.”
A breath shuddered out. “I need your hands on me.”
His hands moved to my back, sliding under my shirt. Pausing there long enough for me to feel his steadiness, his strength. The trembling slowed to a shiver.
“Like this?”
“Yes.” A whisper.
I focused on that. And the burn in my head slowed and then disappeared.
I didn’t know what I needed next. I stood there, letting the heat of him wash over me. Letting him hold me. Trying to keep that part of my brain that wanted to attack in control.
So, he moved. One hand slid over the curve of my spine. The other steady at the small of my back. I didn’t know how he could stand there and be so calm when I was coming apart at the seams.
I realized I still clutched his shirt in my fists and loosened my grip. Relaxed my fingers. Pressed my hands there against him.
“We don’t have to do anything else.”
He was giving me space. Letting me choose.
I thought about what tripped it. And I knew. It was the fierce kiss that triggered it.
“I need to—can we go slow?”
“As slow as you need.”
I lifted my gaze and saw his drumming pulse. My hand moved before I decided. An impulse. I rested it against the side of his neck, feeling it beat against my palm. And the heady scent of him made me woozy.
I don’t know how long we stood like that, but it felt like an eternity.
As slow as you need.
Which meant it was all up to me. Initiate. And if I wanted this—him—I had to. I did, but it was terrifying. So many what ifs. What if that place in my head took over? What if I couldn’t stop it? What if I hurt him?
I exhaled a shaky breath.
But slow was the answer. Slow. Steady. Calm.
My trembling fingers reached for the hem of my shirt. I pulled it up and off, letting it fall to the floor. His hands still on my back. I felt his breath change—deeper, slower—but he didn’t move. Didn’t rush me.
What now? I didn’t know. But he stood there and let me figure it out.
One step at a time.
I slipped my hands under his shirt, felt the curve of his chest. The dusting of hair. The scar along his left ribs. The one on his shoulder I stitched so long ago in Madrid. When he talked me through it while my hands shook.
My hands shook now.
I paused, took a deep breath, then pushed the shirt higher. He tugged it off. It landed on the floor in a whisper of cotton.
I looked at him. Really looked. I’d seen him shirtless before but this was different. This was permission. This was want.
Heat flooded through me. Sharp and sudden and—
There.
The cold flared in my head. Immediate. Vicious. My breath caught. My fingers dug into his shoulders, nails biting skin.
No. Not now. Not this.
I didn’t pull away this time. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t let them take this.
“Anna—”
“Don’t move,” I gritted out. “Just—don’t move.”
His hands tightened on my back. Grounding me. I closed my eyes, focused on that. On his hands. On his warmth. On the steady beat of his heart against mine.
The cold pushed. I pushed back harder.
Mine. This moment was mine.
The pressure in my head eased. My breathing steadied.
When I opened my eyes, he was watching me. Steady. Patient. Waiting.
“Okay,” I whispered. “I’m okay.”
His thumb traced small circles on my back. “You’re more than okay.”
And I believed him.
I rose up, kissed him. No hesitation this time. No cold. Heat. Want. Us.
He responded, pulling me closer. His mouth moved against mine—deeper, hungrier—and I let myself fall into it. Into him.
My hands explored freely now. The planes of his chest. The hard lines of muscle. The warmth of his skin. Every touch deliberate. Every sensation memorized.
His hands moved lower, finding the curve of my waist. My hips. I gasped against his mouth.
No cold. No threat. Pure desire.
I broke. Turned away, toward the bed and then froze. Paralyzed by indecision. Wondering was this enough?