Chapter 14
ROXY
His mouth is fire and intention, and I meet it like I’ve been waiting years to burn.
There’s no finesse—no delicate unraveling. It’s heat and friction and hands that grip like the truth’s finally out and we don’t have to lie to our bodies anymore. He tastes like adrenaline and stubbornness, like every argument we haven’t had yet, and I kiss him back like I’m trying to win.
His skin is hotter than I expect, slick with heat, muscles like coiled wire and scars that map stories I’ll never get to hear unless I earn them.
“Still time to run,” he growls into my throat.
I drag my nails down his back and hiss, “Shut up.”
The moment snaps like a livewire.
He lifts me like I weigh nothing, slams me back against the bulkhead with a grunt, and I wrap my legs around his waist, feeling the thick, hard line of him grinding into me through too much friction. We both gasp.
He doesn’t ask. I don’t need him to.
He shoves his pants down just enough. I angle, shift, grind—and then—
He slides into me with a rough stretch that steals my breath, and I bite my lip to keep from crying out. Too much and just right, like being filled past the point of reason.
He groans, low and broken. “Fucking hell—”
I roll my hips and dig in, finding rhythm in the desperation, the goddamn need sparking between us like it's built into the ship's wiring.
It’s not soft. Not gentle. This is teeth and sweat and skin slapping skin in a rhythm that doesn’t ask permission. He fucks me like a problem he’s solving, and I take it like I don’t know how to be anything but wrecked.
One of his hands braces beside my head, the other between us, rough fingers rubbing circles that make my knees shake.
I can’t hold it. It’s too much. Too fast. Too sharp.
“Don’t stop—” I gasp, and it’s a plea, not a command.
His eyes lock on mine, wild and dark and unreadable. “Come on, then. Show me.”
And I do.
The orgasm crashes through me like a riot—white noise and clenched muscle, my body shaking against his, heat flooding every nerve.
He follows a heartbeat later with a groan, hips grinding deep, like he’s trying to leave a permanent mark.
For a few seconds, there’s nothing. Just breath. Heartbeats. The weight of his forehead pressed to mine.
And then, just like that, it’s over.
He lowers me carefully, steady hands, no words. The silence buzzes.
He doesn’t speak.
Just walks two steps to the bed and drops onto it like someone unplugged his spine.
He’s out in seconds.
I stay standing, pulse still erratic, skin still humming, and something inside me—something dark and familiar—starts to coil tight again.
I watch him sleep.
Heavy breaths. Arms loose across the mattress. Mouth slack. He looks younger like this, almost peaceful, and that makes it worse.
I can’t lie anymore.
Not after this.
I can’t let him keep looking at me like I’m something I’m not—can’t let this mess slide any deeper. The longer I wait, the harder it gets, and I already feel the cement setting.
So I do what I’m worst at.
I speak.
“Vrok,” I whisper.
Nothing.
“Vrok,” louder now.
He stirs. A grunt. One eye cracks open. “What.”
“I’m not the Butcher.”
The words fall like a knife. No build-up. No cushion.
Just the truth, raw and late.
He’s still. Utterly still. Like the air got sucked out of the room.
I press on because I have to.
“I’m not her. I’ve never been her. I’m not an assassin, or a merc, or anything close.
I was at the club with a friend. It was a dare.
She pointed to the scariest guy in the bar, and I went up to you to prove I wasn’t a coward.
I didn’t think you’d… respond. But you did.
And then it all got out of hand, and I didn’t know how to stop it without getting myself spaced. ”
He doesn’t move.
Not a twitch.
I step back, suddenly cold. My arms wrap around my own ribs.
“I lied. But not because I wanted to screw you over. I panicked. And then it was too late. And now I don’t know what’s going to happen, but I needed you to know.”
I brace for it—rage, violence, betrayal. Something.
He still doesn’t look at me.
He stares at the bulkhead.
Says nothing.
That’s worse.
“Vrok?” I try again.
Finally, he speaks.
“Sit.”
The word is clipped. Empty.
I blink. “What?”
He turns his head, not looking at me—just… past me. Voice low and flat. “Sit. There. Don’t move.”
I sit.
Because I don’t know what else to do.
He breathes deep. Shoulders tense like he’s holding himself in check with effort.
“We’re not turning around,” he says. “You’re on this ship now. And you owe me.”
It’s not a threat.
Not exactly.
But it’s not mercy either.
I nod slowly, throat tight. “Okay.”
The silence creeps back in.
We sit in it, both of us pretending it’s not filling the room like smoke.
But it is.
And I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to breathe right again.