Chapter 17 Mary
MARY
Ifind him in the small back room they’ve given him, sitting on the edge of a narrow cot.
The air smells of old wood, cold stone, and the sharp, coppery tang of blood.
He’s stripped off his coat and shirt. His torso is a canvas of fresh bruises blooming over old scars, a dark, mottled map of a life lived hard.
He’s dabbing at the cut on his lip with a wet cloth, his movements stiff, his face a mask of cold control.
I lean against the doorframe, a roll of clean bandages in my hand. “You look like you lost a fight with a mountain.”
He doesn’t look up. “Mountions don’t hit back. Your brother does.”
“He’s good at it.” I push off the frame and walk in. The floorboards creak under my boots. “Let me see.”
“I can handle it.”
“Your pride is bleeding on the floor, Silas. Let me clean the rest of you up.” I kneel in front of him, my knees pressing into the cold wood.
I take the cloth from his hand. It’s warm from the water, stained pink.
His jaw is tight, a muscle feathering along the line of it.
I press the cloth to his split lip. He flinches, just a fraction, but his eyes snap to mine.
“This what you do? Patch up the strays?”
“Only the ones who get punched for me.” I dab at the cut, my touch light. His breath hitches. “You didn’t have to stand there and take it.”
“What was the alternative? Fight the entire Brotherhood in a cabin? I’m a fox, Mary, not a fool.”
“You could have said something. Defended yourself.”
“With words?” A dry, humorless laugh escapes him. “Your brother doesn’t trade in words. He trades in consequences. I knew the price of walking in here.”
“And what’s the price now?” My voice drops. My thumb brushes the uninjured corner of his mouth. His skin is warm, rough with stubble.
His gaze darkens, the gold in his eyes deepening to something molten. “This.”
His hand comes up, fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of my neck. He doesn’t pull me gently. He pulls me to him, his mouth crashing against mine.
It’s not a gentle kiss. It’s a collision.
A claiming. The taste of blood is sharp on his lips, on my tongue.
It’s fierce, raw, a storm of need and anger and something else, something that’s been building since the moment I saw him in that Roman cell.
My hands fist in his bare shoulders, my nails digging into hard muscle.
A low growl vibrates in his chest, and I answer it with one of my own.
The bond between us, that thin, silken thread I’ve felt since the woods, doesn’t just pull.
It ignites. It flares white-hot behind my eyes, a surge of pure, undiluted heat that has nothing to do with the fire in the other room.
It’s him. It’s me. It’s the space where we stop fighting each other and just are.
His kiss is a storm, and I am the shore. I bite his lower lip, not hard, but enough to taste the iron-sharp truth of him. A sharp inhale, and then his hands are on me, pulling me onto the cot, his body a hard weight over mine.
“More.” The word is a ragged command against my throat, his breath hot on my skin. “Give me more.”
My hands tear at his belt, the buckle clattering against the floor. He shoves my skirts up, his fingers finding the wet heat between my legs. I arch into his touch, a broken sound escaping me as he strokes my pussy, his touch knowing, demanding.
“Now,” I gasp, my fingers digging into his back. “I need you now.”
He doesn’t make me wait. He drives his cock into my pussy in one deep, claiming thrust. The air leaves my lungs in a rush. He fills me completely, a perfect, aching fit. For a heartbeat, we are still, fused together, our breaths mingling. Then he moves.
He sets a brutal, driving rhythm, each thrust slamming the cot against the stone wall.
The world narrows to this: the smell of him, sweat and winter air; the sound of our ragged breathing; the slick, wet sound of our bodies joining.
I wrap my legs around his hips, pulling him deeper, meeting every plunge with a roll of my own.
He shifts, angling himself, and the next thrust hits a spot deep inside that makes me cry out, my vision blurring at the edges. A groan rips from his chest, a raw, unfiltered sound of pleasure.
“Yes,” he rasps, his forehead pressed to mine. “Just like that.”
His pace quickens, becomes frantic, a race toward a finish line we both see.
I claw at his shoulders, my head thrown back, lost in the sheer physical glory of it.
This is not love. It’s something more primitive, more honest. It’s need, stripped bare.
It’s two broken things finding a jagged, perfect fit.
He continues fucking me, each thrust a deep, deliberate stroke that steals my breath and replaces it with him. The world dissolves into the rhythm of our bodies, the rough slide of his skin against mine, the solid weight of him holding me down and lifting me up all at once.
“You feel…” he breathes into the curve of my neck, his voice a ragged scrape of sound. “God, Mary, you feel fucking amazing.”
His pace shifts, slows, becomes something more than frantic need.
He pulls almost all the way out, making me gasp at the sudden emptiness, then sinks back into me with a groan that seems pulled from the very core of him.
He’s drawing this out, making me feel every inch of his cock filling my pussy, stretching me, claiming me in a way that has nothing to do with possession and everything to do with belonging.
My hands slide from his shoulders down the hard plane of his back, feeling the muscles cord and flex with every movement. I hook my ankles tighter around him, pulling him deeper still, needing him to touch a part of me I didn’t know was empty.
A low, approving rumble vibrates in his chest. “That’s it. Take all of me.”
He braces one hand beside my head, the other gripping my hip, his fingers pressing into my skin as he sets a new, relentless pace.
It’s deeper, harder, each thrust a perfect, aching friction that coils the tension tighter and tighter low in my belly.
My nails dig into his back as a wave of pleasure builds, threatening to break.
“Don’t stop,” I beg, my voice a broken whisper against his shoulder. “Please, Silas, don’t stop.”
“Never,” he vows, his breath hot on my skin. “I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.”
His mouth finds mine again, swallowing my gasp as he begins to move.
It’s not a frantic race, not anymore. It’s a deep, rolling rhythm that speaks of time and intent.
He fills me completely with each long, slow thrust, his cock a perfect, hard heat inside my pussy.
I arch into him, my body singing with the rightness of it, my fingers tracing the powerful line of his back.
“You feel like coming home,” I breathe against his lips, the words torn from some deep, unguarded place.
A low groan rumbles in his chest, and he shifts, angling his hips. The next thrust brushes a spot deep inside me that makes my vision blur. My breath hitches, a soft cry escaping me.
“Right there,” he murmurs, his voice thick and raw. His pace quickens just a fraction, each movement precise, deliberate, aimed at that same perfect, aching place. “Let me feel you.”
I can’t hold back. The coil of pleasure tightens, unbearably sweet, and then shatters. I cry out, my body clenching around his cock in waves of pure, blinding release. He holds himself deep inside me, his own control fraying as my pussy milks him.
“Mary…” It’s a prayer, a curse, my name a broken thing on his lips.
His rhythm fractures into short, desperate thrusts.
I feel the hot pulse of his own climax, a flood of warmth that echoes my own.
He collapses against me, his weight a solid, comforting anchor, his face buried in the crook of my neck.
Our hearts hammer against each other, a frantic, slowing drumbeat.
We lie like that for long moments, breath slowly returning to normal. The air is rich with the scent of us, of sex and sweat and something softer, something that feels dangerously like peace.