Chapter 36 Marked Alive
I wake up to a sharp current shooting down my body, grunts echoing in my ears, a reassuring weight on top of me, and…
Ren’s hard cock driving into my pussy.
After last night, after the filthy things I begged him for, this shouldn’t surprise me.
And I love it.
“Ren,” I moan, my fingers digging into his back as he powers into me. “Oh, fuck.”
“Awake finally, my princess,” he rasps, his hips moving faster, harder. “Do you know how wet you are? How good you feel around me?”
Wetness trickles down my thighs, but that clearly doesn’t deter him.
“My naughty Aria. You love getting taken in the dark, waking up to my cock inside you, don’t you?”
His dick thickens, every inch stretching me wide as he drags his tip over that secret spot inside me with each pass.
Arching up, I rub my tits over his chest and try to meet him thrust for thrust, molten lava pouring through me, the current sharpening, directed to where we’re joined.
With a growl, Ren tosses my legs over his shoulders, brackets my wrists with his hands, and immobilizes me.
I cry out as the pleasure intensifies, the new angle impaling his hard cock deeper inside me. A roar tears out of his throat as his dick throbs, unleashing a stream of cum as he pistons harder and faster.
“Yes, yes,” I slur, my mind blurry with only one need—to come, to shatter beneath him, to let him rip me into pieces.
“You’ll take what I give you, won’t you?” He bites my lip. I return the favor by clawing his shoulder blades until wetness appears on my fingertips.
A loud hiss escapes him, followed by a rough chuckle. “My dark, dark girl.”
Something rustles. Quick movements.
My lips part, eyes jerking open when his fingers massage our cum over my puckered rosebud. Then I feel it, something hard and thick inserted, just the tip.
“Ren,” I scream, my body spasming when a thunderstorm hits my core, the added intrusion overloading my senses.
“Yes, sweetheart. You’re coming like a good girl,” he growls. “Look at you shake like you’re hot for it. Desperate for it. Making a mess. You like it, my cock in your pussy and something up your ass.”
I thrash, the collision of pleasure and pain so fierce I can barely breathe. Ren doesn’t stop. Instead, he slams his lips to mine as his rhythm falters, his muscles locking tight above me.
A guttural groan rips through the room, and he follows me over the edge, his cock twitching and spasming, spilling deep inside me.
My vision blackens. For the next moments, I’m suspended in some alternate reality where every cell is drunk with pleasure, lit and boneless. I barely remember him removing the knife handle from my ass, then cleaning me up.
I don’t know how much time passes, but when reality slowly drifts in, I finally notice the sweat sticking to my skin. His gentle fingers strum across my back as he clutches me tightly against his chest.
A semi-hardness still lodges between my legs.
My caveman is still inside me.
“And you said you lived like a monk,” I mumble against his hard pec.
He chuckles and kisses me all over—my hair, my ears, my cheeks—while whispering unintelligible words against my skin.
Until his hold deepens, and I finally notice the change. His muscles bunch now, but not from lust.
It’s desperation.
The fevered words against my skin turn ragged.
“Ren?” I pull back, trying to catch his eyes. “What’s wrong?”
A strained smile greets me, and he dips his forehead against mine. “I love you so much, Aria. I didn’t know I could love someone like this. Thank you for giving me this gift.”
Why does it sound so final? Like a man savoring his last meal?
“Tell me, Ren. No secrets.”
Gentle exhales puff against my face. “We’re going back tonight. Tristan called. Your apartment’s fine.”
We’re going back. Away from this little slice of heaven we’ve carved for ourselves these last three days.
We didn’t do much.
Others might think we were boring—Ren cooking basic meals, including a redo of the orange marmalade cookies, which had me begrudgingly admit were acceptable.
Him rubbing my feet under the blankets as we sat on the sofa to read or watch another movie.
We even played a game of chess with a checker standing in for a knight.
Then there was him grumbling when he tidied up the cabin before bed because I’d strewn things all over the place.
He even pulled up a weak internet connection with his satellite phone to download study materials for the GRE, which I’d neglected over the last few months.
“How do you even function with this mess?” he mutters, picking up the blanket from the floor, folding it, and draping it over the couch.
I grin and wiggle my eyebrows. “My brand of chaos. And you’re stuck with it.”
He pauses and stares at me—just stares at me. “I love your chaos.”
His hair drapes over his forehead, a soft smile cresting his lips. The crease between his brows is gone, and there’s something quiet and new on his face.
Happiness.
I want to stay in the moment forever.
I’ve never felt this way about anyone before…not even Blake.
The thought hurts, so I kiss his rigid scar.
“When are we heading back?” I ask.
Back to Saints Hollow. Back to the bounty on hold and the people hunting me.
“After lunch. I want to return when there’s daylight and do another sweep of your place myself.”
I nod. He holds me tighter as darkness slowly gives way to morning light.
I don’t want to leave the bed.
Later that morning, I trace the Chinese character tattooed on his back. “What does this mean?”
“Yong. It means bravery.”
“How fitting.” I smile. “I love your language. What does your name mean?”
“Unlike some traditional families, Mom actually came up with our names. Usually, it’d be the father or grandparents.” Ren rolls over, his arms stretched behind his head. “My name, Ren, actually goes with Celia’s Chinese name, Ci. Ren Ci means mercy.”
His voice turns sad, and I curl into his side. “I think Mom was trying to ask the universe to spare us. She married into the Triads. Dad was a top lieutenant for Cornelius’s father. But secretly, I think she’d hoped Celia and I would get out, even though no one does.”
My Ren is a tender soul trapped in a killer’s world.
Life isn’t fair.
But I already know that.
Sadness flits across his eyes for a split second, and he clears his throat and turns to me, his lips tilting into a smile. He traces his finger down my arm until it rests on the sunflower tattoo. “Why did you get this?”
“I’m afraid of needles.”
His eyes widen.
“I know,” I trace the petals of the sunflowers. “A nurse afraid of getting poked. Ridiculous, right?”
“No.”
There it is, simple. I don’t think I can do anything that’ll make him see me less than. All the confessions I’ve given to Reaper and Ghostface—Ren takes them as they are without judgment.
Just acceptance.
And love.
“Blake came up with the idea.” My gaze flickers up to his, noting the wrinkle between his brows. “You aren’t upset I’m talking about him, right?”
Ren shakes his head. “He’s part of your past, part of who you are today. And I’m in your present. That’s enough. And I almost—”
“But you didn’t. You didn’t kill him,” I whisper.
Only then do I understand what anger I have left. However small, it’s about the lying. The omission. The choice he took from me.
Because I judge people by their actions.
Ren turned his gun. He didn’t kill Blake.
“Anyway, we’d gotten engaged, and he said, to celebrate, he wanted to get our first tattoo together. To mark up our ‘virgin’ skin.” I snort, thinking about his ridiculous smile when we sat down at this dingy parlor and he handed the artist the sunflower sketch.
“You don’t like sunflowers, though.”
“How do you know that?”
“Valentine’s Day last year. Arcana & Bloom.”
My eyes widen, thinking about the passing comment I mumbled under my breath, something Blake had conveniently forgotten time and time again, but Ren had overheard.
And remembered.
“He liked them. It was almost a joke between us at that point.”
Ren smiles. “I would’ve gotten Queen of the Night tulips. Suits you more. Beautiful and dark.”
I give him a wobbly smile.
Freedom. That’s what I feel with him. With the dangerous man I should hate, fear, who society tells me is a bad guy.
“You have a way with words.” I kiss him, and he groans, pulling me closer. “It’s a shame I didn’t hear them until recently.”
He stills, his gaze sweeping over my face.
“What?” I cup my hand over my mouth, trying to see if I have morning breath.
Chuckling, he tugs my fingers away. “It was my rebellion. My way of breaking the rules.”
I cock my head, not understanding what he’s referring to.
“Not speaking,” he explains. “I was always a quiet kid. I preferred listening. But Mom liked my singing. It made her happy. After she died, something broke inside me. I didn’t want to speak anymore.”
“Oh, Ren.” I cup his face, wishing I could take away his pain.
“But then I met you.” His voice roughens. “I wanted to make you laugh. I wanted to speak again.”
There are no words for what fills me.
Instead, I show him with my kisses and my body.
I love him.
By the time we’re on the road again, he’s whipped up a quick sandwich and restored the cottage the way it was when he came in—books on shelves, a few toppled over.
But there are small changes he’s left behind.
Nightmare on Bleaker Street still sits inside the VCR. My winning target practice paper is displayed next to the shotgun on the mantel.
He’s left pieces of us behind in his favorite place.
We’re quiet as our car approaches the apartment. A humid front has moved in—a storm on the horizon. Daylight, while still visible, is darkened by a blanket of clouds.
After parking his motorcycle behind the building, he walks me up the stairs.
“Let me go in first,” he says, gun drawn, safety disengaged.
My pulse kicks, and I nod.
He opens the door and steps in.
The apartment looks the same, a faint stench of gas still lingering that can easily be aired out.
I open my mouth, but he presses his finger to his lips.
He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a gadget, and sweeps the space.
“No bugs or cameras,” he says. “But I’m checking one more thing.”
Taking out a small flashlight, he walks to the kitchen and pulls out the stove by a few inches.
“What are you looking for?” I peer over his shoulder.
“I don’t believe in coincidences.” He shines the light over the pipes, the wall, the knobs.
“UV light,” he mutters. “It can catch what people think they’ve wiped clean—tamper marks, residue, hidden tags.”
Ren takes his time, examining every inch of the place, but nothing shows up.
“I think we’re good,” he says, sweeping the light one last time.
He stops.
Dread turns cold at the murderous expression on his face. His jaw locks. A muscle twitches in his temple.
“What are you—” I follow his gaze down.
And gasp.
The light has caught my forearm. My sunflower tattoo.
Tiny digits and letters glow on the petals.
“What on earth?” I whisper and take my arm out of the light.
Nothing’s there. Just regular flowers. But when I put my arm back under the light, the letters and numbers are there, clear as day.
I grasp the counter, accidentally knocking a few plates to the ground.
The ceramic shatters.
Much like the beautiful memories of the man I once thought was my forever.
“The key,” I whisper, cold sliding through me.
“Was on you all along.” Ren’s voice is low and grim. “The bastard tattooed a key on you without your knowing.”
Why would Blake do this?
The kitchen spins, and I waver.
Ren reaches me in seconds, his gun clattering onto the counter before he pulls me into his arms.
“I got you. We’ll figure this out.” He shushes me as I shake uncontrollably.
What’s real and what’s fake anymore? What was Blake involved in? And why did he hide something dangerous on me?
“I-I can’t believe—”
That’s when I hear it.
A soft, unmistakable click cuts through the air. One I became intimately familiar with this weekend.
After target practice.
A gun safety disengaging.
My gaze darts to Ren’s weapon still on the counter.
Fear flashes across his eyes as he throws me behind him and grabs his gun, aiming it toward the intruder.
“Well, well, well, looks like I get to bring the key to Master Cornelius,” a low voice says with glee.
Three guns point at us. Black boots step into the kitchen, followed by two shadows and one familiar face.
The man in the alley and at the Benefaction.
Jasper.