6. Shannon
Shannon
The world narrows to the space between us, charged and fragile.
Five days. The words hang in the air, both a promise and a death sentence.
It’s not enough time to build a future, but it’s more than enough to shatter my heart.
A part of me, the cautious part that has kept me and Aiden alive, screams to put the walls back up, to guard against the inevitable pain.
But looking at Reyes, at the raw conflict in his eyes, I know I can’t.
For the first time in years, I’m not just surviving.
I’m living, and I refuse to waste a single second of the time we have left.
I pull back just enough to look into his eyes—those pale gray-green depths that have haunted my dreams since the night he found us. “I meant what I said. I’ll be damned if I waste one of them.”
His hands tighten on my waist, the war happening behind his eyes. Want battles with that protective instinct that keeps trying to save me from myself.
“Shannon—”
“No.” I press my fingers to his lips, feeling the warmth of his breath against my skin. “No more thinking, or being careful. I'm done pretending this isn’t exactly what we both want.”
I reach up and pull his head down to mine, kissing him with all the desperation I’ve been holding back. This time there’s no hesitation, no gentle exploration. This is hunger, pure and simple. Three years of being alone, of being afraid, of forgetting I was a woman instead of just a mother.
Reyes groans against my mouth and kisses me back like a starving man. His hands slide up my back, tangling in my braids. When he tilts my head to deepen the kiss, I melt against him completely.
“Aiden—” he starts when we break apart, both of us breathing hard.
“Is asleep.” I grab the front of his shirt, feeling the solid heat of him under my palms. “Has been for an hour. His door is closed.”
The last of his resistance crumbles. His control snaps like a wire pulled too tight.
“Hell, Shannon.” His voice is rough, wrecked. “You sure about this?”
Instead of answering, I work at the buttons of his shirt. My fingers tremble—not from fear, but from pure need. When I get the first few open and press my palm against his bare chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart, he closes his eyes like I’m torturing him.
“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”
That’s all it takes.
Reyes captures my mouth again, walking me backward until my shoulders hit the wall. His hands are everywhere—sliding under my sweater, tracing the line of my spine, mapping every inch of skin. When his thumb brushes over my nipple through the thin lace of my bra, I arch into him with a gasp.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs against my throat, the reverence in his voice making my chest tight. “So perfect.”
I’m not perfect. I’m broken and scared and carrying more baggage than any man should deal with. But the way he’s looking at me, the way his hands shake as he touches me—like I’m something precious instead of damaged—makes me feel beautiful for the first time in years.
He strips my sweater off in one smooth motion, then just stares. The hunger in his eyes is so intense it makes me dizzy.
“You’re staring,” I whisper.
“Can’t help it.” His fingers trace the edge of my bra, barely touching but setting my skin on fire. “Been dreaming about this. About you.”
“Show me.”
He does. God, he does.
His mouth finds the sensitive spot where my neck meets my shoulder, and I bite my lip to keep from crying out. When he works his way down, pressing hot kisses to my collarbone, to the swell of my breasts above the black lace, my knees nearly give out.
“Not here,” he says suddenly, pulling back. “Not against a wall.”
Before I can protest, he’s lifting me, carrying me toward the living room, and sets me down next to the couch. Instantly, we’re both moving frantically.
He grabs the thick blankets from behind the couch—the ones he’s been sleeping on—and spreads them on the floor. It’s not romantic, but it’s ours. This space where he’s read bedtime stories to my son and held me through nightmares.
When he turns back to me, his shirt is gone, and I forget how to breathe.
Broad shoulders, a chest carved with muscle and marked with scars that tell stories I want to learn. Dark hair trailing down his stomach to disappear beneath his jeans. He’s beautiful in a way that’s purely masculine, dangerous, and protective all at once.
“Come here,” he says, patting the pallet he's made.
I don't hesitate. When his hands find the clasp of my bra, and the lace falls away, his eyes darken. I feel powerful instead of vulnerable.
“Perfect,” he breathes, cupping my breasts. “So fucking perfect.”
When his mouth finds my nipple, circling it with his tongue before drawing it between his lips, I cry out softly and bury my fingers in his dark hair. The sensation shoots straight through me, pooling hot and low between my thighs.
He worships me with his mouth, his hands, learning what makes me gasp and arch against him. When he lays me back on the blankets, working his way down my body with slow, deliberate kisses, I’m already trembling.
“Reyes, please—”
“I got you, baby.” He hooks his fingers in the waistband of my jeans, looking up at me with those hazel eyes. “Let me take care of you.”
I lift my hips, helping him strip away the last barriers. Then I’m finally naked beneath him, sprawled on his blankets. I should feel exposed. Instead, I feel claimed.
“You’re mine,” he says, and it’s not a question.
“Yes.” The word is a whisper, but it carries everything I feel for this man who saved me, who protected me, who’s about to lose everything because he chose me.
His hands slide up my thighs, parting them gently. His fingers find me wet and needy; we both groan.
“So ready for me,” he murmurs, circling that sensitive bundle of nerves until I’m writhing. “How long has it been, baby?”
“Three years.” I can barely get the words out. “Since before Aiden.”
Something flickers across his face—possessiveness, or just pure male satisfaction at being the first to touch me in so long. He slides one finger inside me, then two; my back arches off the blankets.
“Tight,” he grits out. “So fucking tight.”
He works me with patient skill, adding a third finger when I start rocking against his hand, his thumb never stopping its maddening circles. The pleasure builds until I’m gasping his name, until I’m on the edge of something I haven’t felt in years.
“That’s it,” he encourages. “Come for me, Shannon. Let me see you fall apart.”
When the orgasm hits, it steals my breath. I cry out, my body clenching around his fingers as pleasure crashes through me. He works me through it, murmuring praise against my skin until I’m boneless and shaking.
“Beautiful,” he says when I finally come down, pressing soft kisses to my stomach. “So fucking beautiful when you come.”
But I’m not done. Not even close.
I sit up, pushing him back so I can work on his jeans.
“Shannon, you don’t have to—”
“I want to." My hands move frantically "Need to touch you. Taste you. I want everything.”
When I free him from his boxers, my mouth goes dry. He’s thick and hard and perfect. When I wrap my hand around him, his head falls back with a groan that goes straight to my core.
“Fuck, baby. Your hands—”
I stroke him slowly, learning the weight of him, the way he pulses in my palm. When I lean down and take him in my mouth, tasting salt and heat, he threads his fingers through my braids and holds on like I’m his anchor.
“Jesus, Shannon.” His voice is wrecked, barely recognizable. “Your mouth—fuck, I’m not gonna last.”
I don’t want him to last. I want him as desperate as I am. I take him deeper, using my tongue and lips until he’s trembling, until his grip in my hair tightens and I know he’s close.
“Stop,” he says suddenly, pulling me away. “I need to be inside you when I come. Need to feel you around me.”
He reaches for his jeans, pulling a condom from his wallet. “Bought these after the other night,” he admits, tearing the package open. “Couldn’t stop thinking about this. About you.”
I help him roll it on. When he settles between my thighs, when I feel him hard and ready against me, my heart hammers so hard he must hear it.
“You sure?” he asks one more time, and I love him for it. Love that even now, he’s still trying to protect me.
“I’m sure.” I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him closer. “I need you, Reyes. All of you.”
He enters me slowly, giving me time to adjust. The stretch is intense—it’s been so long, and he’s bigger than I remembered. But the fullness, the connection, the way he fills every empty space inside me—it’s perfect.
“Fuck,” he breathes when he’s seated completely. “You feel so good, baby. So perfect.”
We move together slowly at first, relearning the rhythm. But need builds quickly, and soon we’re moving with desperate urgency. He drives into me harder, deeper, hitting spots that make me see stars.
“Yes,” I gasp, nails digging into his shoulders. “Like that. Don’t stop.”
He doesn’t. He fucks me like a man possessed, trying to claim every inch of me. And I meet him thrust for thrust, taking everything and demanding more.
When my second orgasm builds, it’s bigger than the first. Overwhelming. I cry out his name as it crashes through me, my body clenching around him so tight he follows me over with a groan that sounds like a prayer.
Afterward, we lie tangled on the blankets, breathing hard. He pulls me against his chest, and his heart hammers beneath my cheek.
“Five days,” I whisper against his skin.
His arms tighten around me. “We’ll make them count.”
But even as he says it, a current of pain runs under the words. We both know five days isn’t enough. Five years wouldn’t be enough. And tomorrow, we have to start figuring out how to say goodbye.
We stay tangled together on the blankets, skin cooling in the quiet air of the safehouse. I trace lazy patterns on Reyes’s chest, following the lines of old scars with my fingertips. Each mark tells a story.
“This one?” I ask, touching a puckered scar near his left shoulder.
“Knife fight in Kandahar. Kid couldn’t have been more than sixteen, but he was fast.” His voice rumbles under my ear, deep and content. “Took three stitches without anesthetic because we were pinned down.”
“And this?” My finger finds a longer mark across his ribs.
“Bar fight in Denver. Some asshole thought he could put his hands on a waitress.” He catches my hand, bringing it to his lips. “Turns out he had friends with broken bottles.”
I lift my head to look at him. “You have a thing for protecting women in trouble.”
“Just the ones worth protecting.” His thumb brushes my knuckles. “Just you.”
The honesty in his voice makes my chest tight, but there’s something else there. Something that sounds like goodbye.
“Reyes—”
“I need to tell you something.” He sits up, pulling me with him so we’re facing each other, naked and vulnerable on the blankets. “About why Rector coming might be the right choice. Even if it kills me.”
My stomach clenches. “You want me to go.”
“No.” The word is fierce, immediate. “But Shannon, I need you to understand what staying means. What you’d be risking.”
I study his face, seeing something raw and desperate there. “What do you mean?”
“I told you about my mother. About the men she brought home.” His hands find mine, holding them steady. “What I didn’t tell you is the pattern. How it always went.”
The pain in his voice makes me want to pull him close, but I stay still, letting him find the words.
“She’d get with some piece of shit who’d use his fists. Eventually she’d get out, swear it would never happen again.” His jaw ticks. “Then six months later, there’d be a new guy. Sweet at first. And slowly, bit by bit, the cycle would start all over again.”
“I’m not her,” I say quietly.
“I know you’re not. But Shannon, what if staying with me puts you in danger? What if Mason escalates? What if something happens to you or Aiden because I was too selfish to let you go?”
The anguish in his voice breaks my heart. “That’s not going to happen.”
“You don’t know that.” He meets my eyes, and I see the fifteen-year-old boy who learned that loving someone meant watching them get hurt. “Michigan’s safe. Clean. Rector can give you and Aiden a real life, away from this mess.”
I cup his face, forcing him to look at me. “And what about what I want?”
“It’s not just about what you want anymore.” His voice cracks. “It’s about giving Aiden the childhood he deserves, away from men with guns and club wars and military police hunting his mother.”
The truth of it is a sharp, painful blow. He’s right. This isn’t just about me. It’s about my son, who deserves better than a life spent running.
“I want to stay,” I whisper. “With you. But—”
“But you can’t. Not if it means putting him at risk.” His thumb brushes my cheekbone. “That’s what makes you a good mother, Shannon. You put him first.”
Tears burn behind my eyes. “So what are you saying?”
“I’m saying maybe Tank’s right. Maybe Rector is the universe giving you an out.” He pulls me closer, resting his forehead against mine. “And I’m saying that if letting you go means you and Aiden are safe, then I’ll do it. Even if it destroys me.”
The confession hangs between us, loaded with sacrifice and love too deep to voice.
“You’d give us up? Just like that?”
“There’s nothing ‘just like that’ about it.” His voice is rough, wrecked. “But Shannon, I waited almost twenty years to feel the way you make me feel. How can anybody expect me to give it up?”
The pain in his voice, the way he’s looking at me like I’m something precious he has to let go—it breaks me.
“Then don’t,” I breathe. “Don’t give us up.”
“I have to think about what’s best for both of you.”
I kiss him then, desperate and claiming, trying to pour all my feelings into the press of his lips against his. When we break apart, we’re both breathing hard.
“We have five days,” I say against his mouth. “Five days before we have to decide. Can we just… have that? Before we plan goodbyes?”
Relief flickers in his expression. “Five days,” he agrees, pulling me down to the blankets again. “We make them count.”
“Every minute,” I promise, straddling his lap, feeling him already hardening beneath me. “Every second.”
This time when we make love, it’s bittersweet. Desperate and tender and full of everything we can’t say. We both know these might be the only five days we get.
When we finally collapse, when he holds me against his chest like he’s memorizing the feel of me, I know he’s already started planning how to let me go. Even if it kills him. Even if it kills us both.