Chapter 12 Kiren #2
For several minutes, I lie there, listening to the soft sound of her breathing and the quiet hum of the apartment around us. My eyes move across the dim room, checking the door, the hallway beyond it, and the faint strip of light beneath the frame. Everything is still.
Carefully, I slide out from beneath the blanket. Rowan stirs as the mattress dips, her brow furrowing before easing again. I pause, watching her until her breathing evens out once more. Then I move quietly toward the bathroom.
The shower runs hot, steam filling the small space as I wash away the last traces of the night—warehouse dust, dried blood, the lingering smell of gun powder that clung to everything inside that building.
When I return to the bedroom a few minutes later, Rowan hasn’t moved. She lies curled on her side beneath the blanket, one hand resting loosely against the pillow where I had been.
I slide back into bed beside her. Almost immediately, she moves closer, still half asleep, her body finding mine without waking. Her head rests against my shoulder, her arm draping lightly across my chest.
This time, when I close my eyes, I let them stay that way.
Morning reaches the apartment slowly. The first light comes in thin lines through the edges of the curtains, the pale winter sun stretching across the floor and up the side of the bed.
The air inside the room is warm, holding the faint scent of soap and clean cotton from the shower I took during the night.
Outside, somewhere far below the windows, a distant car passes, the sound dull and softened by height and glass.
I wake before Rowan. I stay still, letting the quiet envelop me while my mind catches up with where I am. Then I turn my head.
Rowan is asleep beside me. Her hair has spread across the pillow, the dark brown strands shimmering in the early light. One hand rests loosely against my chest beneath the blanket, her fingers curled slightly.
Her breathing is slow and even. It takes a moment before the tension that lived inside me yesterday loosens enough again to allow a full breath.
She’s here. Alive. Safe.
The words still feel temporary.
My eyes move over her carefully, taking in the details.
The faint bruise along her shoulder where the enforcer grabbed her.
The scrape beneath her eye where the concrete caught her.
The small marks along her wrists. My hand lifts before I think about it.
My thumb brushes gently along the line of the scrape on her cheekbone.
Rowan stirs. Her brow knits together, and her head moves against the pillow. Her eyes remain closed, her lashes resting against her skin. Then she blinks awake.
Her eyes glide across the ceiling first, disoriented in the slow way people wake when their bodies are still recovering from the previous day. Then her eyes find mine. Recognition comes immediately. Her shoulders relax against the mattress, and she exhales softly.
“Good,” she murmurs, her voice still thick with sleep. “You’re still here.”
My hand pauses against her cheek.
“Where else would I be?”
Rowan studies me for a moment. Her eyes move slowly over my face like she’s confirming the same thing I did a few seconds ago.
“That part still feels a little unreal,” she admits quietly.
I understand the feeling. The warehouse hasn’t left my head yet. I can still see the glimmer of the overhead lights, and still hear the echo of gunfire against the metal walls.
Rowan repositions beneath the blanket. The movement pulls my attention back to her.
“You saved me,” she whispers
I pull her a little closer against me. “There wasn’t another outcome.”
My hand slides slowly down from her cheek and rests against the side of her shoulder. I pause briefly before moving it down her arm.
“You’re being very cautious this morning,” she notes.
“You were dragged across a concrete floor.”
“That keeps coming up.”
“And it’ll continue coming up,” I reply.
Her quiet laugh fills the room. The sound feels warmer than anything else in the apartment.
Rowan rolls onto her side so she’s facing me more directly. The blanket slides with her, revealing the faint band of purple bruising along her ribs before she pulls the fabric back into place.
Then her eyes drop to the center of the blanket between us and slowly lift again. “You’re thinking about the baby.”
“Yes.” I don’t bother pretending otherwise.
Rowan studies me carefully. “Still processing?”
My hand moves up to the back of my neck, rubbing slowly before dropping back to the mattress. “Among other things.”
Rowan moves again, settling into the pillow more comfortably. “You’re taking this very well.”
I lean closer. Releasing her hand, I carefully slide mine beneath the blanket, resting it lightly against her stomach.
“This child,” I tell her quietly, “is not a problem.”
Her breathing slows slightly.
“It’s a gift,” I continue.
The words feel simple when they leave my mouth. But they’re the truth.
Rowan’s eyes soften. “You’re serious.”
“Yes.”
She studies me for another long moment before her hand lifts, resting against my chest, directly over my heart. “I didn’t know how you’d react.”
“There wasn’t much to think about.”
Her lips curve faintly. “That might be the most reassuring thing you’ve ever said.”
I lean down and kiss her. The contact is slow and meaningful, nothing rushed about it. Rowan leans into the kiss with a soft breath. When we pull apart, her forehead rests briefly against mine.
“I’m glad it’s you,” she whispers.
My hand slides along her back. “There was never going to be anyone else,” I breathe.
I capture her lips with mine. The kiss is soft at first, a gentle press of skin on skin, but then her lips part, and the kiss deepens. It’s not a kiss of frantic passion. Not yet. It’s a kiss of reclamation. Of homecoming. Her tongue slowly slides against mine, sending a jolt straight to my cock.
I’m careful with her. My hands ghost over her skin, avoiding the worst of the bruises.
I map her body with my fingertips, relearning every curve, every hollow.
I trace the line of her collarbone, down the slope of her breast, circling the tight peak of her nipple.
She arches into my touch, a soft sigh escaping her lips.
It’s the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard.
Rowan breaks the careful rhythm. Her hands, which have been stroking my back, move down, sliding over my ass and pulling me against her.
The motion is insistent. Demanding. She grinds her hips against mine, and the thin cotton of my boxers does nothing to hide the hard, thick length of my cock pressing against her.
“Kiren,” she breathes against my mouth. “Please. I need to feel you.”
My control, a fragile thing at best, shatters.
The careful consideration, the gentle reverence, it all melts away under the heat of her need.
I need this too. I need to be inside her, to feel her slick heat wrapped around me, to erase every other touch but mine.
I need to claim her as mine to protect, to love, and to cherish.
I hook my fingers into the waistband of my boxers and slide them down. I settle between her thighs, my cock resting against her slick folds. She’s already so wet, so ready for me. The thought sends another throb of desire through me.
I look down at her, at the woman who survived hell and came back to me. At the mother of my child. Her storm-gray eyes are dark, the pupils blown wide with desire. She reaches between us, her fingers wrapping around my shaft, guiding me to her entrance.
“Now,” she whispers.
I push forward, sinking into her tight, wet pussy inch by inch. A groan tears from my throat. It’s perfect. It’s home. I’m buried to the hilt, our bodies joined, our hearts beating in the same frantic pace. I stay there, just feeling her, letting her adjust to my size.
Then I start to move. It’s a slow, deep pace at first. A worship. Each thrust is a promise. You’re safe. You’re mine. I love you.
Her legs wrap around my waist, pulling me deeper, her heels digging into my lower back. Her hands are everywhere, in my hair, on my shoulders, gripping my ass.
The pace quickens. The need becomes more urgent.
The room fills with the sounds of our bodies slapping together, with our ragged breaths and soft moans.
I can feel the pressure building at the base of my spine, a tight coil of pleasure ready to snap.
I reach down between us, my thumb finding her clit, rubbing it in tight, firm circles.
“Kiren,” she gasps, her back arching off the bed. “Oh, god, Kiren…”
Her pussy clenches around me, a series of tight, shuddering spasms that milk my cock.
The sight of her coming undone beneath me, the feel of her juices on my cock, is all it takes.
With a final, deep thrust, I bury myself inside her and let go.
Thick ropes of my cum flood her in a hot, possessive wave.
I collapse against her, my face buried in the crook of her neck, my body shaking with the force of my release.
My lips are still pressed against the racing pulse in her neck, a frantic drumbeat that sings of life.
I’m still buried inside her, my cock a thick, unyielding presence that refuses to soften.
The heat of her and the slick, welcoming grip of her pussy, is a grounding force, pulling me back from the edge of rage and grief I’d been teetering on from the moment she was taken.
She’s real. This is real.
A soft sigh escapes her, a sound of pure contentment that makes my chest ache.
I lift my head, my eyes meeting hers. They are clear, dark pools of relief and desire.
She adjusts her hips slightly, a subtle, grinding motion that sends a jolt of electricity through my already sensitized shaft.
I’m still hard as steel, the need for her moving through my blood with a force that refuses to ease.