Chapter 10
Kaz
Petrov.
Something about that name feels wrong, like a whisper from the past I can’t quite place.
“Well, you’ve been oh so very helpful.” My little moon purrs.
I watch, enthralled, as she raises her gun and pulls the trigger without hesitation. A perfect shot between the eyes. Blood splatters, staining the floor, dripping onto her boots.
My heart stutters.
Not from fear. Not even from shock.
It’s her.
The way she takes a life with cold precision yet still has a spark of light in her. A contradiction wrapped in bruises, blood, and beauty.
I thought Keir would be the first to obsess over her, but from the second I laid eyes on her, I knew—she was mine.
Her stained soul calls to mine. A beacon through my darkness.
“That was fun,” she muses, stretching. “But I think I need a shower. And we all need to have a conversation.”
She moves toward the door, but the sharp inhale of breath, the subtle tremble in her steps—she’s hurting.
Before she can protest, I scoop her into my arms.
“I guess Dario and I will take care of the body,” Keir mutters, rolling his eyes.
I grunt, not giving a damn about the corpse behind me.
“There’s an apartment upstairs. We’ll meet there.”
Dario strides over, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “See you soon, precious.”
She laughs, but it’s wheezy. Weak.
That’s all it takes.
I carry her up the stairs, following her soft directions until we reach the apartment. It’s luxurious for a place above a warehouse—open floor plan, sleek furniture, and a long hallway leading to several rooms.
“Last door on the right,” she murmurs. “I can handle it from there.”
I don’t respond, just push open the bedroom door and walk straight into the attached bathroom.
The moment I set her down, she stumbles.
A growl rumbles in my chest before I can stop it. My hands curl into fists. Mine to protect. Mine to care for.
She meets my gaze and—the audacity—rolls her eyes.
Then she turns toward the shower and almost face-plants.
I lunge, catching her before she crashes.
“Yeah, sure, you can handle it,” I mutter.
Lifting her again, I place her on the counter. She huffs but doesn’t fight me.
I turn on the shower, letting the steam fill the space, then kneel before her, pulling off her boots and socks.
She watches me the entire time, unblinking.
I stand, my hands going to the hem of her shirt.
“May I?” Her breath catches. Pupils dilate. A small nod.
My little moon, at a loss for words.
I peel her shirt away, and for the first time in years, I have to breathe.
Not because of her beauty—though fuck me, she’s stunning—but because of the bruises.
Purple marks staining her ribs. Finger-shaped imprints around her throat. The stitches, torn slightly, blood trickling from the fresh bullet wound and the grazes in process of healing.
I place my hands on the counter beside her, closing my eyes.
Memories threaten to drag me under.
Breathe, motherfucker. Breathe.
A small, delicate hand cups my cheek. Electricity jolts through me.
I open my eyes to find hers—stormy, steady, watching me.
“I’m okay,” she whispers. “Just a little beat up. I’ve had worse.”
That doesn’t soothe the storm inside me. If anything, it makes my own memories roar.
Little me as bloody and beaten as my moon looks now.
I take another breath, nodding, and finish undressing her before stripping off my own clothes, leaving just my boxers.
A soft gasp.
My eyes snap to hers.
A blush creeps beneath the dried blood on her cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” she huffs out a small laugh. “Your tattoos are beautiful.”
As if her own weren’t as mesmerizing.
I take her hand, guiding her into the shower. The glass fogs, steam curling around us.
“You don’t talk much, do you?” she muses, eyes raking over me.
I shake my head, positioning her under the spray, watching as the blood washes down the drain.
She looks good in blood.
But I want it to be hers or mine. Never from someone else’s.
When the water runs clear, I spin her around.
She laughs—breathy, light, addicting.
Then the swell of her ass brushes against the tops of my thighs, and fuck me.
My cock throbs against the fabric of my boxers.
I grit my teeth, grabbing her shampoo, focusing on the simple task of washing her hair.
The second I massage my fingers into her scalp, she moans.
A soft, sinful sound.
My hands freeze.
She gasps. “Oh, that was embarrassing.”
I chuckle, low and rough. “You’re embarrassed by a moan but not by standing naked in the shower with a stranger?”
She snorts, and the tension eases just slightly.
I rinse her hair, adding conditioner before soaping up a loofah and gliding it over her skin.
Slowly. Gently.
Her arms. Her shoulders. Down to her breasts—where her nipple piercings glint under the water.
She whimpers when I pass over them.
Heat licks through me, primal and possessive.
I don’t let it show.
I move down, running the loofah along her stomach, then lower, to the apex of her thighs.
She parts her legs slightly, granting me access.
I clean her swiftly, my jaw clenched tight, before kneeling to wash her legs.
By the time I’m finished, the air is thick with something more.
I rinse her one last time, then reach to shut off the water—
A small hand wraps around my wrist.
“Now let me wash you.”
She’s smiling. At me.
My chest tightens.
I nod, and her smile widens.
“There’s a bench right there,” she says. “You’ll have to sit.”
Of course.
She barely reaches my chest—tiny compared to my six-foot-five frame.
I sit, letting her take control.
She washes my hair first, fingers massaging my scalp with slow, deliberate movements.
For the first time in years, I relax.
My muscles loosen. My breathing steadies.
She runs soapy hands over my body, mapping my inked skin.
Every touch hums with warmth, with electricity, with something I can’t name.
I tense slightly, fighting the shiver threatening to escape.
She notices.
She doesn’t call me out.
She simply grabs my hand and pulls me up when she’s finished.
The water is still running. The steam still thick. My boxers still on.
But I feel clean for the first time in thirteen years.