29. Wolff
Irun the routes again in my head. Every turn, every roadblock, every checkpoint.
There are multiple ports—Murmansk, Saint Petersburg, Varyan, Arkhangelsk—all with their own risks. Some more direct routes than others. The Nightshades are leaning on everything they can get their hands on—buying off guards, flagging manifests, watching for anything that doesn’t line up.
Which means whatever ship we board, we need to blend in on it.
I shift in the driver’s seat, and the stitches in my side pull hard enough to make my vision blur for half a second. I ignore it. Same way I ignore the tension settling into my shoulders, locking my hands tight around the wheel.
Everything feels wound too tight.
AJ’s been quieter than usual. Not that I care. I don’t need the distraction. The less she talks, the better.
I glance at her out of the corner of my eye. She’s staring out the window, cheek pressed to the glass. The gold band on her finger catches the light.
Married.
My jaw locks, and I drag my focus back to the road. This plan is shit. I knew it would be the second I called Miranda. Fast passports meant limited options. Now we’ll be crammed onto a ship with other passengers for days, surrounded by questions, watched every second.
And she doesn’t do subtle.
Her face gives everything away—fear, anger, confusion. And her body language is worse. Always braced. Always ready to fight or bolt or hide. That gets attention.
That gets us both killed.
Fuck.
And in the back of my fucking head, I can’t stop playing Miranda’s words. That look on her face when she saw me. Like I’m still the brother she knew.
Fuck no.
My fingers flex against the wheel until my knuckles burn white.
Dylan.
That name should’ve burned in that house. Along with everything they did in it. I’m not that kid. Not the one who couldn’t fight back. Not the one who stayed quiet and took it.
I outgrew that real fucking quick.
Memories push up anyway, but I slam them back down before they take shape. Before I see anything I don’t want to see. Before I feel anything I don’t have time for.
This is what I am.
This is where I belong. The rest doesn’t matter. The sooner this mission is over, the better.
The headlights sweep over the old warehouses as I pull back toward the MI6 safehouse. We’ll stay one more night, then we move farther north to find the best port to go through. And get the fuck off this goddamn continent.
I dump the bags on the floor the second we’re inside and head straight for the bedroom.
“Wolff, seriously. What’s our plan? What are we going to do?”
I toss my jacket onto the bed, my hands already dragging my shirt up because the stitches are pulling and I can feel something’s wrong with them. I don’t have the patience for another round of bullshit questions. I need to check the damage. Get my head on straight for five fucking minutes.
“Are we really doing this?” she pushes, stepping into my space. “Pretending we’re married? Playing house on a ship like we’re normal people?”
My side lights up immediately as I pull off my shirt. The pain is so sharp I feel it in my teeth. Fuck. I sit on the edge of the bed, opening the first aid kit, zoning my attention onto something I can control.
“Let me help.”
“No.”
“But you can’t—”
“I don’t want you fucking touching me,” I grit out as my fists clench, fighting through pain and frustration.
She rears back, lips pinched. “You’re such a fucking—” But she cuts herself off and turns, leaving before I have to hear the rest. The bathroom door opens, and a second later, the shower kicks on.
Finally, some goddamn silence.
I lean forward, digging through the kit, forcing my hands to steady as I work at the stitches. It takes longer than it should. My shoulder’s still fucked, grinding when I move. Everything feels off—my grip, my head, the way my side keeps pulling every time I breathe too deeply.
It’s not just the pain.
It’s her.
The way she looked at me in the bathroom. The way she keeps looking at me now, like she’s waiting for something I’m not going to give her. My jaw tightens as I tape fresh gauze over the wound and toss the blood-soaked mess aside.
I catch my reflection in the mirror across the room.
I look like shit.
Feel worse.
I need sleep. And I need the noise in my head to shut the fuck up. I grab a bottle of vodka from the kitchen on the way back, unscrewing the cap. The bathroom door is cracked, steam pouring out, her silhouette shifting behind the glass.
I stop, lean back against the wall, staring at the blurred outline of her body through the haze, and take a long pull from the bottle.
She’s going to get me killed.
I drink again, more this time, letting it burn all the way down.
Doesn’t help. I can still smell her. Taste her. Feel her. That’s the worst fucking part. I shove the door open and strip as I move, not thinking—just heat, irritation, and something I don’t have the nerve to name driving me forward.
The second I step under the spray, she goes rigid and turns fast, wiping water from her eyes.
“Jesus, Wolff. What the hell?”
Her gaze drops to my hard cock—just for a second. Then it snaps back up to my face, her cheeks flushing red. I close the distance between us. Stepping close enough to feel the hitch in her breath, the heat of her skin under the water.
“I’m so fucking tired of your goddamn mouth. I’m fucking tired of you testing me. I’m fucking tired of you…” I trail off, because whatever comes next gets stuck somewhere between my throat and my teeth.
My chest is rising too fast, water running over both of us, and I don’t move. Her lips part like she’s going to say something, but nothing comes out.
Just that look.
That same fucking look, searching for something in me that doesn’t exist. She starts to lean in. My hand snaps up, gripping her jaw, stopping her just short of my mouth.
“Don’t. You don’t get that from me.”
I don’t kiss. I don’t hold. I don’t let people get close enough to think they can take something from me.
That shit isn’t for men like me.
Never has been.
“You don’t get soft shit from me.” I tighten my grip on her jaw, thumb pressing hard against her bottom lip. “You get whatever the fuck I decide to give you. That’s it.”
Her eyes widen, wet, still searching mine.
I hate it.
I shove her down by the shoulders.
“Get on your fucking knees.”
Her knees hit the tile with a thud. Yanking her head back by her hair, I force her mouth open with my thumb and push it inside until she gags.
“You know what to do.”
Her hand wraps around my cock, and her mouth follows, taking me deep in one slow, slick pull. My head tilts back, a groan slipping out before I can stop it.
Fuck.
She sucks harder, hollowing her cheeks, tongue flicking over the underside of my shaft. It feels too fucking good. It pisses me off.
My hand tightens in her hair, guiding her as I thrust into her mouth, forcing her to take more. Her eyes water, drool slipping down her chin as her lips stretch around me.
“You want to be useful? This is how you’re useful. Choking on my cock.”
My hips snap forward, fucking her throat hard and fast. Her strangled, wet sounds fill the shower. The more she gags, the deeper I push.
Tension builds at the base of my spine, but I don’t slow down. I use her mouth until I’m right there—until I’m about to explode—then I pull out at the last second, gripping my cock and stroking roughly.
Thick ropes of cum shoot across her face, painting her cheeks, her lips. She flinches but opens her mouth wider, tongue out.
I hate how good she looks covered in me.
Releasing her hair, I step back, chest heaving, watching my cum drip down her chin while she stays on her knees.
She’s a fucking mess.
And I’m fucked in the head because I’m not done with her.
I grab her shoulders, haul her up, and turn off the shower. I don’t want her washing my cum off her face. I want her to wear it as I march her out of the shower and shove her toward the bed.
“Wolff, I—”
I throw her onto the mattress and follow her, pinning her face down. Her skin is slippery as I yank her hips back.
“Shut. The. Fuck. Up.”
Grabbing her ass cheeks, I spread them wide, her tight little asshole on full display.
Her perfect cunt glistens below it, swollen and pink, arousal trailing down her thighs.
I press my thumb against her asshole, not pushing in yet—just holding it there, feeling her whole body go still with anticipation.
I drag my thumb lower, through her soaked pussy lips, coating it with her slickness before pushing back up and forcing it into her ass.
She hisses through her teeth.
“I’m going to fuck this asshole until it’s loose enough to take my whole fist.”
“Wolff—” She chokes on my name.
And fuck, the way she says it makes my cock throb painfully.
Twisting my thumb deeper, I watch her fists ball in the sheets. She makes a soft, broken sound, her hips shifting like she both wants it and fears it.
That’s it.
I pull my thumb out, grip her ass again, and spread her wider.
Then I lean down and drag my tongue over her tight hole.
She moans, pushing back against my face.
I lick her harder, pushing my tongue inside her, forcing her open while I rub my thumb over her dripping cunt and slowly plunge two fingers into her pussy.
I eat her ass like I’m starving for it—licking, sucking, tongue-fucking her while I finger her cunt. Her thighs shake violently with every savage thrust. She whimpers and sobs into the pillow.
I don’t stop. I keep devouring her, working her open, feeling her pulse and flutter around my tongue and fingers.
I could make her come like this all night. Make her fall apart with my mouth on her asshole and my fingers buried inside her until she can’t remember her own fucking name.
But I need more.
Climbing up her body, I drag my cock through her dripping folds and press the thick head against her asshole. She tries to lift her hips, but I pin her down with one heavy hand.