Chapter 6 #3
She doesn't give me a chance to argue. She takes me into her mouth, warm and wet and devastatingly thorough. It’s slow, deliberate, and entirely focused on the "god" she claimed I was last night.
I tangle my hands in her hair, my hips bucking off the mattress as she takes me deep, testing her limits and mine.
The friction of her tongue is a slow-burn fuse, and just as the pressure reaches the breaking point, I growl and haul her up.
"Not like that," I rasp, flipping her before the first drop can spill.
I bend her over the edge of the bed, her palms flat against the rumpled sheets.
I deliver a sharp, stinging smack to her ass—the skin flushing a beautiful, instant pink—and she let out a sharp gasp that’s half-sob, half-demand.
I drive into her from behind, hard and fast, the rhythm echoing the frantic energy of the night before.
She’s a storm of motion, her head thrashing, her voice a wreckage of my name until we both go over the ledge.
I don't let the afterglow settle. I haul her up and march her toward the bathroom.
"Shower," I grumble against her neck. "We’re late."
The water is scalding, steaming up the glass in seconds, but the heat of her pressed against the tile is worse.
I pin her to the wall, the spray slicking her skin as I take her again, one hand braced against the grout, the other holding her hip steady.
It’s frantic and wet, the sound of our breathing lost in the roar of the water.
I fuck her until her legs are shaking too hard to stand, until the only thing keeping her upright is my weight pinning her to the stone.
By the time we finally stumble out, the room is thick with steam and the scent of us.
"Coffee?" I offer, because sorry, an international crime syndicate is still hunting you doesn't roll off the tongue.
"God, yes." Her voice is rough with sleep and everything else we just did. "Please tell me your brother stocks real coffee".
"He doesn't." I extract myself carefully, reaching for my jeans. "But I do".
The camp stove takes a minute—propane hissing before the flame catches. She watches from the bed as I work. Two sugars, a splash of milk from the powdered supply.
"You stock this place?" She accepts the mug with both hands.
"I stock several places." I lean against the counter, giving her the distance she needs. "Backup locations are like ammo—better to have too much than not enough."
"How many times have you needed them?"
"Enough."
She takes a sip, studying me over the rim. "Show me."
"Show you what?"
"Everything. The weapons, the exits, whatever else you've hidden here." She sets the mug down, stands with more steadiness than last night. "If I'm going to die in the middle of nowhere, I'd like to know what I'm working with."
The gun safe is in the bedroom closet, behind a false panel that looks like water damage. I show her the biometric lock. Her eyes go wide at the contents—two rifles, three handguns, enough ammunition to hold off a small army, and medical supplies that would make a trauma surgeon breathe easier.
"Jesus. Your brother must really hate deer."
"My brother thinks this is his fishing gear." I draw the Glock and check the chamber automatically. "This is mine."
"You lie to your brother?"
"I protect my brother. Different thing."
She touches the rifle stock, tentative. "Would these stop Black Helix?"
"Nothing stops Black Helix." I secure the safe, turn to find her closer than expected. "But they might slow them down enough."
"Enough for what?"
"For help to arrive. Or for you to run."
"Where would I run?"
Not rhetorical. The pragmatic acceptance in it does something uncomfortable to my chest.
"I'll show you."
I move to the corner of the bedroom where a braided rug covers the floor. "If everything goes sideways—if they breach and we can't hold—this is your way out."
I pull back the rug, revealing a trapdoor flush with the floorboards. The handle is recessed, invisible unless you know to look. The hinges are oiled. Silent when I lift it.
She peers into the darkness below. "A cellar?"
"Tunnel. Sixty yards to the treeline, exit behind a boulder formation." I point into the black. "Ladder down, follow the left wall. Don't deviate—there's a collapse on the right fork. Exit hatch is counterweighted, pushes up from underneath."
"You dug a sixty-yard tunnel?"
"Took me three summers." I gesture toward the ladder. "Go on. Trace the route so you know it blind."
She leans over the opening, squinting into the dark. Then pulls back sharply. "Absolutely not."
"Wren—"
"There are spiders down there. I can feel them judging me from here." Arms crossed. "Just show me where it exits."
"You don't know that."
"I'm not crawling through sixty yards of an underground spider nightmare on the off chance someone finds us in the middle of nowhere." A shrug, entirely practical. "If it comes to that, I'll figure it out."
"Figuring it out in the dark while people shoot at you isn't a plan. It's a way to die." I close the hatch but leave the rug aside. "Being over-prepared isn't paranoia. It's why I'm still breathing."
"And I appreciate your continued breathing. Very much." She pats my chest. "But I draw the line at spider tunnels. Show me the exit from outside like a normal person."
I want to argue. Should argue. But there's something in her expression—not dismissal, just limits.
"Fine. We'll hit it on the perimeter walk." I replace the rug flat. "But if I say 'go dark'—you don't hesitate. You drop through that hatch. Spiders or not."
"And you?"
"I'll be right behind you. Or I'll be buying you time." I meet her eyes. "Either way, you get to that treeline."
She holds my gaze. The weight of it lands—fully, finally. Then a single nod.
"Okay. Show me where it comes out."