Borrowed Time #2
Dean studies me another beat, his thumb stroking under my chin in a way that feels both tender and possessive, then he leans down, voice a razor-soft whisper against my mouth.
“Who was here?”
I feared I would be discovered as the question made my stomach churn and my heart pound.
No footsteps. No sound. No proof. Just me, trembling, with a truth that could kill me either way.
His gaze slices through me, and I swear he can hear my pulse screaming.
I try to breathe steadily, try to keep my eyes from darting toward the back door, but Dean misses nothing. His head tilts just slightly, a predator scenting the air, and then he lets go of my jaw.
“Stay here.”
Two words. Command. Condemnation.
My knees nearly buckle as he moves past me, stalking the perimeter of the kitchen.
His boots are too loud in the silence, each step a reminder that he knows something I don’t.
He pulls open the back door, the hinges whining.
Cold night air spills in, and with it, the echo of the man who was just standing there.
Dean crouches. Stills.
When he straightens, he’s holding something between his fingers. My breath catches.
A cigarette—still faintly smoking.
Not his brand. Not his scent.
Dean turns it once, twice, watching the ember die. His jaw tightens, a vein ticking at his temple. Then his eyes lift, pinning me to the spot.
“Funny,” he says softly, almost too softly. “I don’t smoke.”
The lie on my tongue burns. I want to say it blew in from the street, that someone dropped it earlier, that I don’t know—but the way he’s looking at me, sharp and savage, I know he’d hear the fracture in my voice.
He steps closer, closing the distance until the dying ember glows between us like proof of sin. He brings it to his nose, inhales, and something dangerous twists in his expression.
“Rafe.”
The name is a curse. A growl. A sentence.
My whole body goes stiff.
Dean drops the cigarette into the sink, douses it under the tap with a hiss, then fists the counter on either side of me, caging me in.
“When?” His voice is thunder low. “When was he here?”
Tears sting my lashes. My lips part, but no sound comes out. I can’t tell him, I can’t lie, and either way I’ll drown.
Dean leans in, his breath scorching my ear.
“Brooklyn,” he whispers, dark and lethal. “If you don’t tell me, I’ll find out myself. And if I do—God help him.”
The counter digs into my back, the metal handle biting through my sweater, and still I can’t move. His body is all around me—heat, weight, danger—and the silence feels like it’s going to choke me before the words do.
“I—” My voice cracks, brittle as glass. My eyes squeeze shut, because if I look at him, I won’t get it out. “He was here.”
The air snaps between us.
Dean doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t blink.
Tears spill hot down my cheeks, my chest heaving against the cage of his arms. The rest rips free like a wound tearing open.
“I didn’t ask him, I didn’t want him—he just came. He cornered me, Dean, and I couldn’t—he said—” My throat locks, strangling on the memory of that low, taunting whisper: you’re on borrowed time.
Dean’s hand fists in my hair, tilting my face up until I’m staring into the storm of his eyes.
“He touched you?” His voice is poison laced with steel.
I shake my head fast, desperately. “No—no, not like that. He just—” My lip trembles. “He warned me. He said I don’t belong here. That I’m running out of time.”
Dean’s teeth bare in something that’s not a smile, not even close. His grip tightens, pulling a soft gasp from me, not cruel but grounding—pinning me in place when I’m unravelling.
“You listen to me,” he growls, his forehead pressing to mine, his breath scorching my skin. “He doesn’t get to touch you. Doesn’t get to breathe near you. You are mine. Do you understand that?”
The word cracks through me, sharp and searing. Mine.
A sob catches in my throat, but I nod, my tears smearing against his cheek. “I know,” I whisper. “I just—Dean, I’m scared. What if he’s right? What if—”
“Don’t.” His voice breaks over me, rough and final, like stone grinding against stone. “Don’t you ever say his name like it has power. I’ll end him before I let him take a single second from you.”
His hand slips from my hair to cradle my face, thumb dragging my tears across my cheek. His other hand still cages me in, knuckles white against the counter.
“You’re mine, Brooklyn,” he says again, lower, darker, as if carving it into the marrow of my bones. “And I’ll burn this whole fucking world before I let it steal you from me.”
The words scorch me. I feel them sink into the cracks of my breaking, filling every hollow space until there’s no room left for fear, only him.
And then his mouth is on mine.
Not soft. Not careful.
A claiming.
His lips crush against me, swallowing my sob, turning it into a gasp that has nowhere to go but into him.
His hand clamps the back of my neck, keeping me exactly where he wants me, and I don’t fight it—I can’t.
My tears salt the seam of our mouths, but he licks them away like proof, like he’s erasing the evidence of anyone else’s shadow.
The kiss is bruising, a punishment and a promise, his tongue parting mine with ruthless control. He tastes of fury, whiskey, and a man on the edge of violence, but he directs it all outward. Not at me. Never at me.
My hands fist in his shirt, desperate, shaking, pulling him closer even though there’s no space left between us.
My lungs burn, my lips sting, and still he doesn’t let up.
He tilts his head, deepening the kiss, dragging me further under until I’m drowning in him, exactly where he wants me—where I’ve already admitted I still want to be.
When he finally tears his mouth from mine, his forehead slams back against mine, ragged breath mingling with my cries.
“You think you don’t fit in my world?” he rasps, thumb smearing wetness from my cheek. “Then I’ll tear down the world and build one that only fits you.”
I shudder, the words sinking into me deeper than his kiss, deeper than his hands. My lips part, trembling, whispering against his.
“Dean…”
His growl vibrates through me, hungry, possessive, final. And then he claims me again—this time slower, deeper, dragging my soul into his teeth.
The kiss doesn’t end. It detonates.
One second I’m breaking, the next I’m slammed into the counter so hard the dishes rattle in the cupboards. His hands are everywhere—my throat, my waist, dragging my shirt up, tearing at me like he’s starved and I’m the only meal he’ll ever take.
I gasp into his mouth, and he swallows the sound, his tongue ruthless, his teeth scraping. My fingers claw at his shoulders, at the back of his neck, pulling him closer even though I already can’t breathe.
“You think you don’t belong to me?” he growls, words broken against my lips, his hand fisting my hair until I arch. “Then I’ll fuck the doubt out of you right here until you never forget whose you are.”
The counter bites into my hips as he yanks me against him. Hard. Unapologetic. My thighs part instinctively, and he’s there, already pushing, already claiming. His mouth bruises my jaw, my throat, his teeth catching the skin like he wants to brand me everywhere at once.
I choke on a moan, tears still wet on my face, and he catches them with his tongue, savage. “Cry for me, baby girl. Cry and let me fill you.”
The sound that rips out of me is half sob, half scream. He drives into me with a violence that feels like worship, like punishment, like every ounce of fury he has at the world being buried inside me until there’s nothing left but his claim.
The kitchen fills with the obscene slap of skin, the sharp rattle of cabinet doors, my desperate cries echoing off the walls. His hand clamps my throat, tilting my head back so he can watch me unravel. His eyes burn down into mine, feral, endless.
“You think Rafe gets to touch what’s mine?” he snarls between thrusts, every word punctuated with brutal, perfect rhythm. “You think anyone does? No. You’re fucking mine, Brooklyn. Say it.”
I sob, broken, breathless, clawing at him. “Yours—”
“Louder.” His hand squeezes.
“Yours!” I scream, the sound cracking into a cry as pleasure shreds through me.
His mouth crashes over mine, swallowing the confession like blood. And when I break apart, shaking, screaming his name, he doesn’t stop. He pounds it deeper, fucking me through the storm until there’s nothing left but the ruin of me—and his possession stamped over every trembling piece.
The kitchen reeks of sweat, tears, salt, sex. My body collapses, trembling, but he doesn’t let me fall. His arm wraps around me, his chest heaving against mine, lips dragging over my hair, my ear, my mouth, still whispering the only thing that matters.
“Mine. Mine. Mine.”
When he finally slows, the world still shakes, the frenzy subsides, leaving only the sound of ragged breaths and the sting of his grip on my skin. My legs give, but he catches me, hauling me against his chest before lowering us both to the kitchen floor.
Tile cold against my spine, his warmth heavy over me, he doesn’t move for a long time. Just breathes. Just keeps his forehead pressed to mine like he’s holding me here, grounding himself in the proof of me.
When he speaks, it’s not the commanding growl I expect. It’s low. Uneven.
“Brooklyn…” My name on his lips is rough, torn. His hand lifts, brushing damp hair from my temple, fingertips tracing like he’s memorising me for the last time. “You do not know how far gone I am.”
My throat tightens. My chest aches. I search his face, expecting steel, control—but all I find is a man stripped raw, cracks running through him like lightning.
“You think this is about sex? About games?” His voice breaks, just once, before he steadies it. “I wake up wanting you. I go to bed fighting the urge to drag you into my room and never let you leave. Every minute you’re in this house, I’m holding myself back from ruining you completely.”
Tears sting my eyes again, softer this time, aching. “Dean—”
“No.” His thumb presses to my lips, silencing me, his eyes fierce even as they shine with something dangerously close to vulnerability.
“Listen to me. I tried to keep this simple. I told myself I didn’t want a relationship.
That I couldn’t. But you—” His jaw tightens, his chest heaves against mine.
“You got under my skin. You’re in my fucking blood.
I’d burn everything down before I let anyone take you from me. ”
My heart feels too big for my chest. I can’t stop the tears spilling over, hot against his hand as he cups my face. “Dean… I—”
He kisses me. Soft this time. Gentle. The complete opposite of the feral ruin that came before, but it wrecks me even more. His lips tremble against mine, like he’s not just kissing me, he’s giving me something he’s given no one else.
When he pulls back, his voice is raw silk. “You belong with me. Not because I say so. Not because I take you. But because I can’t breathe without you anymore, Brooklyn. I don’t even want to try.”
I choke on a sob, clinging to him, burying my face in his chest as his arms wrap around me, holding me like he’s terrified I’ll disappear. He rocks me gently against the cool kitchen floor, whispers pressing into my hair like promises.
“I’m yours,” he murmurs, as if admitting it costs him everything. “Even if I never deserved you. Even if it kills me.”
And for the first time since this began, I don’t feel like prey in his hands.
I feel like home.