Chapter 6 — Anna
I've been at my laptop for six hours straight, running searches on Victor Crane's known associates, tracking Marrow property holdings through public records, cross-referencing business registrations with addresses. Building a map of their operation the way I'd build a case file.
Information gives me control when everything else is chaos.
The knock is soft but I hear it over the hum of my laptop fan. My stomach drops before I even stand up.
I know it's him.
The smart thing would be checking the window first. Confirming it's safe. I walk straight to the door and pull it open instead.
Cain's on my porch with blood on his hands.
Not his blood. I can tell immediately from how he's standing, weight distributed evenly, no favoring anywhere.
Someone else's, still wet enough to gleam dark on his knuckles under the porch light, smeared across his right forearm in a pattern that looks like fingers dragging, spattered across his collar in tiny drops.
He looks exhausted. Eyes shadowed, jaw tight, something hollow in his expression I haven't seen before.
"Can I come in?"
The question comes out rough. Like his throat hurts.
I step back without answering.
He walks past me and I catch the smell, copper under leather and smoke and sweat. The door closes. I turn the deadbolt.
He's standing in my kitchen staring at nothing, and I realize he doesn't know what to do now that he's here.
Doesn't know why he came, maybe. Just knew he needed to.
I walk to the sink. Turn the water on warm. Look at him.
"Come here."
He comes.
I take his right hand first, guide it under the stream. Water hits his knuckles and runs red immediately, swirling pink down the white porcelain.
I pump soap into my palm, work it between his fingers. The split skin on two knuckles opens slightly under the pressure but he doesn't flinch.
His left hand is less damaged. Just blood, no breaks in the skin. I wash it the same way, methodical, the way I'd handle evidence. Document, preserve, understand.
Except I'm not trying to understand what happened. I already know what happened. He went to get Walt back and someone bled because of it.
The silence stretches but it doesn't feel awkward. I'm focused on the task, cleaning each finger individually, checking under his nails. He stands perfectly still. Lets me.
When I reach for the towel his hand catches my wrist. Gentle but deliberate.
"There's more on my arm," he says.
I push his sleeve up. The blood on his forearm is thicker, more of it, with clear finger drag marks through it. I wash gently around the pattern, watching it dissolve and disappear. Evidence becoming nothing.
"What happened?" I don't look at his face. Keep my eyes on the task.
"We found Walt. Property outside Millbrook, basement. He was alive."
Past tense. Was alive. Meaning he's not in the basement anymore, meaning they got him out. I wait for the rest.
"Three Marrow members on site. Two surrendered." He pauses and I can feel him choosing his words. "Sully was there. The one from the parking lot."
My hands still in the water.
"He went for a weapon," Cain continues. "Tate shot him. Shoulder, non-fatal. Then I asked him questions."
The blood on his hands. His arm. The hollow look in his eyes.
I turn off the water. Dry his hands and forearm with the towel, checking the knuckles one more time. They'll bruise badly but nothing needs stitches.
When I look up he's watching my face.
"You pressed on the wound." Not a question.
"Yes."
"Until he answered."
"Yes."
I should feel something about that. Horror, maybe. Disgust. Some kind of moral recoil. The paralegal part of my brain that understands assault charges and prosecutable torture.
Instead what I feel is tired.
Bone-deep tired of being afraid, of measuring everything against what the Devils did, of trying to stay separate from something I'm already part of.
"Is Walt okay?" I ask.
"Bruised. Shaken. Alive." He's still watching me. "We got him back before they could do real damage."
"And Sully?"
"Alive. Bleeding. We left before police arrived." His jaw tightens. "He knows not to touch you now."
There it is. Part of why he came here, to tell me I'm safe, to make sure I understand he kept his promise.
"What did he tell you?" I move to the counter, lean against it. I need the distance to think clearly.
"Confirmed the leak. Someone gave Marrow our watch schedule, specific enough to know exactly when Walt would be alone. I've narrowed it to one person. We're setting up verification now."
"And when you verify?"
"We handle it internally."
"Which means what?"
His eyes don't leave mine. "You don't need those details."
I should push. Should demand the transparency I've been demanding since Tuesday.
But I'm looking at him standing in my kitchen at two in the morning, covered in blood because he recovered Walt and made sure the man who threatened me understands the cost of that mistake, and I can't make myself ask for information I don't actually want.
The silence stretches for ten seconds. Twenty.
"Are you okay?" The question comes out quieter than I intended.
He goes completely still. Something crosses his face, surprise maybe, or recognition.
"No."
The word drops between us like a stone.
He didn't come here to report on Walt. Didn't come to update me on club business. He came because he needed to be here and didn't know how to ask for that.
I move without deciding to move, crossing the space between us. I reach up and cup his jaw, feel stubble rough against my palm. His eyes close like I've given him permission to stop holding himself together.
I can feel him shaking. Fine tremors running through his shoulders, down his arms. Adrenaline crash, exhaustion, maybe something even deeper.
"Hey." I keep my voice low. "You're here now. With me. You're okay."
His hands come to my waist. Grip hard enough I feel it through my shirt. I move closer, put my other hand flat against his chest.
His heart is pounding, too fast, uneven.
"You got Walt back," I say against his shoulder. "He's safe. You did what you needed to do."
"I tortured someone." His voice comes out flat, controlled. "Applied pressure to a bullet wound until he gave me what I wanted. You should be horrified."
"I'm not."
"Why the fuck not?"
The profanity surprises me. I pull back enough to look at him.
"Because he threatened me yesterday morning and helped kidnap Walt yesterday afternoon, and now Walt's safe and Sully knows what happens if he touches me again." I hold his gaze. "I'm not going to perform horror for you when what I actually feel is relief."
Something breaks in his expression. His hands tighten on my waist and then he's kissing me.
Different than last night. Last night was claiming, fighting for dominance. This is need stripped bare. His mouth on mine like I'm oxygen and he's been underwater too long.
I kiss him back, let him take what he needs, give him everything I have. My hands in his hair, pulling him closer. His hands slide up my back, under my shirt, finding bare skin.
We break apart breathing hard. His forehead against mine.
"I need—" He stops. Tries again. "I need to not think for five minutes."
"Okay." I kiss him again, softer. "Okay."
We move toward the couch without planning it. He sits and I follow, climbing into his lap, my thighs spreading to bracket his hips. His hands come to my waist, thumbs sliding under the hem of my shirt to find bare skin just above my jeans.
I roll my hips and feel him hard beneath me through too many layers of fabric. The friction makes my breath catch. He groans, head falling back against the couch, throat exposed.
"Anna—"
"I know what I'm doing." I kiss his throat, feel his pulse jump. "Let me."
I slide off his lap, kneel between his legs on the floor. His eyes go dark when he realizes what I'm offering.
"You don't have to do this."
"I know." My hands go to his belt. "I want to."
I unbuckle the belt, unzip his jeans. He lifts his hips without being asked and I pull denim and boxer briefs down together.
His cock is hard, flushed dark, bigger than I expected and I realize with a sharp twist of want that I've been trying not to think about this for days.
I wrap my hand around him. Hot silk over steel, thick enough my fingers don't quite meet.
I stroke once, base to tip, watching his face.
His breath catches, his hands flex on the couch cushions like he's restraining himself from touching me.
I lean forward, lick the head of his cock, taste salt and him. His hips jerk involuntarily and the sound he makes goes straight between my legs.
I take him into my mouth.
Just the head at first, sucking gently while my tongue works the underside. His hand comes to my hair, fingers sliding in but not pushing. Just holding, anchoring himself.
I relax my throat and take him deeper.
Not all of him, he's too big, but enough that I feel it. Start building a rhythm, up and down, using my hand on what doesn't fit.
"Fuck." The word comes out strangled. "Anna, your mouth—"
I hum and he curses again, hips starting to move in small thrusts that match my rhythm. I let him, hollow my cheeks and suck harder.
His breathing gets ragged.
I can feel him getting close, thighs tensing under my free hand, fingers tightening in my hair.
"I'm going to—" Warning, giving me the option to pull back.
I don't pull back. Suck harder instead, faster, wanting this. Wanting to give him this release, this five minutes of not thinking.
He comes with a rough groan, hips jerking up.
I taste him, swallow, work him through it until he's pushing weakly at my shoulder because the sensation is too much.
I release him. Sit back on my heels. He's sprawled on my couch breathing hard, eyes closed, looking more undone than I've ever seen him.
When his eyes open they're clearer. Less haunted.
He reaches down, hauls me up into his lap with one smooth motion that makes me gasp.
"My turn." His voice is rough.
His mouth finds mine and I can taste myself on his tongue, mixed with him. His hand slides into my jeans, under my panties, finds me soaked.
"Christ, you're wet." He sounds genuinely surprised. "You got off on that."
"Yes." No point denying it.
Two fingers slide inside me, easy because I'm ready, have been ready since he knocked on my door. I gasp, grind down against his hand. His thumb finds my clit, circles with exactly the right pressure.
"Cain—"
"I've got you." His mouth is at my throat. "Let go."
He pumps his fingers, curls them as his thumb keeps working my clit, steady and relentless.
The pressure builds fast, overwhelming.
"Come for me."
The command breaks something loose.
I come hard, clenching around his fingers, shaking.
He works me through it, doesn't stop until I'm pushing his hand away because it's too much.
We sit there breathing. His hand slides out of my jeans, comes up to cup my face instead. He kisses me slow, nothing urgent anymore.
When he pulls back his eyes are softer.
"Thank you." He sounds like he means it.
"For what?"
"For this. For letting me in." Pause. "For not being afraid of what I am."
I rest my forehead against his. "I'm terrified of what you are. I'm choosing you anyway."
His arms come around me, tight enough it almost hurts. We stay like that, just holding each other while our breathing evens out.
Eventually I stand. My legs are shaky. "Come on."
"Where?"
"You're staying. Couch or bed, I don't care which, but you're not riding home at three in the morning."
He stands, tucks himself back into his jeans. "Couch."
"You don't have to—"
"If I get in your bed right now I won't stop." His eyes meet mine. "When I fuck you for the first time, I want to be fully present. Not running on adrenaline and no sleep."
Heat flashes through me at the certainty in his voice. Not if. When.
"Soon?" I manage.
"Very soon." He adjusts his jeans. "That's a promise."
I get a blanket and pillow from the hall closet. Hand them over. He sets them on the couch but doesn't move to lie down.
"Go to bed, Anna."
"You'll be here in the morning?"
"I'll be here."
I go to my room, close the door, and lie in bed listening to him settle on the couch, the soft sounds of him getting situated.
My body is satisfied but still humming, still wanting more. Wanting to know what it feels like when he finally stops holding back.
Eventually I sleep.
Then I feel dawn light waking me. I hear movement in the kitchen, smell coffee brewing.
I pull on a hoodie over my tank top and pad out barefoot.
Cain's at my coffee maker. He's washed the blood spatter from his collar, I can see the fabric is still damp. Two mugs already sit on the counter.
He turns when he hears me.
"Morning."
"Hey."
He pours coffee into both mugs, hands me one. Black. He remembered.
We take them outside to the back porch, sit on the steps. The sun's just starting to break the horizon, turning everything pink and gold. Birds are loud in the trees. Otherwise it's silent.
I sip my coffee. He's looking out at the property line, at the access road we still haven't finalized paperwork for.
"What happens now?" I ask.
"Now I go to the clubhouse. Run the trap to verify the leak." He glances at me. "And we finish the easement agreement. Make it official."
"And this?" I gesture between us. "What do we call this?"
"Inevitable." He takes a drink of coffee. "You can fight it if you want. I'm done fighting it."
I think about the choice I keep making. Letting him in at midnight. Calling him instead of the sheriff. Washing blood from his hands without asking whose it was.
"I'm not fighting it either," I say.
His hand finds mine. Threads our fingers together. His knuckles are bruised purple, split skin scabbed over. Mine are clean. We don't match in any obvious way.
Somehow it works anyway.
"You should know," he says, still looking at the sunrise. "Marrow knows about you now. Knows you're connected to me. That makes you a target."
"I figured that out yesterday."
"It's going to get more dangerous before it's over."
"I know."
He looks at me finally. "And you're choosing this anyway."
Not a question but I answer it. "Yes."
He lifts our joined hands, kisses my bruised knuckles where I scraped them on something yesterday I can't even remember now.
We sit there as the sun comes up. Not talking. Just existing in the same space, drinking coffee, holding hands.
Eventually he'll leave. Go back to the clubhouse, run his trap, handle his business. Eventually I'll have to think about what all of this means, what I'm agreeing to, what I've already agreed to without saying it out loud.
But right now, in the early morning quiet with his hand warm in mine, I let myself just be here.
Choosing him.
Choosing this.
Whatever comes next, I'm in it.