Chapter 9 Past Shadows And Sweet Cinnamon
Past Shadows And Sweet Cinnamon
~TANK~
The dream always starts the same.
Sand in my mouth. The copper stink of blood thick enough to choke on. Radio static screaming in my earpiece while I press both hands to the wound in her chest, trying to hold her together with nothing but desperation and failing strength.
She’s small in my arms—too small. Dark hair matted with dust and crimson. Hazel eyes wide, gold flecks dimming like dying embers. She tries to speak, but only red bubbles at her lips. I tell her to hold on. I beg. I promise things I have no right to promise.
But the light slips anyway.
Second by second.
Until there’s nothing left but dead weight and the echo of my own roar.
My eyes snap open.
The bedroom is dark except for the faint glow of snow-lit windows and the dying ember of the bedside lamp I forgot to switch off. My heart hammers against my ribs like incoming artillery. Sweat slides down my temples, pools at the base of my throat. Breath saws in and out, harsh and ragged.
I try to sit up—and can’t.
Something heavy rests on my chest. Warm. Soft. Alive.
Rosemarie.
Her naked body is draped over mine like she belongs there, one leg thrown over my thigh, arm curled across my stomach, cheek pressed to the center of my chest right over the scar that never quite healed right.
Her inky hair spills across my skin in loose waves, tickling with every slow exhale.
The faint scent of cinnamon sugar and dark vanilla lingers in the strands, mixing with roasted coffee and the deeper amber that only comes out when she’s deeply asleep.
Safe. Content.
The nightmare recoils like it’s been burned.
I drag in a careful breath, forcing my pulse to slow.
My hands—still trembling from the dream—settle lightly on her back, tracing the fine-line butterflies inked along her ribs.
The tattoos are delicate, almost fragile against the strength I now know lives underneath.
Rebirth symbols, she’d murmured at some point between rounds, voice husky and sated.
I didn’t ask why she needed rebirth. I just kissed each wing like I could guard whatever had tried to break her.
Fuck.
I didn’t even call her by her real name tonight.
Sweet Valentine. Sweetness. Sugar.
Nicknames to keep distance. Labels to remind myself this was supposed to be one night. A fling sparked in a bathroom, fueled by adrenaline and her fearless climb up my body like I was a tree she’d decided to conquer.
But no omega has ever dominated me before.
Not like that. Not with that quiet-bold confidence, that wicked mouth, that fearless grin while she rode me like she was claiming territory.
The way she took control, then handed it back with a smirk.
The way she swallowed me down, massaged my knot with her clever tongue until I saw stars and forgot my own damn name.
And Christ, the body on her. Sleek curves over toned muscle she hides under oversized sweaters.
Long legs. That toned stomach I traced with my tongue for what felt like hours.
The glint of her eyebrow ring when she laughed.
The small nose hoop that caught the light every time she tilted her head in challenge.
She’s every dangerous fantasy I’ve never allowed myself to keep.
I’m smitten.
Completely, stupidly, irrevocably smitten.
And I know absolutely nothing about her except the way she tastes, the sounds she makes when she comes, and the fact that my dog—my antisocial, judgmental giant of a Malamute—tackled her with pure joy the second she walked through the door.
Sasha doesn’t like anyone. Ever.
He barely tolerates Elias and Julian.
Yet he looked at Rosemarie like she hung the moon.
And I brought her here. To my real home.
Not the sterile safe-house apartment I keep for flings—the one with minimal furniture and no personal traces, the one designed to make leaving easy at dawn.
I’ve never brought a woman to this house.
Never wanted anyone to see the reclaimed-wood shelves, the winter landscape painting, the oversized dog bed, the fingerprints of a life I actually live.
But tonight, I drove straight here on autopilot. Didn’t even consider the other place.
Dangerous.
She stirs against me, a soft murmur escaping her lips—something incoherent, sleepy. Her lashes flutter, then lift just enough for hazy hazel to peek up at me. Confusion flickers across her face, like she’s trying to remember where she is, who she’s curled around.
Then recognition settles, and something softens in her expression.
Christ, she’s beautiful like this. Guard down. Lips swollen from my kisses. Hair a wild tangle. Totally fucked-out and still the most stunning thing I’ve ever woken up to.
I smirk despite myself, brushing a knuckle gently along her cheek. “Go back to sleep, Sweetness. Not morning yet.”
She mumbles something again—sounds suspiciously like “too heavy” or maybe “your tits are comfy,” I can’t tell—and I choke on a quiet laugh.
Her head drops back to my chest with zero hesitation, chin tucking over my sternum like it’s her designated pillow.
Within seconds, her breathing evens out, body melting heavier against mine.
Trust.
She fell back asleep in seconds. In my arms. On a man she met hours ago.
I’ve never let an omega stay until morning. Never wanted the entanglement, the questions, the soft looks that turn into expectations I can’t meet. Attachment is a liability. I learned that young, learned it again in sand and blood.
But tonight?
I don’t have the strength—or the balls—to wake her. To call a car. To watch her walk out and pretend this didn’t just rewrite something fundamental inside me.
I press my lips to her temple, breathing her in. Cinnamon and amber and warm skin. Home in a scent.
One more time in the morning, I bargain with myself. One more round—slow, deep, memorable—then I’ll let the fairytale end.
The thought alone has blood rushing south. My cock hardens against the curve of her thigh, insistent and aching. I groan low, shifting carefully so I don’t wake her.
Cold shower. I need a cold shower.
I slide out from under her with the practice of years spent moving silently in hostile territory.
She makes a small displeased sound but doesn’t wake as I tuck the heavy duvet around her naked body, cocooning her in warmth.
The sight of her curled in my sheets, hair fanned across my pillow, hits me square in the chest.
Mine, something primal growls.
Not yours, logic counters. One night.
I force myself to the en-suite bathroom, closing the door softly behind me. The motion-sensor lights come on low—warm, not harsh—and I crank the shower to ice-cold before stepping under the spray.
Freezing water sluices over my shoulders, down my back, but it does nothing to dull the ache.
Memories flood in anyway: her bold grin when she demanded to ride me, the way she took my knot in her mouth like a challenge, the sound she made when I shredded her expensive thong and promised to replace every pair.
Fuck.
My hand wraps around my cock without conscious decision, stroking hard and fast. I brace my forehead against the cool tile, eyes squeezed shut, chasing release like it’ll grant clarity.
It doesn’t take long—images of her slick thighs, her pierced eyebrow arched in triumph, her scent thick in my lungs—and I come with a muffled grunt, spilling against the shower wall.
Chest heaving, I let the water rinse everything away. Turn the tap off.
And freeze.
The softest creak—the bathroom door easing open.
I turn slowly, water still dripping from my hair, and there she is.
Rosemarie stands in the doorway, blanket clutched loosely around her like a toga, eyes heavy-lidded but awake. Moonlight and snow-glow spill in from the bedroom behind her, outlining her silhouette in silver. Her hair is a wild halo, lips curved in a sleepy, knowing smile.
“Thought I heard someone having a private party without me,” she murmurs, voice husky with sleep and amusement.
My heart does something complicated.
Busted.
And suddenly, the fairytale doesn’t feel anywhere close to over.