Chapter Thirty-Five
One second, Kiera’s standing in the middle of the ruined chapel, colored light bleeding over her skin. Next, I’m close enough to see dust in her lashes and the pulse jumping in her throat. Her shirt is rumpled, jeans riding low on her hips to hide the bruise. “New memory,” she says.
Taking the last step, as if gravity is pulling me toward her, my fingers find the hem of her shirt and pull it up.
Kiera lifts her arms without question—bruises bloom along her ribs in vicious blues and purples.
I drop to my knees; the stone bites through denim.
The bruise over her hip is the color of old violets.
My palm spreads over the mark, spanning bone and damage. “Here,” I say. It’s not a question.
Kiera’s mouth curves into something dark and amused. “Claiming territory?”
“More like burning it into the ground,” my voice coming out as a deep, territorial growl.
I pull out the small, sharp knife with practiced ease and flip it open.
The tip settles just below her hip bone.
I press in and cut. Kiera jerks once, then only a sharp inhale escapes her.
Blood wells up in a bright, perfect bead.
I carve slowly. Straight lines turn into deliberate curves until a rough S hooks into a thorn.
It’s not pretty; it’s not meant to be. It’s a brand in the only language we both truly understand—pain.
Kiera’s fingers dig hard into the edge of the pew beside her, her eyes never leaving my face.
Something hungry flickers beneath the surface.
When I finish, I smear the blood across my thumb.
I press it in, sealing the claim. The copper smell is loud, demanding.
I lean in and drag my tongue over the fresh cut.
Kiera makes a sharp, broken noise. Nothing like the silence she held while I was carving.
The taste explodes across my tongue—metal, salt, and something darker.
Something that is only hers. The jagged edges of the S scrape against my tongue as I lick the spot again, slower this time, working the blood into every groove.
Sealing the brand with something far more primal than pressure.
Claiming the damage I did with my mouth.
When I pull back, I press my bloody thumb into the wet mark, rubbing the mess of spit and blood deeper into her skin. My initial sits over her hip, forever marked as mine. I sit back on my heels and look up at her. Her breathing’s gone shallow, pupils blown wide. “Your turn.” Her voice is ruinous.
Sitting back, I flip the knife in my hand, handle toward her.
Kiera takes it without breaking eye contact.
No hesitation, just that look that says she’s been waiting for an excuse to put something permanent on me.
I lift my shirt, exposing my ribs. There are already plenty of scars there—old slices, bullet tracks, shrapnel kisses.
Kiera takes it all in like she’s reading a map.
“Where?” she asks, waiting for my direction on where to lay her claim.
Catching her wrist, I guide the knife to the spot just above my left ribcage, close to my heart. “Here.” Kiera’s free hand braces on my side, fingers hot on my skin. The blade bites, not gentle but not cruel either. Stroke by stroke, letters start to take shape.
KIERA
Each cut burns, settling into a deeper warmth as blood rises.
My jaw tightens, but I don’t move. Pain crawls up my spine to my ribs and settles there, familiar as an old song.
It feels right. Her name belongs under my ribs.
It’s already there; she’s just catching my body up to my brain.
She finishes the last line with a little extra pressure.
My breath stutters. Her mouth curves in satisfaction. “Now we match,” she says proudly.
A rough laugh shoves its way out of my lungs, low and jagged. “We’ve always matched.”
My hands are on Kiera the next second, dragging her in, her body slamming against mine hard enough to make both of us hiss where the fresh cuts protest, the knife dropping to the floor.
She tastes like blood and something that’s been coiled inside me, finally deciding to wake up.
Her fingers curl in my shirt, dragging it higher, nails scraping over the raw letters she just carved.
I catch her gasp in my mouth when my thumb sweeps over the raised skin of the S on her hip. Still wet, still mine.
It takes every effort not to tear everything off her and claim her in every way possible, until there is nothing left of her but me.
We stumble backward into a pew. Dust explodes around us, getting in my lungs, in her hair, in the places where our skin finds skin.
“Ghost,” she whispers against my jaw, half curse, half prayer.
“Thorn,” I whisper back, fitting between her thighs like I’ve been doing it my whole life.
Every feeling is heightened—the drag of her nails over my back, the sting when she grips my side right over the fresh cuts, the hot slide of her mouth under mine, the way she arches into my hands like she’s starving to be touched.
Together, we yank away what we were desperate to remove, shoving aside what we don’t. Kiera wraps her legs around me and hauls me closer, grinding down, using my body like it’s hers to command. It is.
The pew creaks as Kiera sets herself down on my cock.
The chapel groans as she sets her own pace, building her own pleasure.
She gasps my name when I push further into her, teeth sinking into my shoulder to muffle the sound, her hands sliding up to my neck like she’s still deciding whether to hold on or choke me out.
I’ll take either. We move as one, burning for the desperate need to feel loved, like the world is on fire, and we’re squeezing this in before it all collapses around us.
Kiera’s climax breaks through; her back arches, eyes slamming shut, nails digging into my skin hard enough to draw more blood.
She drags in a ragged breath that sounds like survival and surrender all at once.
It takes me with her. White heat tingles down my spine, the edges of my vision darkening.
I bury my face in her neck and let her wreck me.
Her poison the only thing keeping me alive at this point.
We stay tangled, breathing life into each other.
Eventually, I shift, bracing an arm on the back of the pew so I’m not crushing her.
She slips one hand between us, fingers finding the raw letters under my ribs, tracing them with slow, lazy circles that make my skin pebble from her soft caress.
“Looks better on you than I imagined,” she says lightly.
“You’ve thought about it.” Kiera smirks at my statement, eyes half-lidded, pupils blown wide.
My hand is still on her hip, thumb resting over one of the curves of the S.
Matching wounds in a place no one else gets to see unless we decide.
The light shifts on the broken floor, reaching for us and not quite making it. “We’re insane,” she says finally.
“Absolutely,” I agree.
Kiera’s fingers press a little harder into my side, right over her name. It feels like the most honest thing I’ve ever felt. “Good,” she says. “Then maybe we’re finally doing something that’s not in their manual.”
Sounds of groans and breathing float around us as the chapel settles like it’s trying to pretend it didn’t just witness the desecrating things we did in its sanctuary.
Eventually, the cold reminds us as it creeps back in under my shirt, over sweat-damp skin, into every cut and bruise.
Kiera shivers involuntarily, goosebumps rippling over her skin.
“Temperature’s dropping,” I mutter against her hair.
I ease back, hauling my shirt down with a wince.
The fresh letters drag against the fabric, sending a sting through my side that morphs into a steady burn.
She sits up slowly, hissing when the waistband of her jeans brushes the S on her hip.
My hand is there before I think about it, thumb hovering over the swollen skin, not quite touching. “Careful,” I say.
Kiera swats my hand away as she stands up fully. “If I wanted careful, I wouldn’t be here.” Her knees wobble.
I rise with her, close enough to catch if she tips. “You good to walk?”
“I’m…”
“Don’t,” I cut in. “We’ve abused that word enough lately.”
Kiera rolls her eyes before the corner of her lips tugs upwards slightly. “Fine...I’m vertical. The pain is tolerable, and I have zero regrets.”
The last part makes my heart thunder against her name.
I scoop the knife from the floor and flip it closed, sliding it back into my pocket as I pick up the notebook and the dead phone from the front pew, shoving both into my jacket.
Kiera drags her fingers along the top of the nearest pew, leaving faint streaks in the dust as she walks the aisle—claiming the place in her own small way.
At the doors, she pauses, looking back at the spot where we were.
Where the wood still bears the imprint of us, scuffed, dust-marked, slightly askew. “This is ours now,” she says softly.
“Yeah,” I agree, huffing out a small laugh. “It is.”
Outside, the air slaps across our skin. Cold, damp, full of the smell of rain, waiting for the right moment.
Kiera pulls her jacket tighter around herself as I adjust mine, feeling the sting under my ribs flare.
We trudge back down the hill silently, the truck waiting where we left it, alone in the gravel.
Kiera climbs into the passenger seat slower than she got out, one hand braced on the door frame, the other hovering over her hip.
When she settles into her seat, she sucks in a breath through her teeth.
“You’re going to hate putting a seatbelt on,” I tease.