Chapter 47
By the time we reach our quarters, I can feel the hum of the Sanctuary three tunnels away—a dull throb in the walls, like the heartbeat of a giant animal.
Here, though, it’s dead quiet. The lights are low, the air thick with the static haze of sweat, ozone, and recycled breath.
Kang unlocks the door, steps inside first, checking the corners with that Authority instinct he’ll never lose.
I slip past him, and for a second we’re pressed together in the narrow entryway, his chest against my back, the fierce heat of his palm at the small of my spine.
I toe off my boots and peel away the socks, feeling the cold of the floor bite at my heels.
My body is wired with adrenaline, muscle memory replaying the taste of blood and sweat from the tunnel.
The slap of knuckles against jaw, the sharp pop as bone gives.
It shouldn’t thrill me, but the rage is a fire still running in my veins.
Kang closes the door. I turn, lean against the wall, arms crossed. Kang’s already watching me, green eyes tracking every micro-shift of my expression. The words stall out in his throat. For a few heartbeats, we just stare—a silent negotiation about who moves first.
Finally, he breaks. “I see our training back in the prison actually worked.” His voice is low and dry, edged with sarcasm. He cocks his head, and the corner of his mouth twitches. “Remind me to never piss you off again.”
The tension in my neck unwinds a single click. I let myself smile, just a flash of teeth. “You should know better by now.”
He grins, a flash of white in the dim. “I do.”
I cross the room in three steps, the battered concrete floor cool under my soles.
My shoulder twinges, but I ignore it. There’s a patch of light on the table, blue-white and cold as the surface of a scalpel.
It looked exactly like moonlight, but my scientist’s brain immediately countered: We are too far underground for that.
It must be the result of a massive, distant filter—a thin, precious beam of the outside world filtering down from one of the Sanctuary’s high ventilation shafts.
I move into this borrowed light, let it bleach the blood from my knuckles, and watch Kang follow, drawn in by the gravity of the moment.
He sets his back against the wall, hands stuffed into the pockets of his Authority jacket, and just… waits. It’s an invitation. A challenge.
I’m too wired to care which.
I walk right up to him, let the dress swish at my knees, and reach for the buttons on his uniform.
He watches my hands, says nothing as I undo the top three.
His skin is warm and smooth under the stubble of hair, a lattice of old scars and new bruises.
I drag my fingers down, slow, until they catch on the hem of the shirt.
I pull him forward, feel the muscle tense under my grip.
I spin him, push him back onto the bed. Kang lands with a soft grunt, the bed frame squeaking in protest. I straddle him, knees pinning his hips, and grab his wrists in both hands, pressing them to the mattress above his head.
He doesn’t fight. Not yet.
His breath comes a little faster, ribcage rising and falling in time with mine. The pulse at his throat beats steady as a clock.
I lean down, close enough to feel his lips against my ear, and whisper: “Why did you do it?”
His voice is a hiss in the dark. “Do what?”
“You could have left me,” I say, my mouth at his jawline. “Could have walked. But you didn’t.”
He swallows, throat bobbing against my lips. “You know why.”
“No,” I say. “Tell me. I need the truth, not the soldier’s answer.”
He hesitates, just a second, but it’s enough. Instead of the lie, he gives me the raw one.
“You asked me once why I burned my life away for you,” he says, voice ragged and raw. “The truth is, I would burn the whole fucking world twice over for you, Dee.”
I lose my grip for a second, a flicker of vulnerability. I don’t care. The desire to believe him is a physical ache.
I kiss him, hard, lips crushing against his.
His mouth is open, desperate, his tongue a shock of heat against mine.
I let go of his wrists and fist my hands in his hair, dragging him up to meet me.
The kiss is a riot—biting, hungry, violent in its honesty.
He tastes like salt, fear, and a fierce, burning devotion.
I want to crawl inside his ribcage and live there.
He breaks the kiss first, panting, his forehead pressed to mine. “Still doesn’t answer your question though,” he mutters.
I laugh, low and mean. “Try harder.”
He does.
With a brutal, surgical twist, he flips us, rolling my body beneath his, pinning me with the weight of his hips and the press of his hands at my wrists. His strength is unreal—unyielding, final. I go still, let him settle on top, feel the heat of him pulse through every inch of me.
He lowers his mouth to my ear, breath hot against the skin. “Don’t think you have control here, Dee…”
I smirk, bite my lip, and then drive my knee up, catching him off balance. He grunts, just enough to loosen his grip, and I slide out from under him, rolling to the side. I stand, slow and deliberate, and tug the dress up and over my head, letting it fall in a puddle at my feet.
“Who has control now?” I taunt, voice steady.
He watches, eyes gone almost black. The look on his face is starving, predatory, but there’s awe in it, too. He shakes his head, like he can’t believe any of this is real. “Don’t test me,” he says.
“Or what?” I challenge.
He doesn’t answer. He just moves.
He’s on me before I can blink, hands at my waist, backing me up until I hit the table. The edge digs into my hips, grounding me. He lifts me onto it, hands strong and sure, and steps back to look. The light cuts across my ribs, painting me in silver and shadow.
His eyes, usually guarded and sharp, are dilated and utterly reverent.
His gaze isn’t just lustful; it’s consuming and surgical, raking over the scarred terrain of my body—the faint bruises on my ribs, the tension in my shoulders from the fight, the fresh blood still dark on my knuckles.
He sees the scientist, the fighter, and the woman, all at once.
“Fuck the Authority. I think it’s you who’s brainwashing me, Dee,” he murmurs, his voice barely a breath, as if the realization is a profound shock.
He takes a deliberate step closer, placing his hands on the table on either side of my hips, trapping me in the geometry of his body. He leans in, his expression a mixture of awe and fierce possession.
“You are perfection,” he says, his voice rough as sandpaper, each word a vow. “Stunning. Fearless. You are the thing they tried to break, and you are mine.”
His words land not as compliments, but as validation of my survival.
In that moment, I realize he sees the rage that fuels me, the damaged parts of my past, and he doesn’t flinch.
He accepts the totality of me. My breath hitches, and a thrill runs through me that is deeper than any physical arousal.
He doesn’t just desire me; he worships the chaos I contain.
He steps in, mouth grazing my throat, the scrape of stubble raising goosebumps down my spine. He bites, soft at first, then hard enough to leave a mark. My head tips back, eyes closed, but I keep my hands on his shoulders, steadying myself.
He works his way down, tongue tracing a line from the hollow of my throat to the curve of my breast. He pauses there, just long enough to breathe me in, and then he drops to his knees.
I want to make a joke—something about the Authority never teaching this part of the manual—but the sound catches in my throat. All my control is gone.
He hooks my legs, pulls them over his shoulders, and settles me at the edge of the table.
His hands are everywhere, gripping my thighs, tracing the inside curve, spreading me open.
The first touch of his tongue is a shock—hot, wet, relentless.
He knows exactly what he’s doing. He devours me, slow at first, then harder, the rhythm as precise as a metronome.
The room goes out of focus. All I can see is the blur of his hair between my legs, the flex of muscle in his forearms as he holds me.
The sounds he makes are obscene—a wet, rhythmic suction, punctuated by the low growl in his throat when I start to tremble.
I am stripped bare, physically and mentally, and his total focus is the most intoxicating thing I’ve ever felt.
Kang mumbles against my corse with a deep growl “fuck dee. You tastes delicious.”
I try to stay quiet, but I can’t. The moan that escapes is loud, desperate. He doesn’t stop. If anything, it spurs him on, driving him deeper into the frenzy.
My vision whites out. The pressure builds, a sharp point of heat that explodes outward like a solar flare, taking the rest of me with it. I grip his head so tight I worry I’ll break him, but he doesn’t flinch. I hear the pounding of my own blood in my ears as the waves crash over me.
When it’s over, I’m left gasping, legs limp, arms heavy. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, stands, and looks at me with a hunger that’s almost painful.
He pulls me off the table, lifts me with zero effort, and carries me to the bed. The blanket is rough against my skin, but I don’t care. I want him on me, in me, around me.
He undresses with the same efficiency he uses to clean a weapon. Shirt, then pants, then the boxers with a single flick. His body is mapped with scars—old bullet wounds, knife slashes, burns. I trace them with my fingers, memorizing each one as if it were a formula.
He settles between my legs, presses his mouth to mine.
I can taste myself on him, he slides in slow and deep.
The feeling is instant—a full-body tremor, deep and consuming.
He moves with control, never rushing, every thrust measured and exact.
The friction is a grinding heat that strips away the last layer of my restraint.
I wrap my legs around his waist, dig my heels into the small of his back, urge him deeper. His breath is hot against my neck, his hands braced on either side of my head. We move together, a machine built for one purpose.
He watches my face the entire time. Not a single blink wasted.
When I shudder, he goes harder. When I bite his shoulder, he grins, teeth bared.
The sweat between us slicks our bodies, making every slide a frictionless glide—faster, harder, louder.
The rhythm becomes a chaotic, beautiful violence that mirrors the fight we just left.
He grabs my hips, his fingers digging into my flesh as he pulls me up to meet the violence of his thrusts. The impact resonates in my bones. I arch back, losing my vision to the rising tide of sensation. The tension coils in my belly, sharp and overwhelming.
And as the world collapses around me, tearing me apart and putting me back together, the only word that breaks through the sound barrier of my climax is his truth:
“LANCE!”
The raw sound of his name—the one he hides from everyone—hits him like a physical blow. His head snaps back, his eyes widening in shock, then filling with a fierce, possessive love. He teeters right over the edge, his control dissolving.
“Fuck, I like it when you say my name,” he growls, his voice thick with the need to reciprocate the honesty.
He plunges one last, final time, and the world goes white.
I feel the hot, thick pulse of his climax deep inside me, every muscle in his body seizing as he empties himself.
My inner walls clamp down, tight and desperate, milking the last of the sensation.
He holds me tight, forehead pressed to my collarbone, both of us shaking.
We stay like that, tangled and spent, until our breathing slows.
After a while, I open my eyes. The lights are still off, but the room feels brighter. He’s staring at me, lips parted, eyes gone soft.
“Still think you have control?” he whispers.
I laugh, then pull him in for another kiss. It’s slower this time, more gentle. There’s no rush. The world outside can wait.
We lie there, bodies intertwined, and for the first time in my life, I don’t feel broken.
For the first time, I feel whole. And I know: if the world burns tomorrow, it will be enough.