Chapter 6
LEIF’S MOUTH crashed down on hers, the kiss violent with need, all fire and no hesitation. It wasn’t tentative, it wasn’t polite. It was visceral, claiming, a collision that stole the air from her lungs and replaced it with heat.
Mariah gasped into him, then clutched at his shirt, pulled him closer, opening for him without thought.
His tongue swept deep, ruthless, tasting, demanding.
She met him with equal fury, anger and want tangled until she couldn’t separate them.
He lifted her against him, pressing her back into the couch, grinding his body into hers until every nerve lit up like flame.
She moaned into his mouth, lost, dizzy, hungry for more, for everything.
His hands framed her face, slid down to grip her hips, pulling her tighter into the hard line of his arousal, making her gasp again.
The kiss turned feral, teeth clashing, breath mingling, each fighting and surrendering in the same heartbeat.
Time unraveled. There was only this—his mouth, his strength, the wildfire consuming her from the inside out.
They broke apart only when the need for air became undeniable, lips swollen, breath ragged, hearts hammering like war drums. The taste of him lingered on her tongue, the force of him still pressed into her body, the wildfire still raging through her veins.
For a moment she lay sprawled against the couch cushions, stunned by the sheer ferocity of what had just happened, every nerve alive, too sharp, too aware—and every one of them still tuned to the man stretched out beside her.
Leif.
He hadn’t let her go since he’d joined her on the couch.
One of his hands still clasped her wrist with quiet authority, not cruel, not careless, but absolute.
His blue eyes raked over her, sharp and assessing, like he was cataloging every bruise, every cut, every possible threat she carried.
The same eyes that had devoured her during that kiss now burned with a different intensity, protective and unyielding.
She hated the way it made her tremble. Not from fear—never fear—but from the dangerous heat that still rolled between them, hotter now for having tasted what they could ignite together.
“Strip,” he said.
The word snapped through the air like a command on a battlefield.
Her breath caught. “Excuse me?”
His gaze didn’t flicker. “I’m checking for wounds. You’re covered in blood—some of it mine, some of it may be yours. I won’t risk missing something because you’re modest.”
She froze, pulse hammering. The scent of smoke and sweat clung to both of them. Her dress was torn at the shoulder, stained dark along her ribs. She hadn’t realized until now how much her body ached, painfully scraped from the chaos in the hallway.
“Leif—”
“Take it off.” His tone dropped lower, dangerous with the edge of a man who didn’t repeat himself. “Or I’ll do it for you.”
Heat surged under her skin. Not just embarrassment.
Not just resistance. Something hotter. Something that tied straight into the pulse beating low in her belly.
She wanted to deny him, wanted to spit the word no, but the fire in his eyes said he’d peel her out of the ruined silk whether she fought or not.
And God help her, part of her wanted him to.
She wet her lips, aware of how dry her throat had become. “You can’t just—”
“I can. And I will.” He stood and pulled her from the couch, his size crowding her, his voice lowering to a dark purr. “I won’t let you bleed out because you’re too stubborn to bare your skin. Now. Take it off.”
Her fingers trembled as she reached for the zipper.
Every second stretched, thick with awareness.
She could sense his gaze on her, heavy as a touch, stripping her before her dress even slid from her shoulders.
The sound of the zipper rasping down was loud in the quiet penthouse, like a secret exposed.
Her breath came shallow, shaky, and she hated that he could hear it.
The fabric loosened, then slipped away, gray silk pooling at her feet in a heap that seemed suddenly obscene.
She stood motionless, trapped between shame and desire, in only her lace bra and panties.
He’d seen her like this before. And yet…
Her skin prickled under his scrutiny, every inch of her exposed though she wasn’t fully bare.
Leif didn’t move at first. He simply watched her, his eyes focused and consuming, and for a terrifying, thrilling moment, she thought he might devour her whole without ever touching her.
The silence pressed in, electric. Her heart pounded so hard she thought he must hear it.
Her nipples tightened against the lace, betraying her arousal, and she cursed inwardly.
Finally, he moved. Slowly. Deliberately.
He stepped into her space until his breath brushed against her cheek.
One hand lifted, his knuckles grazing her shoulder before trailing down the curve of her arm.
He turned her gently, tilting her into the light spilling from above.
His touch was clinical, yes, but there was hunger beneath it, barely leashed.
She knew it in the way his thumb lingered on her hip, in the way his palm pressed against her spine as though memorizing the line of it.
“You’ve got a scrape here,” he murmured, his fingers brushing her ribs. The contact was feather-light but it lit her nerves like fire. “Another along your thigh. Superficial. You’ll live.”
The words should’ve reassured her. Instead they made her shiver, because his voice carried something more, possession and certainty. He was assessing her as if she already belonged to him.
Her pulse jumped. “Are you finished?”
His lips curved faintly, wickedly. “Not even close.”
Before she could speak, his hand slid up again, stopping just beneath her breast. He didn’t touch more than that, but the heat of his palm seared through the thin lace, branding her. She gasped, a sharp sound she tried to swallow.
“You’re shaking,” he said softly.
“I’m cold,” she lied.
He leaned closer, mouth brushing the edge of her ear, his voice a soft growl. “No, you’re not.”
Her body betrayed her with a shudder that wasn’t fear, and definitely wasn’t cold.
His breath warmed her skin, and she had to bite her lip to stop the moan clawing its way out.
She should’ve pushed him back, should’ve demanded space, but all she managed was to stand trembling under his hand, waiting for what he’d do next.
“You’re not dying,” he said finally, drawing back just enough to look her in the eyes. His gaze was fierce, unrelenting. “Good.”
But he didn’t let her go. His thumb stroked once across her hip, a touch far too intimate for an examination. She sucked in a breath, every nerve screaming with awareness.
“Leif...” It came out strangled, half warning, half plea.
His eyes darkened further, satisfaction curling in their depths. He had her pinned without force, held by nothing more than his presence and her own traitorous desire. He knew it.
And worse—so did she.
“Shower,” he ordered next. “We need to get the blood off. All of it.”
Her heart stuttered. He didn’t say you. He said we. And when he took her wrist again, pulling her toward the massive marble bathroom, she didn’t resist.
The shower roared to life, steam filling the glass enclosure as Leif stripped with ruthless efficiency.
Holster, shirt, trousers, all discarded in sharp, purposeful movements.
His body was all brutal power—broad chest, honed muscle, the kind of frame carved by violence and control.
The lion ink of his Brand coiled across his palm, faintly glowing as though it sensed her, called to her.
Her own palm pulsed in response, the matching mark alive beneath her skin.
Mariah’s breath hitched. The air between them vibrated with it—destiny, want, the unholy fusion of both.
He turned on her. “In.”
She hesitated only long enough to know he noticed.
For a flicker of a second she braced for him to insist she strip the rest of the way, to bare herself completely under his command.
The fact that he didn’t startled her—surprised her more than she wanted to admit.
Then she stepped into the steam, the heat wrapping her, making her skin slick and sensitive.
He followed, closing the glass door with a finality that echoed louder than any lock.
Water cascaded over them, washing crimson streaks down the drain.
Leif took control without asking, cupping her chin, tilting her head back, letting the water sluice through her hair.
His fingers dragged over her scalp, down the curve of her neck, along her shoulders.
Each touch lingered too long, too slow, making her shiver.
He reached for the shampoo and worked it through her hair, his big hands massaging her scalp, his thumbs pressing into the tense knots at her temples until her knees nearly buckled. She clutched at his wrist, torn between pushing him away and begging him not to stop.
He guided her under the spray again, rinsing away suds and blood, his touch maddeningly tender for a man built for violence.
The gentleness only sharpened the ache pooling between her thighs.
When his hand slipped down her back, gliding over the dip of her spine to cup her ass, she gasped, heat rushing through her.
“You’re mine,” he murmured, his tone lethal. His thumb traced the line of her cheekbone. “Fate says it. The Brand says it. Your body says it.”
She should’ve denied him. Should’ve told him the Brand was a curse, not a gift. But the truth throbbed hot and undeniable deep in her core. She was wet for him, trembling for him, and he hadn’t done more than kiss her.
“Leif...” Her voice broke. Warning? Plea? She didn’t know.