Chapter 8 Milo
MILO
Icouldn't stop myself from bringing her things.
On Tuesday there was rain in the forecast, so I left a black umbrella propped against her apartment door before dawn. That evening, she unfolded it the second she stepped outside.
On Thursday, the wind turned biting and cold in one of those weird Texas days where the temperature drops and brings in three days of second winter.
I watched her shiver at the crosswalk, blowing on her knuckles to keep the stiffness out of her fingers.
The next night, I left a pair of cashmere-lined leather gloves on her doorstep, then waited down the hall for her to leave for work.
She opened her door and hit them with her cane.
Bending down, she found the gloves, slid them on, flexed her fingers against the warmth, and smiled.
Friday, a man at the bar spent her entire first set eye-fucking her. He was mid-fifties, wearing an expensive watch and the kind of smug entitlement that came with too much money and too few consequences. As she played, he stared at her tits, her throat, the way her body moved with the music.
And I stared at him.
I imagined peeling his eyelids back and making him watch while I broke every finger on both hands.
Imagined what his face would look like when he realized the pretty blind pianist wasn't as unprotected as he thought.
Men like him never expected consequences.
They moved through the world taking what they wanted because no one had ever stopped them and they knew that they could.
I wanted to be the one who stopped him. Permanently. And maybe that's what prompted me to follow her into the back hallway when she took a short break.
She was waiting for me just outside the restrooms, away from the hustle and bustle of the restaurant. Arms crossed, she leaned back against the wall with her cane propped beside her, head tilted toward the sound of my approach.
"You're upset," she said as I approached.
I stopped walking and let my eyes wander over her face and throat as I tried to reign in my temper. "How do you know that?"
"I know the cadence of your steps," she informed me. "I can tell what kind of mood you're in from the way you walk."
"And so you thought it would be a good idea to wait here for me to find you?"
She shrugged, the small movement drawing my eyes to her breasts. "You won't hurt me."
"You don't know that."
"Yes, I do." She dropped her arms to her sides. "If you wanted me dead, I'd be dead. If you wanted to hurt me, you'd have done it by now. Instead, you buy me coffee and leave me gifts to keep me dry and warm."
I didn't remember moving, but I suddenly found myself standing right in front of her. She reached up with one hand and her fingers found my face. With a light touch that drove me mad, she traced the stubble that covered my jaw and the tense muscle beneath.
"So that means you're upset about something else." She paused, and I felt her studying me, sight or no sight. "Is it the men who stare at me that have you so upset?"
"Don't, Raven."
But she kept on. "You're not dangerous to me," she said softly. "You're dangerous for me. There's a difference." Leaning into me, she lifted her face until our lips were nearly brushing. "And I like danger. I miss it."
My self-control cracked.
Grabbing her hips, I pinned her back against the wall.
Her gasp echoed in the narrow hallway as my body pressed against hers—chest to chest, hip to hip—and I knew she could feel how hard I was.
From the corner of my eye, I saw the bastard who'd been eye fucking her all night.
He froze when he saw us, then silently turned on his heel and left. Back the bar, I presumed.
Smart man.
"You think I'm safe?" My mouth hovered an inch from her ear. "You think I won't hurt you?"
Her breath came faster. Her fingers curled into the front of my shirt.
"I think you want to." Her voice was steady, but I felt her tremble. "I think you lie awake at night imagining all the ways you could tear me apart."
YES.
"I think about you, too," she whispered. "When I'm alone. I think about what your hands would feel like on my skin. What your mouth would feel like between my—"
I kissed her.
It was hard and hungry. There was nothing gentle about it.
Her mouth opened for me. She tasted like coffee and sweet vanilla and I licked my way inside, claiming every inch, swallowing the moan that vibrated in her throat. My hands slid down to her ass and squeezed, hauling her up against me, grinding my cock against her stomach.
She bit my lower lip hard enough to draw blood.
I growled at the pain and fisted her soft hair, yanking her head back to expose her throat. My teeth scraped down the column of her neck, and she shuddered—a full-body tremor that made my vision blur.
"Milo—"
God. The sound of my name on her lips nearly broke me.
The effort it took not to hike up her dress, shove her panties aside, and bury myself inside her against this wall and fuck her until she forgot her own name was so much worse than it was the other night in the alley.
But not here. Not like this. Not in a hallway where anyone could walk by, where Viktor could appear at any moment, where the risk was too high and the consequences were death.
With great effort, I pulled away, moving her arm back down to her side when she reached for me.
Our ragged breaths filled the empty hall. Her lips were red and swollen and her hair was wrecked where my fist had tangled in it.
She looked ruined.
She looked perfect.
"Milo—" she started.
"That was a mistake." I forced myself to say the words that would save both of our lives.
Her chin lifted, eyes blazing even without sight. I'd always thought they were blue, but now I could see specks of brown too. "Bullshit," she gritted out.
"Raven—"
"Don't." She straightened, smoothing her dress with hands that weren't quite steady. "Don't kiss me like that and then pretend it didn't fucking mean anything."
I ran a hand through my hair, gripping the strands tight enough to hurt. Something to ground me. Something to stop the subtle tremor in my fingers that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with restraint.
Mean anything.
Fucking Christ.
If it had lived in the realm of nothing, I wouldn't be standing here feeling like my chest had been cracked open with a rib spreader. The emptiness I’d cultivated for decades—the cold, safe detachment that made me excellent at erasing sins and keeping secrets to myself—was gone.
Replaced by a fire that would burn the whole fucking building and all of the bodies inside of it just to keep her warm.
That kiss wasn't a mistake because I didn't care. It was a mistake because I cared enough to get sloppy. And in my line of work, sloppy meant dead.
"It wasn't nothing," I gritted out, the confession scraping my throat like broken glass. "It was too much. And that's the problem."
She went perfectly still.
"Go back to work," I said. "Take the front exit tonight. Don't come to the alley."
"And if I do?"
"I won't be there."
I turned and walked away before she could respond. Before I could change my mind. Before I could drag her into the nearest closet and finish what I'd started.
Behind me, I heard her exhale. A sharp, frustrated sound.
"Liar."
She stepped out at 10:51, and I was waiting in the shadows like a goddamn addict jonesing for a fix.
I watched as she tilted her head the way she did when she was taking in the sounds and smells around her. She was trying to figure out if I was there.
"You're driving me insane," I said softly, the words more for myself than for her.
She reached for me and I found myself stepping into her touch until her palm was pressed flat against my chest. Over my heart.
"Come home with me, Milo," she said.
Every muscle in my body locked down tight.
"Raven. We can't."
"I'm not asking you to stay." Her thumb stroked back and forth over my sternum. "I'm asking you to stop stalking me and come inside. Have a drink. Talk to me like a normal person instead of lurking in alleys and leaving anonymous gifts."
"I'm not a normal person."
The corners of her pretty mouth turned up. "Neither am I, I guess. Not anymore." Her hand slid up, fingers curling around the back of my neck. "But we can pretend, can't we? Please, Milo."
Please.
"One drink," I said. "Then I leave."
Her smile turned triumphant.
Her apartment was small and dark. She didn't turn on any lights when we walked in and I didn't ask her to. The shadows felt appropriate.
I stood in her living room while she moved through the space with the ease of long familiarity.
"Whiskey or vodka?" she called from the kitchen.
"Whiskey."
She returned with two glasses. Handed me one without fumbling. Our fingers brushed, and heat shot up my arm.
"To bad decisions," she said, raising her glass.
I clinked my glass against hers, and we drank.
She sat on the couch, carefully setting her glass on the end table beside her. I stayed standing. Keeping my distance. Maintaining control.
"Sit down, Milo." She patted the cushion beside her. "I don't bite."
"That's not what I'm worried about."
"Then what are you worried about?"
I looked at her. Really looked. The dark hair spilling over her shoulders. The pale skin. The swell of her breasts above that green neckline. The way she sat with her legs crossed, completely at ease, completely unafraid.
And I decided that a little honesty was the least that I could give her. "I'm worried about what I'll do if I get too close to you."
Carefully, she asked, "And what's that?"
Unable to resist the call of her, I moved closer, setting my glass down near hers. But I still couldn't bring myself to sit. Instead, I stood over her, close enough that my legs brushed her knees.
"Everything," I said. "I'll do everything."
Her breath caught. Her lips parted.
She reached for me, but I caught her wrists. Held them. Pressed them back against the couch cushion on either side of her head as I bent over her.
"You don't understand, little bird." My voice was like gravel. "I don't do gentle. I don't do sweet. If I start, I won't stop. I'll take everything you have and then I'll take more." I paused, tracing the delicate bones of her face and chest with my eyes. "I'll break your wings," I whispered.
"Flying is overrated." Her voice was steady, but her pulse raced beneath my thumbs. "So shut up and kiss me."
There was nothing else for me to do. I couldn't resist her on my own. And when the time came that she hated me, I would remind her that I tried to warn her.
I released her wrists and fisted her hair instead, dragging her head back, crushing my mouth to hers. She moaned and arched her body toward me, her hands clawing at my shirt, yanking it free of my jeans.
This was a mistake. A disaster. The beginning of something that would destroy us both.
Yet…I didn't care.
I kissed her like I was starving. Like she was oxygen and I'd been drowning for years.
And when I finally pulled back, both of us shaking with the power of it, her hands gripped in my shirt, I knew there was no going back.
Even as I stormed out of her apartment, ordering her to lock the door behind me. Even as I understood that I'd just confirmed our death sentences…
I knew.