CHAPTER 21
The espresso machine hissed.
Cole had pulled a double shot for Marcus—the last of the stale beans, the ones Marcus had brought from the twenty-four-hour deli on Broad Street three days ago—and the crema was thin and pale, the way it always was when the grind was too coarse and the machine hadn't been cleaned properly.
Mara was watching his hands.
His deliberate hands. The scarred knuckles. The thick fingers wrapped around the portafilter. The way he tamped the grounds with the same steady pressure he'd used on her clit an hour ago.
She was still wearing his shirt. The old fire department shirt, the one with the faded lettering and the frayed collar and the smoke smell that never quite washed out.
She'd pulled on her jeans in the temple, but she hadn't bothered with her bra.
The pendant rested against her sternum—warm and quiet and finished.
Marcus took his coffee and retreated to the table where Finn was still asleep, his head resting on the O'Malley file, the testament open beside him.
"You should eat something," Cole said.
"I'm not hungry."
"You haven't eaten since yesterday. The bagels are stale, but—"
"I said I'm not hungry."
He turned. The gray dawn light was seeping through the frosted glass of the alley door, catching the silver in his hair and the scar on his jaw and the way his henley stretched across his chest.
"You're nervous," he said.
"I'm not nervous. I'm—" She stopped. "I'm waiting. We have an hour before the arraignment. An hour before we find out if Santoro is going away for decades or if his lawyers find a loophole. An hour before we know if Leo is going to disappear or come after us. I'm waiting, and I hate waiting."
"You hate not being in control."
"I hate not being able to do anything."
Cole crossed the bar. His boots were silent on the worn floorboards—the same floorboards the original Mara had walked a century ago, the same floorboards Mara's mother had danced on in 1987, the same floorboards that had survived a raid and a fire and a hundred years of secrets.
He stopped in front of her. Close enough that she could smell the coffee on his breath and the clean sweat on his skin and the faint trace of sex that still clung to both of them.
"You don't have to do anything," he said.
"You've already done everything. You rebuilt the network.
You sealed the tunnel. You recovered the shadow ledger.
You called the descendants. You trained Marcus.
You trained Russo. You found the final cache.
You spoke the original Mara's name. You let her rest. You've done everything the fourth priestess was supposed to do. "
"I haven't opened the door beneath the final cache."
"That can wait."
"What if it can't? What if there's something down there that we need? Something that could help us with Santoro or Leo or—"
"Mara." His hands found her waist. The same place they'd been an hour ago, in the temple, when she'd been naked and trembling and telling him she wanted to feel something that wasn't fear. "The door beneath the final cache has been waiting for a hundred years. It can wait one more day."
"But—"
His right hand left her waist. Slid upward. Cupped the back of her neck. His thumb pressed into the hollow beneath her skull, the same place he'd found the walnut-sized knot on Marcus's shoulders, the same place he'd traced with the wand during his own training.
"Breathe," he said.
"I am breathing."
"No. You're holding your breath. You've been holding your breath since we came up from the temple. Since you spoke the original Mara's name. Since you let her rest. You're waiting for the other shoe to drop."
"There's always another shoe."
"Not today." His thumb traced circles on her neck. "Today, Santoro goes to prison. Today, Leo disappears. Today, the network wakes up. Today, we're safe."
"You don't know that."
"I don't. But I know you. I know you've been running on adrenaline for three weeks.
I know you haven't slept more than four hours in any night since the fire.
I know you're exhausted and scared and you're trying to hold everything together because that's what you've always done.
But you don't have to hold it together anymore.
You have me. You have Marcus. You have the Hartleys and the Whitfields and the O'Malleys. You have the network."
"I don't know how to stop holding it together. I've been doing it since I was twelve. Since my mother died. Since I became an ER nurse. Since I learned to keep my panic hidden behind a calm face and steady hands. I don't know how to let go."
"Then let me show you."
His other hand left her waist. Found the hem of his shirt—the shirt she was wearing—and slid beneath it. His palm was warm against her stomach. His fingers traced the line of her hipbone, the curve of her waist, the underside of her breast.
"Cole—"
"Shh." His thumb found her nipple. Circled it. The same deliberate, patient pressure he'd used with the wand. "You said you wanted to feel something that wasn't fear. Something that wasn't duty. Something that was just us. That was an hour ago. Do you still want that?"
"Yes. But Marcus is right there, and Finn is—"
"Marcus is reading the testament. Finn is asleep. And even if they weren't—" His thumb pressed harder, and she gasped. "This is your bar. Your temple. Your chamber. You're the fourth priestess. You can do whatever you want."
The pendant warmed against her sternum.
Not the hot pulse of warning. Not the cold throb of danger. Just warmth—steady, reassuring, the same temperature as Cole's hand on her breast.
"Turn around," he said.
The command surprised her. Cole had never commanded her before—not like this, not with that low, firm edge in his voice. He'd always been gentle. Patient. Asking permission. Waiting for her to lead.
But something had shifted in the temple. Something had shifted when she'd ridden him on the velvet throw, when she'd taken control and then surrendered it, when she'd told him she loved him and he'd told her she was home.
"Turn around," he said again. "Put your hands on the espresso machine."
She turned.
The espresso machine was cold now—the power light off, the portafilter empty, the drip tray clean. The stainless steel surface reflected the gray dawn light and the amber glow of the bar's pendant lamps and the shape of her body in Cole's fire department shirt.
Cole stepped behind her. His chest pressed against her back. His erection pressed against her ass—still hard, still ready, still pulsing with the same steady rhythm as the pendant.
"I wanted you again the moment we came up from the temple," he said.
His breath was hot against her ear. His hands were on her hips, his fingers digging into the worn denim.
"I wanted you when you were standing at the window, watching the city wake up.
I wanted you when you were talking to Marcus.
I wanted you when you were making coffee.
I want you all the time. Every moment. Every second.
I've wanted you since the first night you walked into my life, and I don't want to wait anymore. "
"Then don't wait."
His hands moved to the button of her jeans. Unfastened it. Slid the zipper down. His fingers hooked into the waistband and pulled—down over her hips, down over her thighs, down until the denim pooled at her ankles.
She was still wearing his shirt. The hem fell to her upper thighs, hiding her from view. But Cole's hands were already beneath it, sliding up the backs of her legs, cupping her ass, squeezing.
"Spread your legs," he said.
She did. The position was awkward—jeans tangled around her ankles, hands braced on the cold espresso machine, the gray dawn light growing brighter through the frosted glass.
She could hear Marcus turning pages at the table.
She could hear Finn's slow, steady breathing.
She could hear the distant rumble of a delivery truck on the street above.
And then she couldn't hear anything except the sound of Cole's belt unbuckling.
The buckle clinked. The leather slid through the loops. The zipper descended—a low, metallic rasp that seemed to echo in the quiet bar.
His hand found her clit from behind.
She gasped. Her forehead dropped against the cold stainless steel. His fingers were thick and deliberate, tracing the same circles he'd traced an hour ago, and she was still sensitive—still aching, still wet from their time in the temple.
"You're so wet," he said. "So ready. Did you know this would happen? Did you know I'd take you again the moment we came upstairs?"
"I—hoped."
"Good." His middle finger slid inside her.
Slow. Deep. The same patient pressure he'd used when he'd stretched her in the temple.
"I want you to hope for this. I want you to expect it.
I want you to know that every time you come up from the temple, every time you finish a training session, every time you close the bar for the night, I'm going to be here. Waiting. Wanting you."
A second finger joined the first. The stretch was exquisite—just this side of too much, the kind of pressure that made her toes curl against the floorboards.
"Cole—"
"Not yet. Not until you come for me first. The same as before. The same as always. You come first. That's the rule."
"This isn't a training session. You're not holding the wand."
"This is the same thing. It's always been the same thing. Trust. Surrender. Release. The three sacraments. You taught me that. Now I'm teaching you."
His thumb found her clit. His fingers moved deeper. His other hand pressed flat against her lower back, holding her in place, keeping her bent over the espresso machine.