CHAPTER 21 #2
She was completely exposed. The bar was empty except for Marcus and Finn, and they were both asleep, or pretending to be asleep, or too absorbed in the testament to notice.
But the alley door was unlocked. Anyone could walk in.
Anyone could see her—the fourth priestess, the keeper of the flame, the woman who'd rebuilt a hundred-year-old network—bent over the espresso machine with her jeans around her ankles and her keeper's fingers inside her.
The thought should have terrified her. Instead, it made her wetter.
"That's it," Cole said. His voice was rough. His fingers were relentless. "Let go. Let go of the fear. Let go of the waiting. Let go of the control. I've got you."
She let go.
The orgasm was sharper than the one in the temple—less sustained, more immediate, a bright pulse of pleasure that made her bite down on her forearm to stifle her cry.
Her body clenched around his fingers. Her thighs trembled.
Her knees buckled, and Cole's hand on her lower back was the only thing that kept her upright.
"Good," he said. "So good. So beautiful. Now—"
His fingers withdrew. The blunt head of his cock replaced them.
"Tell me you want this."
"I want this. I want you. I've always wanted you."
He pushed inside.
The angle was different from the temple—deeper, more intense, a pressure that made her gasp and grip the edges of the espresso machine. Cole's hands found her hips. His fingers dug into her flesh. His breath came in short, sharp bursts against the back of her neck.
"Mara. God. You feel—"
"Move. Please. Move."
He moved.
Not the slow, deliberate rhythm of the temple.
This was harder. Faster. The sound of his hips meeting her ass filled the quiet bar—a rhythmic, wet slap that was probably audible from the table where Marcus was sitting, from the panic room where they'd slept three nights ago, from the alley where the delivery trucks were beginning their morning routes.
The pendant swung forward with each thrust. The brass spiral caught the gray dawn light. The warmth against her sternum was steady—not pulsing, not blazing, just warm. Just present. Just watching.
"Harder," she said. "I want it harder."
Cole's hand moved from her hip to her shoulder. He pulled her upright—her back against his chest, her head falling back against his shoulder, her body still impaled on his cock. The change in angle made her gasp. He was deeper now. Fuller. The pressure was almost unbearable.
"This is what you want?" His voice was rough in her ear. "To be taken? To be claimed? To know that you're mine and I'm yours and nothing—not Santoro, not Leo, not the fire, not the fear—is going to change that?"
"Yes. Yes. Yes."
His hand slid upward. From her shoulder to her throat. Not squeezing. Just resting. Just holding. His thumb traced the line of her jaw.
"I love you," he said. "I love you when you're holding the wand.
I love you when you're training the priestesses.
I love you when you're rebuilding the network.
I love you when you're standing at the window watching the city wake up.
I love you when you're bent over the espresso machine with my cock inside you.
I love all of you. Every version. Every moment. Every breath."
"Cole—"
"Come for me again. One more time. I want to feel you. I want to feel you let go."
His other hand found her clit. His fingers circled the sensitive nub—harder than before, more insistent, the kind of pressure that left no room for doubt. His hips kept moving. His hand on her throat kept holding. The pendant kept burning.
The second orgasm built faster than the first. It started in her belly and spread outward—through her thighs, her chest, her throat, her skull. Her vision blurred. Her breath stopped. Her hands gripped the espresso machine so hard her knuckles went white.
"Let go," Cole said. "Let go, Mara. I've got you."
She let go.
The pleasure was blinding. She cried out—a raw, unguarded sound that she couldn't stifle, that she didn't want to stifle, that echoed off the bar's tin ceiling and the frosted glass and the hundred-year-old floorboards.
Her body clenched around him, and that was all it took—Cole's rhythm broke, his hips drove deep, and he came with a groan that vibrated through her spine.
They stayed like that for a long moment. Bent over the espresso machine. His cock still inside her. His hand still on her throat. The pendant still warm against her sternum. The dawn light growing brighter and brighter until the bar was flooded with pale February gold.
Then Cole withdrew. Turned her around. Pulled her against his chest.
"I love you," he said. "I know I keep saying it. But I need you to know it. Every time. Every moment. I love you."
"I love you too." Her voice was hoarse. Her thighs were trembling. Her jeans were still around her ankles. "I love you. I love you. I love you."
He laughed—a low, rough sound that vibrated through his chest and into her body. "We should probably clean up before the arraignment."
"Probably."
"We should probably also—" He glanced toward the table. Marcus was still reading the testament, his expression studiously neutral. Finn was still asleep. "Apologize to Marcus."
"Marcus is a grown man. He can handle it."
"Marcus is your trainee. You just—"
"Trained him in the third sacrament?" Mara laughed—a breathless, almost giddy sound. "I think he already knew what the third sacrament was. He's the one who told us to go to the temple."
"He told us to go to sleep."
"Same thing."
Cole kissed her forehead. "You're terrible."
"I'm a priestess. I'm allowed to be terrible."
She pulled up her jeans. Fastened the button. Smoothed down the hem of her shirt—his shirt. The pendant was still warm against her sternum, but it was quiet now. Finished. The same quiet it had fallen into after she'd spoken the original Mara's name.
The same quiet that meant something was waiting.
"Cole," she said.
"What?"
"The pendant. It's—" She touched it. "It's not cold. It's not warning me. But it's not resting either. It's waiting. The same way it was waiting when we found the final cache. The same way it was waiting when we spoke the original Mara's name. It's waiting for something else."
"The door beneath the final cache."
"Yes. The door my mother told me not to open until I'd called the descendants and trained the keepers and learned the original Mara's lessons.
I thought I'd opened everything. I thought the final cache was the end.
But it's not. There's something else down there. Something my mother wanted me to find."
Cole's hand found hers. "Then we'll find it. After the arraignment. After Santoro is dealt with. We'll go down together and open the door and see what's waiting."
"Together."
"Together. That's the fourth priestess's obligation. Not to carry the flame alone. To trust someone to carry it with you. You trusted me with your body. You trusted me with your vulnerability. You trusted me with your love. Now trust me with this."
Mara looked up at him. His gray eyes were steady. His scarred hand was warm around hers. The dawn light had caught the silver in his hair and the burn mark on his chest and the faint smile on his lips.
"Okay," she said. "Together."
---
The arraignment was at 9 AM. The federal courthouse was on Market Street—a glass-and-steel building that had replaced the old Beaux-Arts courthouse where the original Mara had once testified in a bootlegging trial, where the judge had owed her a debt, where the network's tendrils had reached even into the halls of justice.
Mara had changed into clean clothes—a black turtleneck and dark jeans and the worn leather boots she'd been wearing since the night of the fire.
The pendant was hidden beneath the turtleneck, warm against her sternum.
Cole had changed into a button-down shirt and a blazer that had been hanging in the panic room, left there by Marcus or possibly by the original Mara—the sizing was vintage, the lapels narrow, the fabric smelling faintly of cedar and tobacco.
Marcus had volunteered to stay at the bar.
Guard the flame. Watch over Finn, who had woken briefly, eaten a stale bagel, and immediately fallen back asleep.
"I'll call if anything happens," Marcus had said.
"But nothing's going to happen. Santoro's in custody.
Leo's probably already on a bus to Pittsburgh.
The trial will take months. We're safe."
Safe.
The word felt foreign in Mara's mouth. She'd spent three weeks not being safe—checking the peephole, scanning the alley, listening for the pendant's cold pulse. She'd forgotten what it felt like to walk down a street without looking over her shoulder.
But the morning was quiet. The February sun was pale and bright. The sidewalks were wet from an overnight rain she hadn't heard, and the city smelled like wet asphalt and coffee and the faint, briny tang of the Schuylkill River.
Cole held her hand as they walked. His grip was firm and steady—the same grip he'd used on her hip, her throat, her heart.
"Reyes said the FBI has a dozen witnesses," he said. "The busboy who disappeared—they found him. He's in protective custody. He's going to testify about the money laundering. The RICO case is airtight."
"And if Santoro's lawyers find a technicality?"
"Then we'll deal with it. The network's been dealing with Santoro's family for a hundred years. The original Mara outmaneuvered Marco Santoro in 1927. We can outmaneuver his grandson in 2024."
"The original Mara had a Browning machine gun."
"We have Elena Hartley."
Mara laughed. The sound surprised her—bright and genuine, cutting through the February chill. "Elena Hartley would probably win in a fight against a Browning machine gun."
"Elena Hartley would probably make the Browning machine gun cry."