My hands slide down his back, feeling the powerful muscles work as he moves inside me. With every touch, every stroke of my fingertips, he grows quieter, more centered. The beast is still there, all that potent strength, but it’s tamed, gentled, focused entirely on this, on us. He isn’t fighting anything anymore. He’s just feeling.
His pace builds again, driven by a different kind of urgency, one of pure sensation. His thrusts become harder, faster, losing their careful control. He’s chasing his end, and I hold him through it, my legs locked around him, my hands a constant, soothing presence on his skin.
A guttural groan rips from his chest, a sound of pure, undiluted release. He drives into me one last, deep time, his entire body seizing as he comes. I feel the hot pulse of him inside me, the final, shuddering tremors that wrack his big frame. He collapses against me, his weight a solid, comforting warmth, his breath a ragged gust in my ear.
The storm has passed. And in its wake, I know. My touch didn’t just please him. It pacified the raging tempest inside him. Our bond is sealed in this breathless, wordless peace.
17
RAFE
The night has teeth. I feel it in the chill that wedges between buildings, in the stray breeze that rattles shutters, in the empty sigh of streets that should hum but lie silent. I slip through alleys, keeping to shadow, every step measured. The safehouse sits behind peeling paint, barred windows, a door that folds open with a reluctant creak. It’s a place built for ghosts.
Inside, the scent of damp concrete and old wiring greets me. The lights are dimmed low. Javi waits in a back room, where the single bare bulb swings above a table scuffed by years of secrets and broken promises. He’s lean, eyes flickering, posture folding in on itself like he carries more weight than he should. He tilts his head when I enter and gestures me in.
I don’t greet him. I close the door. Silence blooms in the space between us. Then I say, “Tell me what Roman’s doing.”
He exhales. Wipes sweat from his brow. Tap, tap on the wood. “He’s crawling into pockets you didn’t think possible. He planted a fox ring in Madrid—supposed to be a courier cell, a supply chain. Beneath that, spies. He’s recruiting small pack leaders in Andalusia, bribing some, bludgeoning others. There’sa wolf contingent in Toledo he’s tried to sway. He’s infiltrated the underworld of shifters in Spain.”
My heart thunders. Infiltrate the underworld. That means trust betrayed, covers blown, alliances broken. The Seal under my chest presses hot. I want to rip it open. I want to hunt every shadow he’s hiding in.
“Who’s safe?” I ask.
Javi shakes his head. “No one is safe. But I’ve pulled what threads I can. I’ll send you leads. Disguises. Watchers. But the ring is growing. You have to move quickly.”
I nod once. “Thanks.” I rise, tension coiling in my shoulders. The room feels tight, walls pressing. I walk out without looking back.
Outside, the night air slaps me like a warning. The city is large and dark, buildings leaning. The whisper of danger rides the breeze. I don’t look back until I catch sight of the villa beyond the trees, lights off except a dim glimmer in one shuttered window.
I stride toward it, feet cracking pavement, mind spinning. The villa gate groans when I open it. Olive limbs cast restless shadows in courtyard light. Moon puddled in broken windows. The silence here isn’t peace. It’s a lull.
She waits in the courtyard, soft in shadow, hair falling over shoulders, hands loosely clasped. Her face is pale, but steady. When I approach, she doesn’t blink first. She meets me.
“You found him,” she says. “Roman.”
“Yeah.” I stop short of her. The cold seeps into my bones. I fight to keep edges clipped. “He’s deeper in than I thought.”
She steps forward. The cracked stone under her boots echoes. “You want me gone?”
I raise a hand, rub the seal beneath my shirt. It stings. “Yes and no. I want to protect you. But I also want you close enough to matter.”
Her eyes shine. “I choose matter.”
I suspend the moment. The stars above, the olive branches, the scent of dust and earth, everything stills around us. I wonder if she knows what she just volunteered for.
“You don’t understand what this means,” I say quietly. “When he sinks in, when he sees you with me—he’ll attack. He’ll try to use you against me. He’s already done it for others.”
She breathes, gentle but strong in that quiet. “Let me help you regulate. Be your anchor when your blood roars. Let me stand with you.”
My jaw pulses. My heart wants her to vanish, safe somewhere far. My pride wants to shield her. But more than both, something inside me leans toward vulnerability.
I swallow hard. “Alright,” I say. “But I can’t promise it won’t hurt. And you have to stay close.”
She nods. “I will.”
We move inside. The villa is hollow, stone cold. Wind whistles through broken walls. The rooms around us are empty shells—dust, peeling plaster, fractured floors. We settle in what was once the living room. I light a small lamp, casting weak light across walls. It flickers. Shadows on chipped plaster dance.
She watches me tend the lamp, lean over wiring, fix the bulb. I work quietly, the scrape of metal and click of wires part of the hush. She stays near. Then she kneels beside me, hands in her lap.
