Her climax hits her like a wave. Her pussy convulses around my cock, a series of tight, fluttering spasms that pull a groan from deep in my chest. I keep moving, driving into her through her release, my own control fraying at the edges. The sight of her coming undone beneath me, the feel of her milking my cock, shatters the last of my restraint.
My thrusts turn frantic, my rhythm breaking into something raw and desperate. I bury myself inside her one last time, my release crashing over me. A guttural sound tears from my throat as I empty myself into her, my body shuddering with the force of it.
I collapse onto her, my head dropping to her shoulder. Our hearts hammer against each other, a frantic, shared beat in the quiet room. Her hands come up, her fingers stroking through my damp hair. We don’t speak. We just breathe.
Her breathing evens out into the soft, slow rhythm of sleep. One of her arms is thrown across my chest, her leg hooked over mine. Possessive, even in her dreams. I stare at the water stain on the ceiling, my fingers tracing idle patterns on the warm skin of her back.
She’s human. She has to be. She smells human, feels human. But no human I’ve ever met can do what she does. That calm she poured into me… it wasn’t a trick. It wasn’t a sedative. It was like she reached right through my skin and soothed the beast itself. No one touches that thing. No one even gets near it without getting shredded.
I shift my weight, careful not to wake her. My knuckles brush against the smooth plane of her shoulder blade. What are you? A siren? Some kind of psychic sponge? A fucking unicorn?
A soft sigh escapes her lips, her nose nuzzling into my neck. Her breath is warm. She murmurs something incoherent, a sleepy, contented sound. It’s the most unguarded I’ve ever seen her. No clipboard, no professional mask. Just… Kaleigh.
The questions keep circling. Whatever she is, she’s hiding it. Or she doesn’t know. Both options are a problem. A big one. For her. For me. For whatever the hell this is starting to feel like.
Her hand flexes against my ribs, a gentle pressure. I stop my tracing and just let my hand rest there, feeling the steady rise and fall of her breath. The questions don’t stop, but they quiet down, fading into the background hum of the city outside. For now, she’s just a warm weight beside me. For now, that’s enough.
22
RAFE
The knock hits like a command, not a question. Hard. Decisive. No pretense of politeness.
I’m out of bed before my feet hit the floor, my blood already halfway to a shift. The morning’s barely dragged itself over the horizon and whatever’s waiting on the other side of that door isn’t here for conversation. I look at Kaleigh for half a breath. She’s awake now too, eyes sharp in the low light, pulling my shirt over her head like she knows something’s coming. I don’t have to tell her to stay put. She already knows.
The second knock’s louder.
I don’t bother reaching for a weapon. If it’s someone from Roman’s camp, it won’t matter. If it’s who I think it is, she won’t wait long enough for steel.
I unlatch the lock and open the door.
She’s already got that smirk on her face. Mary.
“Finally,” she says, brushing past me without waiting for an invite. “You move slower now. That her fault?”
“Don’t start,” I mutter, closing the door behind her. “You weren’t expected.”
She snorts. “If I waited for you to expect me, I’d still be sitting outside Bucharest with a busted axle and no backup.”
She’s taller than I remember. Maybe I'm just more tired. Her braid swings across her back, thick and dark, and her eyes don’t miss a damn thing. She scans the room once, then settles into one of the old wooden chairs like she owns the place.
Kaleigh steps in a moment later, bare feet quiet on the tile, and Mary turns toward her like a hawk tracking something new—but not in a threat way. More like curiosity worn thin by distance and time.
“So,” she says, “you’re the reason Rafe grew a conscience.”
Kaleigh doesn’t flinch. She steps closer.
I motion between them. “Kaleigh, this is Mary. Darius’s little sister.”
“You’re a wolf shifter too,” Kaleigh says.
Mary’s eyes light with something—surprise, maybe, or something warmer buried deep—and she nods. “He said you were sharp.”
“I listen,” Kaleigh replies simply.
That earns a flicker of respect. Mary leans forward, pulling something from inside her coat and sliding it across the table. Parchment, blood-dark symbols curled into one another like barbed wire and fire.
“He’s building a new army,” she says, back to business. “Roman. Not just shifters anymore. Witches. Real ones. Born, not made.”
