Her lips part, the words trapped behind pride. She lifts her chin stubbornly. The line of her neck tightens, and a tremor moves under her skin. It pulls at the tight places inside my chest until they begin to give.
My hand finds her wrist. Her bones are fragile against my palm, delicate in a way that makes me want to break things to keep her safe.
“Let me go,” she demands sharply. “You don’t own me.”
I do not argue. I pull her from the stairwell, down the short hall, and into my room. Vega slips in ahead and then pivots and sits near the wardrobe, alert, head high, and eyes on the door. He decides he is not part of this, but he will guard the perimeter.
I shut the door. The cabin falls to a hush beyond it.
She tears her wrist from my grip and sinks to the edge of the bed, gripping the quilt. “You can’t keep me in this room.”
“You cannot stand outside my meeting and show your face to men who break fingers for sport.”
“I heard what he wanted.” She swallows, color rising in her face. “He wants money. He thinks I know where it is.” Her voice drops. “I don’t.”
“I believe you.” The admission surprises both of us.
She stares, trying to decide if trust is a trap. Her eyes search my face for the lie, the angle, or the manipulation she expects from men like me. “Then let me go. Let me go home.”
“You will not be able to leave without me.”
“I don’t want you.”
Her voice is brave, but her body betrays her. Her breathing changes, deeper now and faster. Her fingers loosen on the quilt and curl again, as if holding still is harder than giving in.
“Tell me to leave,” I murmur, leaning in until my chest hovers inches from hers.
She hesitates for a heartbeat. “No,” she breathes.
The single word sets a fuse, and the burn runs through both of us. I lift her chin with my thumb, find the hollow beneath her cheekbone, and feel the flutter there. She should push me away, but she doesn’t. Her mouth opens as if to argue. I take the argument from her tongue.
The first kiss wipes the emissary’s words from my mind. She tastes like peppermint and anger, sweet and sharp all at once. Her mouth yields, resists, and yields again. I brace one hand on the mattress beside her hip to save us from exactly how far I want to go in a single breath, but my restraint thins when she makes a sound that turns heat into need. She parts her knees a fraction. My name leaves her lips in a whisper that sounds like surrender wrapped in defiance.
Control has been my religion, and in this moment, it deserts me. She grips my shirt and pulls hard, dragging me into her, our mouths tangling in a kiss that steals my breath. I grab her wrists and pause, holding her gaze. Our breathing evens without calming.
“Tell me,” I whisper. “Tell me you want this.”
“I want it,” she replies, certain and honest.
I pull her shirt over her head, and her hair tumbles free, spilling around her shoulders in golden waves. I press my mouth to her neck, and a low gasp escapes her. My fingers find the button of her jeans, flicking it open before sliding down the zipper. I strip the denim from her legs, then drag my hands back up, tracing the strength in her thighs, the tension that tells me she’s holding her breath, waiting for the fall she craves.
I press my lips to the inside of her knee, and she shivers. When I look up, her eyes find mine, vulnerable and burning. The pulse at her throat flutters, quick and unsteady, like a signal.
“Luka,” she whispers, and my name turns into permission.
I move over her, the mattress giving a low groan beneath our weight. Vega sits by the wardrobe, head turned in quiet dignity, though his ears stay trained on the door. I strip off my shirt, and her fingers trace my chest, the ink along my ribs, and the scar cut across my abdomen.
“Who did this?” she asks curiously.
“A man who is dead.”
Satisfaction eases through her expression, quick and fierce, as if she likes that end to the story. Then her hand slides lower. The next sound in the room belongs to me.
I take her mouth again, slow enough to memorize every curve of her lips, every shift of teeth and tongue. I learn the points where breath turns to sound, sound to plea, and plea to something that feels like surrender. Her breath catches when my palm covers her breast, my thumb finding a rhythm that pulls her spine into a long, trembling arc.
Her fingers twist in my hair, my name leaving her lips twice, soft and wrecked. I hook my fingers beneath the band of her panties and tear them away in one rough motion. Licking my way down her body, I stop when I reach her pussy and blow a breath out over her clit.
“Oh my god,” she breathes, fisting the sheets in both hands.
