I close my eyes, breathe him in—metal, heat, a whisper of ash and citrus. I bury my face in his skin and let the quiet hold me together.
CHAPTER 17
ROJA
She’s still asleep when I open my eyes.
There’s a shaft of dusty gold light cutting through the slats in my wall, striping her bare back like a painting I’ve never deserved to look at. Her breath is even, soft. Her mouth parted just enough to let out those quiet little sighs I’ve only ever heard in the dead of night, when the city’s too scared to breathe and we’re the only ones left alive.
And me? I just watch her.
I’ve watched a lot of things in my time—targets, marks, exits, timers—but this is different. This is Kelsea. Curled into the space we made. Scars and shadows, yes. But warmth too. Sleep hasn’t stolen the tension from her bones, not entirely, but there’s peace in the curve of her spine. A kind of truce. Maybe temporary. Maybe not. But it’s enough to make me want to kill anyone who dares take it from her.
I used to think what I felt for her was hunger. The kind that lives in the chest and rises fast, messy and sharp. But this? This isn’t that.
This is quieter. Heavier. More dangerous.
I shift, lean in, and press my mouth to the crook of her neck. Right where her pulse flutters beneath the skin.
She stirs, doesn’t wake.
I kiss her again, slower this time, letting my lips drag against her skin like I’ve got nowhere else to be.
Her breath hitches.
“Roja,” she murmurs, not quite awake. Her voice rough with sleep.
I hum against her neck. “Still early.”
Her hand finds my wrist where it rests on her waist. She squeezes once. Then she flips over and pulls me down in one hard tug.
I laugh into her mouth, but she doesn’t.
She growls—a low, guttural thing from the back of her throat—and wraps her legs around me. Her fingers dig into my back like she’s not here to ask. She’s here to take.
“Rough morning?” I manage to ask between kisses.
“Shut up,” she says.
I do.
Because whatever’s coiled up in her chest—whatever tension she’s been carrying—it’s burning through her like fuel now. She’s not looking for comfort. She’s looking for surrender. For fire. For something to burn down the fear still wrapped around her ribs.
And I give it to her.
I grip her hips hard enough she arches, and she snarls into my shoulder like I’ve given her back a piece of herself. No games this time. No holding back. Her teeth graze my jaw, her nails drag across my sides. And I let her have all of me. Let her climb and scratch and breathe through the ache until her voice is a gasp against my neck.
“More,” she says. It’s not a plea. It’s a promise.
And I answer it.
The cot creaks under us, metal frame protesting every motion, but neither of us cares. There’s nothing polishedabout this—nothing tender. It’s raw. Honest. Like we’re fighting something off with every kiss, every scrape of skin.
And maybe we are.
Her mouth finds mine again, fierce and open, and I lose myself in the rhythm she sets.
It’s the snap of old metal that does it—the sharp, final twang of surrender from the cot’s frame beneath us. A brittle groan, a pause, then the unmistakable clatter of metal hitting concrete. We hit the floor in a heap, and for a second, I brace for curses or silence or pain.
