A faint smirk twitched at the corner of his mouth. It was gone in a second—but it had been there. He looked at me then,reallylooked, as if he was tryingto see past whatever mask I wore. It was both unnerving and grounding at the same time.
“At least it wasn’t that someone found you,” he murmured, and I sighed.
“I hate feeling as if I’m a liability and a danger to everyone I connect with.”
Rio’s gaze didn’t shift. “You’re not.”
“Not yet.”
“You never were,” he said. “Not to me.”
That… hit. Somewhere between my ribs and my heart. I swallowed hard, throat tightening. “No?”
“Mine to watch over, mine to protect.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. So I stared at the scars across his knuckles, the bruising along his ribs, the new hurt layered over old. And he let me. I didn’t want or need to be cared for, or protected, but part of me—some ragged buried part—ached at the idea of beingseen. Of being someone’s to guard, not because I was weak, but because I mattered.
I’d spent so long surviving on my own that the thought of someone standing between me and the chaos didn’t only unsettle me—it terrified me. But Rio didn’t hover. He didn’t push. He let the moment stretch between us, a silent tether I hadn’t realized I’d needed.
I shifted in my seat, my shoulder brushing his, and he didn’t move away. Not even a flicker.
“I’ll let you protect me,” I said quietly, eyes locked on his, “as long as you understand—I can protect myself any time I want to.”
That pulled his gaze to mine, sharp and focused. Something serious stirred behind those dark eyes, a flicker of interest—or challenge.
“How would you take me down?” he asked.
I lifted a brow, let the question sit for a second. Then I leaned in a little.
“Depends. I’d pivot from your dominant side—most likely your right—step in close before you can get full extension on a punch. Strike your solar plexus, or go lower, disrupt your stance. I know Krav Maga, a little jiu-jitsu, some Filipino knife work.”
He tilted his head, a small, appreciative sound escaping him.
“Or,” I said, voice dipping, “I’d just shoot you.”
And then I pressed a finger right between his eyes. Held it there.
He didn’t flinch.
Instead, Rio’s hand came up slowly, wrapping around mine. Then he tugged—just once—and I leaned, drawn toward him.
Heat inched up the back of my neck, and for abeat, we were quiet. This would never work. He was the big bad alpha type, and even though he said he didn’t want a twink to rail, I was no submissive guy who wanted someone else to take the reins. But…
Our lips met.
There was nothing soft or questioning about it—just heat, need, the clash of two people wound past breaking. He gasped into the kiss, a sharp exhale of pain, and I stilled instantly.
“Your lip,” I murmured, and grasped his face between both hands. His skin was warm beneath my palms, rough from stubble, and flushed with adrenaline. “Stay still,” I ordered, not unkindly but firm.
He relaxed under my touch, his shoulders easing, his breathing coming a little slower now, and I filed that response away underinteresting things about Rio Villareal. The man who never backed down from a fight, who carried pain as if it had been stitched into his bones—he stilled the second I asked.
And somehow, that made my chest hurt in a way that had nothing to do with fear.
Then I kissed him more carefully, my lips barely brushing his. But I was hard now, and the weight of that truth pulsed through me. I climbed into his lap, tentative at first, testing the boundary—his body wasone big knot of bruises and pain, and still, this big man who only knew how to fight and bleed… melted. His arms came up automatically, strong around my waist, and he whimpered—just a little—as if the sound was dragged from somewhere deep and private.
Fuck.
I could come right now, just from that.
