“I told myself you were a problem,” I admit. “A distraction wrapped in fire and gentleness. Then the convoy went dark and all I could see was you in this bed and a door I could not reach fast enough.”
Her chin lifts a fraction. Her eyes gloss with light rather than tears. “How many?” she whispers.
“Three of my men. I will bring their bodies to their families and pay what is owed.”
She swallows. “And the message?”
“Sokolov.” I feel the bite of the name on my tongue. “They want my eyes on the past while they move through the present. They forget I can watch both.”
She takes another half step while I am still holding her wrist. I let go and touch the line of her jaw with the back of my knuckles. Her breath falters and then steadies under my touch.
“I didn’t know if I’d see you again,” she breathes, her eyes fixed on mine.
“I will always come back,” I tell her quietly.
I listen to our breathing, the space between us disappearing until it is all I notice. Tension climbs my spine, demanding release, but I hold the line. I keep my touch steady, giving her only what she is ready for. I want to lose control, but I don’t. I lean in and kiss her.
It is slow and intentional, a choice I make without rushing. She does not pull back, meeting me with a quiet kind of honesty. She follows my lead, sure and warm, tasting of tea and a night that has not given her enough sleep. My shoulders ease, and the burden I have been carrying loosens. I angle her gently with my hand at her hip. Her breath draws in quick and leaves more slowly. The sound she lets into my mouth is small, real, and lands in every place I have spent years pretending does not feel.
I deepen the kiss. My thumb moves along her cheek, and my other hand settles at her waist. She meets each new touch with her fingers on my lapel. I pay attention to every reaction she gives. The bed waits behind her, and the lamp throws a circle of light across the quilt.
I guide her back until her knees meet the mattress. I lower her with a hand at her back, my other keeping the strain off her injuries. She sinks into the quilt and looks up at me like she is trying to see the man I am, not the stories tied to my name.
“Tell me to stop,” I say. It is not a courtesy. It is the line on which everything rests.
“Don’t stop,” she whispers.
I stay beside her instead of crowding her. I draw her in until her ribs meet my chest, where I can take the pressure. I kiss her again, and the heat between us sharpens the room intosomething simple. The smoke I carried upstairs fades. My hands move over her body, careful around the bruises.
Her palm slides to the back of my neck. Her breath shakes once against my cheek and then falls into rhythm with mine. I follow the line of her jaw, the pulse at her throat, the curve of her shoulder above the quilt. Each touch builds something solid between us.
A thought pushes up, bringing with it the brass on the table downstairs, the blood on the road, everything waiting outside this room. I let it go. I keep us here in this bed, with Vega at the door and this woman who keeps standing up after every hit life gives her.
She turns toward me, and her words brush my skin. “I am terrified I will lose her.”
“I will find her.” It leaves me like a promise I do intend to break. “I will not let another man’s threat define your life.”
She searches my eyes, and a part of her eases. The next kiss hits deeper for both of us.
I pull back, slip out of my jacket, and guide her out of her clothes piece by piece. She never looks away. She is the strongest, most beautiful woman I have ever had in my arms.
I lean over her, tasting her mouth again, my fingers tracing the line of her skin with slow attention. My lips travel down her body, each inch learned with a kind of reverence. I kneel between her legs and ease them apart, careful with every movement. Sage draws in a sharp breath the moment my tongue slides through her slick folds.
Her breath hitches, and her hips lift the slightest bit toward my mouth. I keep my hands firm on her thighs, not to restrain her but to guide her through the rush building under my tongue. She tastes warm, alive, all the strength she hides threaded through every sound she tries to swallow.
I take my time because she deserves it. Because every part of her has been pushed and bruised and threatened these past days, and I need her to know she is safe here in my hands, in my home, and in this moment that no one gets to take from us.
Her fingers slide into my hair, not pulling, just holding. Claiming. I feel the tremor in her touch, the mix of fear, want, and trust. Trust she has no reason to give anyone, least of all a man with my history. But she gives it anyway, piece by fragile piece, and I treat it like a vow.
“Sage,” I murmur against her, my breath brushing her clit before I taste her again. She shudders, and the sound she makes tightens the pull low in my chest. Her legs tense around my shoulders, her thighs drawing me closer. I let her guide me with those small, honest reactions. Every lift of her hips, every breath that breaks too fast, and every drop of restraint she lets fall away.
I glance up at her, and the sight almost knocks the air from my lungs. Her head tipped back, her lips parted, her hands clutching the quilt as if she is fighting to stay present in her own body. But her gaze finds mine again, her blue eyes blazing with need, trust, and fear twisted together.
“I have you,” I say quietly, my voice roughened by the truth in it.
She nods, a tiny, desperate movement.
I lower my mouth to her pussy again, letting her feel exactly where my tongue is and how tightly I am focused on her. Herbreath breaks on a gasp, her hips rising with a pull she cannot contain. I follow every movement she gives me, matching the angle of her body, learning what she needs. My hands slide up her thighs, holding her open without pressure, guiding her through every tremor that rolls through her.
