Marking Territory
Zane
The banging on Lena's door sounds like someone's trying to perform CPR on the wood—violent, desperate, medically inadvisable.
"Maybe she'll go away," Lena whispers against my chest, still naked, still marked from everything we just did. Her thigh is thrown over mine, and I can feel her pulse against my ribs—still tachycardic from our third round or from panic, possibly both.
Another bang. "I know you're in there! I saw your bike!"
Candy. Of course it's fucking Candy. The woman has timing like a medical emergency—always showing up when you're least equipped to handle it.
"How does she even know where I live?" Lena's sitting up now, sheet clutched to her chest like armor made of thread count. I can see her medical brain kicking in—calculating escape routes, potential weapons, probability of violence. The hickey I left on her collarbone looks like evidence at a crime scene.
"She must have followed me." I'm already reaching for my jeans, calculating exit strategies that don't end with assault charges. "I'll handle this."
"No." Lena's hand on my arm stops me. "This is my apartment. My disaster to manage. Plus, I'm a nurse—I know exactly where to hit someone to cause maximum pain with minimal legal consequences."
She pulls on my t-shirt—it falls to mid-thigh, making her look like every morning-after fantasy I've never admitted to having—and finger-combs her sex hair into something resembling intentional chaos.
"At least put on pants," she tells me. "I don't need her seeing your dick and making this worse. Though medically speaking, the refractory period should prevent any immediate—"
"My dick is magnificent regardless of refractory periods," I counter, but I'm pulling on jeans because she's right. Candy seeing me naked in Lena's apartment would be like administering epinephrine to an already racing heart.
Lena opens the door exactly enough to show her face and nothing else. "Can I help you?"
"You're fucking him," Candy says, loud enough for the entire building to update their group chats. "I can smell him on you."
"That's deeply creepy and suggests you need a psychological evaluation," Lena responds, her voice hitting that nurse tone that probably makes patients confess their real drug use. "Also irrelevant. What do you want?"
"To warn you." Candy tries to peer around her, but Lena's got the door positioned like a trauma shield. "About who he really is. What he's capable of."
"I'm aware of his capabilities," Lena says, and there's something in her tone that makes my chest tight. "Extensively aware, as of about twenty minutes ago. Again. My cervix could provide a detailed testimonial."
I move to stand behind Lena, not hiding but not fully visible either. "Candy, you need to leave."
"She deserves to know about Jessica," Candy says, vindictive now. "About Marie. About that nurse from County General."
I feel Lena's spine straighten against me, but her voice stays clinically steady. "The nurse from County? Tall redhead, works trauma?"
"Yes! You know her?"
"I trained her," Lena says conversationally. "She's married now. To a pediatrician. They just had twins. So whatever ancient history you're peddling, it's expired like last year's flu vaccine."
"There were others—"
"I'm sure there were," Lena cuts her off. "Just like I'm sure he knows about my disaster of an ex who's probably still drunk-texting me poetry at this very moment. People have pasts. The question is whether they have futures that don't require witness protection."
"He doesn't do futures," Candy insists. "He does destruction."
"Perfect," Lena says. "I'm pre-destroyed. We match like complementary disasters. Like codependent chemical reactions. Like—"
"Like two people who just fucked three times this morning," I interrupt, wrapping my arms around her from behind, no longer caring what Candy sees. "You heard her. We match. Now leave."
"This isn't over," Candy threatens. "I'll go to your work. Tell everyone what kind of man you're spreading your legs for."
Lena laughs—actually laughs—and it's dark enough to make my dick twitch despite the circumstances. "You mean the kind who makes me come three times before breakfast? The kind who stays? The kind who's currently hard against my ass despite this deeply uncomfortable conversation? That kind? Please, tellmy coworkers. They need some excitement that doesn't involve bodily fluids and crash carts."
Candy's face goes through the entire spectrum of cardiovascular distress—red, white, then a concerning shade of purple that probably requires medical intervention.
