Then his hand lifts, wrapping gently around my throat. Not rough. Not forceful. Just firm. Intentional.
Just how I like it. Just enough to remind me that I’m his.
My breath catches, and something in me breaks wide open beneath the weight of his gaze. The way he’s looking at me, like I belong to him and no one else.
Because I do.
“You’re mine, Lucas,” he says, voice low, solemn, final. “And I’m yours. You can kiss me whenever and wherever you want. I don’t give a damn if we’re standing in front of the devil himself. I want you to claim me, just like I claim you. Do you understand?”
His words slam into me like heat, curling around my ribs, stealing the air from my lungs.
They feel like the truth. Like a vow.
Sincere, raw, unapologetic.
And hell, I feel it. I feel it everywhere, his claim on my body, I feel it in my bones, in his gaze and his touch.
“I need answers, krasivy,” he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave as his eyes drop to my lips.
The heat of it makes my stomach twist tightly, hot and aching.
“I understand,” I whisper, voice barely more than air.
But he doesn’t wait for the words to settle between us.
His mouth crashes into mine, and I meet him with everything I have. Everything I am. I give myself to the kiss like I’m starving. Like he’s the only thing keeping me alive.
The world could burn around us, and I wouldn’t care.
My arms wrap around his back, holding him to me like he’s gravity, and I’m scared of floating away. His hand stays at my throat—anchoring me, grounding me. And when his tongue swipes against mine, I moan into his mouth, helpless to the way he consumes me.
“Jesus, get a room,” I hear Maksim’s voice say, loud and amused behind us.
I flinch, instinct tugging me away from the kiss—but Alex doesn’t let me go.
He groans softly, dragging me closer, deepening the kiss like the interruption doesn’t exist. And I give in to him all over again, melting into him, lips parting for more.
Let them watch.
I don’t care.
He’s mine. And I’m his.
The rest of the world can go to hell.
FORTY-TWO
ALEXANDER
I stand outside the place Lucas once called home.
The trailer looks worn, aged, and lifeless, like something had bled out of it long ago and nothing ever came back to refill it. Even the air feels stale, heavy with the weight of things left unsaid. The whole motor park reeks of quiet ruin, like life itself packed up and left a long time ago and never looked back.
I don’t know what it means to grow up in a place like this. I’ve never had to.
But Lucas did.
And he never talks about it.
