He pushes the jacket off my shoulders, trapping my arms. He doesn't stop. He grabs the hem of the thermal shirt I’m wearing underneath and rips it.
The fabric tears easily in his hands.
I am exposed. My chest heaves, my skin flushed and damp with sweat. I’m not wearing a bra—we didn't have time for one in the cabin.
Silas stares at me. His gaze is heavy, tactile. It feels like he’s touching me even when he isn't.
" beautiful," he breathes. " covered in dirt and chaos. My corrupted saint."
The elevator dings. The doors open directly into a sprawling, dark loft.
I don't see the room. I don't care about the furniture.
Silas lifts me up. I wrap my legs around his waist instinctively. He carries me into the darkness, kicking the door shut behind us.
He doesn't make it to the bedroom. He doesn't even make it to the couch.
He presses me against the nearest wall—rough brick that scrapes against my skin—and devours me.
His hands are everywhere. rough. Possessive. He squeezes my ass, my thighs, my breasts. He needs to verify that I am whole. He needs to map every inch of me to ensure no piece was lost in the escape.
"I need you," he growls against my neck. "I need to be inside you. Right now."
"Do it," I beg. "Please, Silas. Now."
He fumbles with his belt. The buckle jingles. He shoves his pants down, freeing himself.
He doesn't bother taking my pants off. He just unbuttons them and yanks them down to my knees, along with my panties.
It’s awkward. It’s messy. It’s perfect.
He lifts me higher, bracing my back against the brick.
He enters me in one smooth, powerful thrust.
I scream.
It’s a sound of pure release. The tension of the last twenty-four hours—the heist, the fear, the knife, the running—it all explodes in that single moment of connection.
He fills me completely. He stretches me. He anchors me.
"Fuck," he grunts, his head falling back, the cords in his neck straining. "You’re so tight. You feel so good."
He begins to move. fast. Hard. The friction is intense. My boots bang against the wall with every thrust. The platinum anklet on my leg glints in the moonlight filtering through the high windows.
I cling to his shoulders, digging my nails into his shirt.
"Silas," I cry out. "Harder. Don't stop."
"I’m never stopping," he vows. "I’m going to fuck the fear out of you. I’m going to make you forget everything but this."
He pounds into me. relentless. Animalistic. It’s not lovemaking. It’s a claiming. It’s a frantic affirmation of life in the face of death.
I look at his face. His eyes are squeezed shut, his brow furrowed in concentration. He looks in pain. He looks in ecstasy.
He loves me.
He admitted it in the cabin, but seeing him now, unraveling in my arms, I believe it. He needs me. The Wolf needs a mate.
