The question hangs between us. I look at him—really look. Blood drying on his shirt. Knuckles split from the fight. Silver threading through dark hair that's fallen across his forehead. Those slate-grey eyes, watching me like I'm a bomb he's trying to defuse.
He killed someone tonight.
For me.
Put a man in the ground without hesitation because that man was going to hurt me. And now he's standing here, violence still humming under his skin, asking what I want like my answer matters more than anything else in this moment.
"You." The word comes out raw. Honest. "I want you."
His jaw tightens. "You're in shock."
"No." I step closer, releasing his hand only to press my palm flat against his chest. His heart hammers beneath my touch—proof he's not as controlled as he pretends. "I'm awake. For the first time in months, maybe years, I'm actually awake. And I want to feel something that isn't fear or grief or this constant waiting for the next disaster."
"Isabelle—"
"Don't." I fist my hand in his bloody shirt. "Don't tell me this is a bad idea. Don't tell me I need rest or water or time to process. Iknow what I need. I need you to stop treating me like I'm fragile and start treating me like I'm yours."
Something shifts in his eyes. The careful distance evaporating, replaced by heat that makes my stomach clench.
"You don't know what you're asking."
"Then show me."
For three heartbeats, he doesn't move. Just stands there, every muscle coiled, fighting some internal battle I can't see. I think he's going to walk away. Going to be noble and protective and all the things that make him infuriating.
Then his hand fists in my hair and his mouth crashes into mine.
This isn't gentle. This isn't careful. This is weeks of tension igniting, fear transforming into hunger, two people who almost died claiming proof of life from each other's bodies.
He tastes like violence and desperation. His tongue invades my mouth, and I open for him, moaning against his lips, my hands scrambling at his shirt. I need it off. Need to feel skin instead of blood-stained fabric.
"Upstairs," I gasp between kisses.
"Can't wait that long."
He lifts me onto the kitchen island in one fluid motion, stepping between my thighs. The cold granite shocks through my jeans, but his hands are everywhere—in my hair, on my face, sliding under my jacket to grip my waist—and I can't think about anything except getting closer.
"This okay?" he asks against my mouth, fingers finding the hem of my shirt.
"Yes. God, yes."
He strips the shirt over my head, then the bra, exposing me to the cool kitchen air. For a second, he just looks. Those grey eyes tracing every curve like he's memorizing me for later.
"Beautiful," he murmurs. "Fucking beautiful."
Then his mouth is on my breast, and I stop thinking entirely.
He sucks one nipple while his thumb works the other, rolling and pinching until I'm arching into him, hands fisted in his hair. The pleasure is sharp, almost painful, exactly what I need to anchor me to this moment instead of the violence that came before.
"More," I demand. "I need more."
He growls against my skin—actually growls—and lifts me off the counter. My legs wrap around his waist automatically. He carries me toward the stairs, still kissing me, somehow navigating without looking.
We don't make it to the bedroom.
Halfway up the stairs, he presses me against the wall, grinding between my thighs. I can feel how hard he is through our clothes, and the knowledge that I did that, that he wants me this badly, makes me dizzy.
"Bedroom," I manage. "Now. Before I combust."
