As pace quickens, he hooks one leg over his shoulder, angle deepening until stars burst behind my eyelids.
"Come for me again," he commands, thumb finding my clit.
I do—clenching around him, pulling him over the edge too. His knot swells, but he pulls out just before locking, spilling hot across my stomach with a possessive growl.
We collapse in a tangle, breaths mingling, scents a permanent haze. He grabs a warm cloth from the bedside—acts of service again—and cleans me gently, then pulls me into his chest.
"World fucked?" he murmurs, lips brushing my forehead.
I snuggle closer, smirking. "Close. But practice makes perfect."
His chuckle rumbles through me, cozy as a fireside chat.
"Deal, Vixen."
And just like that, in this snow-kissed sanctuary, I feel the shell crack a little more—boldness blooming in the warmth of his arms.
The night stretches on, a tapestry of touches and whispers, but as dawn creeps near, darker threads weave in. Memoriesof why I'm running—family threats, forced bonds—flicker like shadows on the wall. Tank's protective aura chases them away, for now.
But I know: this fling might be more.
Dangerous, indeed.
Still, wrapped in his scent, I drift—fearless in this moment, go-getter heart beating steady.
CHAPTER 9
Past Shadows And Sweet Cinnamon
~TANK~
The dream always starts the same.
Sand in my mouth. The copper stink of blood thick enough to choke on. Radio static screaming in my earpiece while I press both hands to the wound in her chest, trying to hold her together with nothing but desperation and failing strength.
She’s small in my arms—too small. Dark hair matted with dust and crimson. Hazel eyes wide, gold flecks dimming like dying embers. She tries to speak, but only red bubbles at her lips. I tell her to hold on. I beg. I promise things I have no right to promise.
But the light slips anyway.
Second by second.
Until there’s nothing left but dead weight and the echo of my own roar.
My eyes snap open.
The bedroom is dark except for the faint glow of snow-lit windows and the dying ember of the bedside lamp I forgot toswitch off. My heart hammers against my ribs like incoming artillery. Sweat slides down my temples, pools at the base of my throat. Breath saws in and out, harsh and ragged.
I try to sit up—and can’t.
Something heavy rests on my chest. Warm. Soft. Alive.
Rosemarie.
Her naked body is draped over mine like she belongs there, one leg thrown over my thigh, arm curled across my stomach, cheek pressed to the center of my chest right over the scar that never quite healed right. Her inky hair spills across my skin in loose waves, tickling with every slow exhale. The faint scent of cinnamon sugar and dark vanilla lingers in the strands, mixing with roasted coffee and the deeper amber that only comes out when she’s deeply asleep.
Safe. Content.
The nightmare recoils like it’s been burned.
