He only slows when my thrashing turns to spasms, when I’m half-gone and breathing wetly through sobs. Then, finally, he looks up at me, his mouth and chin slick, eyes brighter than I’ve ever seen them. There’s something feral in his expression—possessive, but also proud, like he’s built a new version of me out of nothing but sweat and nerve endings.
Bastion wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and climbs up my body. He gathers me up, all at once, not tentative or gentle but deliberate, like I’m the only thing in the world he wants to hold. He buries his face in my hair, chest heaving against my ribcage. A laugh rumbles through him.
“You’re a menace,” I say, after a minute.
He grins. “Takes one to know one.” Then his grin fades and his brows knit together.
I want to stay like this forever, but my heat-addled brain is already looking for the next release. But by Bastion’s body language I can tell he wants me to rest for now.
“So what now?” I ask, voice small. I know whatIwant but there’s very obviously something else on Bastion’s mind.
Bastion is quiet for a second. “Now, you let your body finish what it needs to. Then we figure out how to make Ranier see sense.”
I snort. “Good luck.”Better chance of hell freezing over.
He looks at me, serious. “You’re not leaving, Emery. Not unless you want to. And even then, I’m not sure I could let you go. Not really.”
The weight of Bastion’s words hit me and sink deep. He really means it, doesn’t he? I dare to let the hope of that bloom within my chest. For a moment, I allow myself to enjoy the thought of a pack family. The love and comfort, and everything else that would come with it.
If Ranier allows.
I want it. So damn badly.
CHAPTER 21
Bastion
The airoutside the manor tastes like cold metal and wet leaves, and it’s a relief after the way we’ve been living inside. I step out onto the gravel, helmet in hand. Immediately the night cuts through my shirt and bites down to the bone. Emery’s standing under the portico, hunched into her borrowed jacket. For a second I think she’s going to turn around and decide she’s not up for whatever this is. But she meets my eyes and walks straight toward me.
She eyes the helmet like it might explode. “Is it weird that I’m nervous?”
“If you weren’t I’d be worried.”
Emery takes the helmet and yanks it on with both hands. Her hair flares out the bottom like an anime character, half the colors of the visible spectrum, and she fumbles with the strap for a good ten seconds before I take pity on her.
“Come here,” I say, crooking my finger.
Emery steps in close. I fasten the strap under her chin, careful to keep my hands steady. She’s so close I can smell her through the synthetic padding. It’s a wall of sugar closing in around me. Her eyes are wide and glassy, still a little raw from the last few days, but there’s an edge of stubborn left in hermouth that makes me want to ruin her and protect her at the same time.
I gesture to the bike, a bastardized racer with my initials scraped into the gas tank. “Ready?”
She glances at the handlebars like she’s conducting a risk assessment. It’s a bit late for that. “Are you allowed to drive without telling someone you’re leaving the grounds?”
“I do a lot of things I’m not supposed to,” I say, and swing my leg over.
Emery hesitates just long enough for me to notice, then climbs on behind me, arms wrapping around my waist. She’s warm, her body still radiating a bit from the last days of her heat cycle. I start the engine and feel the shudder roll through both of us. Emery presses her cheek into my back. I decide right then and there that I never want to ride this motorcycle without her.
We take off slow—manor gravel, city road, a ramp up to the main drag. The city at night is a bruise with a gold vein running through it, every window and sign and streetlamp reflected in puddles from the afternoon’s rain. Emery’s grip on me is tentative at first, but as I gun it onto the highway, she cinches up, her arms locked under my ribs.
We don’t talk. There’s no point. The roar of the engine, the wind tearing past, and the adrenaline slamming through both of us says everything.
I take her on a scenic route past the river and the old warehouse district, and through the tangle of side streets. Emery’s body is fused to mine. Every time I lean into a curve, I feel the roll of her hips, the way she braces her thighs against the seat to keep us balanced. She’s a fast learner—by the third turn, she’s not even flinching.
I could ride like this forever.
Half an hour later I cut up to the overlook, a dead end at the top of Holloway Hill, where the whole city lays out beneathyou. I kill the engine and let us coast the last twenty feet, gravel popping under the tires.
We sit there for a second. Emery’s arms go slack, but she doesn’t let go. She laughs—a real, full-body sound—and the tension leaves her all at once.
