I fuck her against the tree, each thrust hard enough to make the bark shudder. She meets every stroke, hips grinding, voice high and wild with need.
“Fuck, you feel so good,” she moans. “Please, Bastion, I need?—”
“I know,” I whisper, kissing the corner of her mouth. “I know, angel. I’ve got you.”
The knot comes fast, swelling at the base of my cock, and when I press it against her entrance, she whimpers, desperate.
“Do it,” she says. “Please, do it.”
I push, gentle at first, then harder, until the knot pops inside her. She screams, the sound pure pleasure, and her body clamps down so hard I see stars. I cum with her, pulse after pulse, knot locking us together. The feeling is raw, animal, perfect.
We ride it out, shaking, clutching each other, until the world calms.
Emery laughs, breathless, forehead pressed to mine. “You know, I always wanted to do it outside.”
“Exhibitionist,” I tease.
She grins, teeth sharp in the moonlight. “I’d do it again, too.”
We sink to the ground, still knotted together, her back to my chest. Both of us stare up at the sky. The city glows below and the stars twinkle above. For once I don’t feel like I’m being chased.
I wrap my arms around Emery and hold her close. She burrows into me, humming contentedly.
We stay like that, not talking, just breathing together, until my knot deflates and I can slip free. She turns in my arms, curls up on my chest, and for the first time in months, I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
CHAPTER 22
Wyatt
The kitchen lookslike it’s been raided when I walk in at three in the morning. Someone else is up early ... or was up late. Someone left the overheads on low, just enough to highlight the crime scene: a rainbow streak of paint on the fridge, three mugs in the sink (none of them rinsed), and a half-eaten sleeve of cookies on the counter. I dump my phone on the table and collapse into a chair. It’s too cold for the t-shirt I’m wearing, but I’m running hot tonight, sweat prickling in my armpits and nowhere else.
I’m supposed to be asleep. I’m supposed to be dreaming of old friends or dead brothers or maybe nothing at all. But my head’s a TV tuned to static, and every time I close my eyes, all I see is Emery’s face. Emery’s hands. Emery’s mouth, which has said more true things to me in a few weeks than my family did in a lifetime.
I lean back and try to focus on the sound of the tick of the wall clock. There’s a thud in the hallway. I tense, but it’s just Bastion, limping into the kitchen like a ghost that forgot it’s dead. He’s in sweatpants and a hoodie, his hair an unrepentant disaster. He doesn’t see me at first—his eyes are fixed on the counter and the cookies.
Bastion pours himself a cup of coffee. Doesn’t ask if I want any. Just slides into the chair opposite me, sets the mug between us, and stares at it like he’s hoping the black liquid will show him his future.
We sit like that for a full minute, not talking.
I break first. “You guys went at it pretty loud last night.” He and Emery had taken it to the guest suite instead of her nest for some reason, but the move did nothing to mask their actions.
Bastion snorts. “Could’ve joined in, if you wanted.”
I shoot him a look, but there’s no bite behind it. “Ranier would have a stroke.”
“Ranier already has a stroke every time he thinks about her,” Bastion says. “It’s half the reason he’s such a dick.”
I nod. “Yeah. The other half is genetics.”
Bastion’s jaw works, tight. He picks up the coffee and takes a careful sip. “You ever feel like this is all a bad prank? Like maybe we’re the joke, not her?”
“Only every day.”
Bastion glances up. “You still think the plan’s going to work?”
I look down at the grain of the table. There’s a spot of Emery’s blue paint that didn’t come off from the last clean. I dig my nail into it, scraping. “I don’t think the plan was ever going to work.”
Bastion slowly lets out a breath. “I’m not sure I want it to.”
