Then I see her standing at the bottom of the stairs in black pyjamas with little white cartoon ghosts printed all over them, her hair messy from sleep, bare feet on the wood floor, just staring at me with those dark eyes that see everything.
I start laughing. Can't help it. The tension drains out of me all at once, the adrenaline fading as quickly as it came. Cartoon ghosts. Of course. Of course she has pyjamas with cartoon ghosts. It's so perfectly her—this woman who writes horror for a living, who's haunted by actual spirits, wearing the most adorable ghost pyjamas like they're armor against the darkness.
"Hell, I love you," I mutter, still grinning as I cross to her. I move slowly, giving her time to run if she wants, but shedoesn't. She just stands there watching me approach with an expression I can't quite read.
"Need something?" I ask when I reach her.
She stays silent for a moment, those dark eyes studying me like I'm a puzzle she can't quite solve, like she's trying to figure out if I'm real or another hallucination conjured by grief and loneliness. Finally, she says, "No," and the lie is so transparent I almost laugh again.
Then she turns around and starts walking back toward the stairs, and something in me rebels at the thought of her leaving, of her going back upstairs alone when I'm right here.
I grab her wrist as gently as I can and spin her back into my arms. Her hands land on my chest—small, warm, perfect—and the feeling shoots through me like lightning. I've missed this so much it physically hurts. Missed her, missed the weight of her against me, missed the way she fits like she was designed for this exact spot in my arms.
"Trouble sleeping, my love?" I lean down slightly, giving her my full attention, and she takes a moment to respond.
"No," she lies again, and then, quieter, almost vulnerable: "I'm sorry I shot at you."
I laugh, the sound low and rough. "Anytime, babe. You can shoot at me whenever you need to."
Her eyes flick up to mine and hold, and something passes between us in that look—acknowledgment, maybe, or forgiveness, or just the recognition of what we are to each other, what we've always been. Us.
I lean closer and lift her chin with one finger until she's looking directly at me, and I watch her breath catch, see her pupils dilate in the dim light. She doesn't pull away. Doesn't move. Just stares at me with those dark eyes full of confusion and anger and something that might be hope.
Then I close the distance and kiss her, and damn, it's like I've been starving my entire life and just now remembered what food tastes like. Her lips are soft and warm and real—not a screen, not a memory, not a fantasy I've conjured in the dark. Her. Actually her.
She moans against my mouth, and that sound—small and breathy and perfect—makes me lose whatever control I had left. I lift her, wrapping her legs around my waist as I press her against the nearest wall, and my mind goes black with sensation, with her, with this moment I've been dreaming about for two years.
Then she pulls back, and for a moment she's just silent, staring at me while breathing fast. I can see her eyes flash dark and furious, see the exact moment confusion bleeds into anger. Oh shit.
"You—" she starts, then stops, breathing even faster. "You—"
She shoves me hard, and I let her down slowly, stepping back to give her the space she clearly needs.
"You left me!" She hits my chest hard enough to sting. But how could her precious hand ever sting? She is so perfect with her fists on my chest. I wonder, does she know how much I treasure every hit she gives me? I would stay here forever if that meant she would touch me. "You left! For two years! TWO FUCKING YEARS!"
"Alena—" I try, but she cuts me off.
"Don't!" Another hit, harder this time. Fuck, she is using her fists wrong. She could hurt herself. "Don't you dare try to explain! You don't get to kiss me! You don't get to—"
I catch her wrists and hold them while she struggles, fights, tries to pull free. "Babe," I say quietly. "Enough."
"GO TO HELL!" she screams, and then she spits in my face.
The saliva hits my cheek, warm and defiant and so perfectly her that I almost groan. Everything from her is a piece of heaven, even this—her spit is soft, uniquely hers, and fuck me, I love it. I'm the kind of man who would kneel for this woman without hesitation, the only woman I'd ever want to kneel to, and I'd do it every single time with a smile on my face.
I smile now and lick my lips slowly, tasting the salt, tasting her. "Okay," I say quietly. "Enough."
Then I crash my mouth to hers again, and she moans—angry and desperate at the same time—hitting my chest even as her other hand fists in my hair, pulling me closer, harder. It's a wonderful surprise, this contradiction. Alena has never been weak, and I'd half-expected her to shoot at me again, but instead she's fighting and yielding simultaneously, and it's the most perfect thing I've ever felt.
The punches slow, weaken, turn into grasping as I pull her shirt off in one smooth motion. I didn’t realise I was doing that. But I did. The fabric tears slightly because I can't be gentle right now, can't slow down when I've been starving for her for two years. Her breasts spill free, perfect and mine, and I lean down to take her nipple in my mouth, sucking hard. Shit. She is perfect. I could stay sucking her all fucking day. I want to.
She cries out loud, arching into me, and heaven—this is heaven. Her taste, her sounds, the way her body responds like it remembers me, like it's been waiting for me to come back and reclaim what's always been mine.
My hand slides into her pyjama pants and finds her slick heat, already wet, so damn wet that I groan against herbreast. "My girl is ready for me," I murmur, circling her clit with my thumb slowly, teasingly, making her whimper and grind against my hand.
"Please—" she gasps, and I push two fingers inside, feeling her grab my forearm and push me harder into her. She's tight and hot, clenching around my fingers like she never wants to let go, and good, because I won't. I curl my fingers to find that spot deep inside that makes her whole body seize.
"Drogo—" Her voice breaks. "Please—I need—"
