She lunged.
Her hands, freed from my grip, didn't go for cover. They scrambled for my belt again, frantic, claws digging into the heavy canvas.
"No," she gasped, her eyes wild, pupils swallowing the hazel. She looked wrecked, damp with sweat, and absolutely terrified of the silence returning.
I grabbed her wrists again, holding them away from my fly. "Rowan. You're done. Breathe."
"I'm not even close to done. Do you know how long it's been since I let myself have an orgasm?" she panted, the demand in her tone doing things to me that it definitely shouldn't have. "I haven't had one in months. I haven't had sex in years. All because I've been too focused on work, and what good did it do me? My career is still in tatters, I'm still being hunted…" She trailed off, her breath coming in rapid pants that had nothing to do with the orgasm I'd just given her and everything to do with her about to hyperventilate.
I locked my hands over hers, halting the frantic clawing at my belt. Her fingers were cold, despite the flush heating her skin, and they were shaking so hard the brass buckle rattled against the silence of the room.
"Stop," I rumbled.
"Don't tell me to stop," she gasped, trying to wrench her wrists free. She didn't look like a high-powered manager anymore. She looked like a raw nerve ending. "I need this, Mateo. I need to not think for ten minutes. Just let me?—"
"No."
I didn't yell. I didn't need to. I just applied pressure, squeezing her wrists gently but firmly until the fight drained out of her arms. She slumped against the desk, her chest heaving, her eyes wide and wet. The scent coming off her was confused, sharp peppermint spiked with the heavy, musky sweetness of arousal, but underneath it, that acrid smoke of panic was still burning.
"You're trying to eject from your own brain." I leaned in, forcing her to look at me, to see the scar on my face, the stillness in my eyes. "I'm not going to fuck you while you're trying to outrun a panic attack. That’s not safety. That’s just another crash."
She let out a frustrated, jagged sound, dropping her forehead against my chest. "Then what do I do? I can't turn it off. The code, the camera across the street, Vance... it’s all screaming."
"We move locations." I released her wrists and slid my hands down to her hips, grounding her. Big, heavy touches. "We go to the bedroom. I get you off one more time. Properly. Not against a desk while you’re thinking about spreadsheets."
She looked up, blinking. The frantic energy stuttered. "And then?"
"And then you sleep," I said. "That’s the price. You come, you black out. No laptops. Nothing."
She hesitated, her teeth sinking into her lower lip. She was weighing the negotiation. It was the only language she spoke fluently.
"Deal," she whispered.
I didn't wait for her to change her mind. I bent down, ignoring the protest of my own knees, too many years of jumping out of planes, and scooped her up. One arm under her knees, the other around her back. She gasped, instinctively wrapping her arms around my neck, burying her face in the junction of my shoulder.
She felt light. Too light. She’d been skipping meals to create crisis management plans instead.
I carried her out of the study, leaving the scattered papers and the laptop behind in the dark. The hallway was quiet, the only sound my boots on the hardwood. She smelled like sex and exhaustion, a dangerous cocktail that was wreaking havoc on my own biology.
My cock was throbbing, a dull, heavy ache against the rough canvas of my tactical pants. Carrying a warm, willing woman who tasted like trouble was testing every frantic scrap of discipline I had left.
I did the math as I walked. It was going to be a long night. I was going to have to take care of this myself, probably more than once, before the adrenaline settled enough for me to even think about resting. Cold showers were a cliché for a reason, but tonight, I had a feeling I’d be testing the water pressure.
But not with her. Not tonight. Tonight she needed an anchor, not an Alpha losing control.
As we passed the landing window, I didn't look out. I didn't need to.
My mind flicked to the glint I’d seen across the street. The freelancer. He was sloppy, but he was there. Tomorrow, I’d go hunting. I’d find that room, break the camera, and have a veryquiet, very physical conversation with whoever was holding it. I’d strip the data and burn the bridge.
But for the next six hours? The safehouse was a vault. The biometric locks were engaged on the outer doors. The pressure sensors were active on the windows. Nothing got in or out without me knowing. The world could burn down outside, Vance could send his lawyers and his bots, but inside these walls, on this shift, Rowan Quill was untouchable.
I kicked the bedroom door open and carried her into the dark.
NINE
Rowan
The mattress accepted the burden of my existence with a silent, expensive tolerance. It was memory foam designed to swaddle the body in a zero-gravity embrace. But zero-gravity was the last thing I wanted. I was already floating, untethered and frantic in the upper atmosphere of my own anxiety.
