"Good." He raised his fingers to his mouth and sucked them clean, tasting me, and it made my pussy clench all over again. He groaned with what I hoped was enjoyment, but I couldn't tell in the dark as he moved off the bed.
There was the rustle of heavy fabric. He wasn't leaving. He was cleaning up. He found a towel from the en-suite bathroom, God, he really had thought of everything, and returned to the bed.
He cleaned me. Gentle, efficient strokes in the dark. He wiped away the slick and the sweat. He treated me with reverence, which was something I wasn't used to. It was almost like I was a weapon he had just fired and needed to maintain for the next operational cycle.
"Up," he murmured, sliding his thick arm under my shoulders.
I let him lift me. I was boneless. Liquid. I let him rearrange the pillows, stacking them behind me. I let him pull the duvet up, tucking it tight around my shoulders, cocooning me in the heavy warmth.
He sat on the edge of the bed, a massive shadow in the dark, the mattress dipping under his weight. He placed his heavy, warm hand on my forehead, brushing back the damp hair that clung to my skin.
"The head is quiet?" he asked.
"Silent," I breathed, realizing it was true. The hum was gone. "It's finally silent."
"Then sleep," he commanded. "The watch is mine now."
I looked at him, trying to resolve the silhouette of the mountain guarding my rest. The panic tried to flare up, a tiny, distant spark, concern about who had found us, but his scent washed over me, deeper than the fear, heavier than the obligation.
"You'll stay?" I asked, my voice slurring, my eyes already drifting shut, dragged down by the sheer weight of satiation.
"I'm the door, Rowan," he said simply. His hand moved from my forehead to rest on top of the duvet, right over my heart, the weight of it anchoring me to the mattress. "I'm not going anywhere."
The weight of his hand was the last thing I felt. The darkness wasn't a threat anymore. It was a velvet curtain, and Mateo had just drawn it closed. I knew the world would be waiting with its teeth bared in the morning, but for tonight, the door was locked.
TEN
Rowan
I woke up to a silence that didn't scream.
For the first time since the stadium, my mind wasn't a cacophony of breaking glass and social media notifications. The panic attack that had nearly eaten me alive in the study had been brutally, methodically evicted.
Mateo was still there. He was sitting in the armchair by the door, watching me with the unblinking stillness of a gargoyle perched on a cathedral.
"Status?" he asked, his voice a low gravel that vibrated in the quiet room.
I sat up. My body felt heavy, unused to the strange sensation of genuine rest, but my thoughts were razor-sharp. The fog was gone. The hysteria was gone. In its place was a cold, crystalline anger.
"Operational," I said. My voice was raspy.
I pushed the duvet back. I didn't feel the need to cover myself, though I reached for the clothes I’d set out for myself as pajamas the day before, soft joggers and a cashmere sweater. I dressed with efficiency.
"The laptop," I said, smoothing the cashmere down. "I need it back."
Mateo studied me. He was looking for the tremor in my hands. He was looking for the shallow breathing of a prey animal.
He wouldn't find it. The orgasms hadn't just grounded me; they had reminded me that I was a physical object in a physical world, not just a digital target.
"Kitchen," he said, standing up. "Juno made coffee. Stephen is reviewing something over my pay grade."
I walked past him. I didn't run. I didn't scurry. I walked with the heel-strike of a woman crossing a boardroom, even though I was barefoot.
We gathered in the dining area. It was a vast, open space dominated by a table made of reclaimed wood that looked almost heavy enough to survive a bomb blast.
Stephen was typing furiously at one end. Juno was leaning against the kitchen island, nursing a mug of tea.
They stopped when I entered.
