My heart pounds. "Rafa?—"
"No." He's already crossing the space, closing the distance between us like he can't stand the air anymore. His hands frame my face—not gentle, not cruel, just claiming. His thumb swipes a tear I hadn’t realized had escaped me. "You don't get to put yourself on the line like that. Not without me."
"I had to?—"
"You had to what?" His voice breaks, and it hits me harder than the shot. "You think I want to live in a world where you're not breathing in it?"
His words take me aback. My lips part, but I can't speak. The possessive intensity in his dark eyes burns with the aftermath of violence and the promise of something else entirely.
"You weren’t supposed to get involved. This mess was about my family," I whisper.
"I can't," he breathes, brushing his thumb along my jaw. "As long as you’re involved, I will be beside you." He says not holding back.
Something shifts in his expression—hunger replacing protective fury, desire overwhelming the careful control he's maintained for so long. When he looks at me now, it's not as someone to be protected but as someone to be claimed.
"Take me home," I whisper, the words barely audible but carrying the weight of surrender.
"Kira," he breathes, my name a warning and a question.
"I know what I'm asking for."
"Do you?" His thumbs stroke along my cheekbones, the touch gentle despite the steel in his voice. "Because I'm not the same man who walked in here tonight. What I just did, what I'm capable of?—"
"I know exactly who you are." I cover his hands with mine, pressing them more firmly against my face. "And I know exactly what I want."
And then he kisses me.
It's not soft. It's not careful. It's war. His mouth crashes down on mine with a need that tastes like blood and rage and fear. I kiss him back like he's the only thing keeping me tethered to the ground. There's nothing gentle or tentative about it—his mouth claims mine with the same decisive authority he used to end Yegor's life. Absolute, uncompromising, final.
This isn't the practiced performance we displayed for our families or the tender exploration of our night at the safehouse. This is raw, desperate, honest in ways that terrify and exhilarate me.
He backs me against the concrete wall. The table and the body lie behind us, distant and irrelevant. All that matters now is the man in front of me—the man who just crossed a line for me.
His hands tangle in my hair, tilting my head to deepen the kiss, and I hear myself make a sound I've never made before—something between a gasp and a moan that seems to drive him further past the edge of reason.
"You're mine," he snarls into my neck as he yanks my shirt over his head. "You gave yourself to me. Don't act like you don't know what that means."
His hands are fire—ripping at my jeans, fumbling with his belt, shaking with adrenaline and restraint. I've never seen him like this. Unraveled. Unhinged. Hungry.
"You don't get to flirt with death and walk away from me like it didn't fucking matter."
"Then remind me," I breathe. Show me what it means to be yours." I tell him, not caring if anyone is breathing and watching what I’m begging for.
"Promise me first." His forehead presses against mine, our breathing ragged and synchronized. "Promise me you won't pull away when this gets complicated."
"I promise."
"Promise me you won't sacrifice yourself for anyone else's idea of what's right or necessary."
"I promise."
He spins me, bending me over the steel table. One hand flattens between my shoulder blades, the other guiding himself behind me. There is no hesitation. No teasing. Just the primal sound of him sliding into me, thick and deep and unforgiving.
My cry echoes off the walls.
"Guarda quanto mi prendi bene," he groans.Look how well you take me.
My fingers grip the table as he drives into me again, and again, each thrust a declaration. My body burns, stretched wide and aching, but I take him—all of him. I want to.
