"I have you," I say, and I mean it as a threat and a vow.
I work him open. I am not patient. My body is screaming for the connection, for the final surrender. He groans as I stretch him, his hips bucking against the pallet, his hands fisting in the fabric of the mattress.
I line myself up. I pause for a single heartbeat, looking at the man I was supposed to kill.
Then I drive inside him.
He screams. The sound is raw, unbuffered by acoustic panels, echoing off the high brick walls and the steel rafters. It is a sound of pure, unadulterated sensation. He arches his back, his neck straining, his eyes rolling back in his head.
"God," he gasps. "Alexei. Yes. More."
I don't hold back. I set a punishing pace, my hips slamming against his with a rhythmic, wet thud. I want to be deeper. I want to be so far inside him that he can't remember the name Petrenko. I want to rewrite his nervous system with my own name.
The cold of the warehouse is gone. The world is reduced to the heat of his interior, the friction of our skin, the sound of his ragged moans. I reach around and find his hands, lacing my fingers through his and pinning them to the mattress.
"You're mine," I growl into his ear, my teeth grazing the lobe. "Say it. Tell me who you belong to."
"Yours," he sobs, his head thrashing against the fabric. "I'm yours. I've always been yours. Take it. Take everything."
I hit the spot I found during the mapping—the nerve cluster that controls his pleasure. He howls, his entire body seizing in a massive, sustained spasm. His interior clamps around me, tight enough to hurt, and the sensation pushes me over the precipice.
I bury myself as deep as I can go, grinding my hips against him, and I come.
It isn't a release. It's an execution. It's the death of the Accountant, the death of the weapon, the death of everything I was taught to be. I empty myself into him with a sound I don’t recognize as my own—a low, primal roar that tears out of my lungs.
We collapse together. I don't pull out. I stay buried inside him, my chest heaving against his back, my face buried in the crook of his neck. His body is trembling with aftershocks, his skin slickwith sweat that is already beginning to cool in the warehouse air.
"We're dead," he whispers after a long time.
"Probably."
"I don't care." He turns his head to look at me, his eyes dark and heavy. "As long as you're the one who does it."
"I am not going to kill you, Nikolai." I withdraw slowly, the loss of contact feeling like a physical wound. "I am going to keep you."
I clean him with the same cloth I used to wash his face, my movements slow and deliberate. He watches me with a quiet intensity, the desperation of the last hour replaced by a fragile, terrifying hope.
I help him back into the wool sweater. He is exhausted, his eyes fluttering closed as I settle him back onto the mattress.
"Sleep," I say.
"Will you stay?"
"I am not going anywhere."
He closes his eyes. Within minutes, his breathing slows to the steady rhythm of deep sleep.
I do not sleep. I sit in the chair beside the pallet, my weapon in my lap, safety off. I watch the door. I watch the shadows. I watch the way his chest rises and falls.
I find myself counting his breaths. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
The rhythm is my new metronome. It is the only metric that matters.
I review the tactical situation. I have eight hours until dawn. I have a sedan with a full tank of gas and a trunk full of supplies. I have a man who has surrendered his soul to me.
I have a master who is currently dismantling my life.
My burner phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out, the screen illuminating my face in a harsh white glow.
