“If they come looking, I’ll handle it,” Rowan says with quiet certainty.
“Not alone.” My fingers tighten around his, the decision made before I realized I made it. “You don’t handle it alone.”
His eyes find mine in the dim light filtering through the windshield, and a satisfied rumble rises from him. “No, not alone.”
The van slows for the first drop point, and Saintslides the door open. Sleet and night air rush in, carrying the sounds of the city. One by one, the crew disappears into the darkness, returning to their separate lives until next time.
“We’ll go to your place first,” Rowan says as we approach our exit point. “Pack up anything you want to keep. You won’t be returning to that apartment again.”
“Okay,” I agree, understanding everything he isn’t saying.
After tonight, he’s going to keep me.
And I’m going to let him.
24
Rowan’s breath warms the back of my neck as I slide the key into the lock on my apartment door, only to find it already dark.
It’s a little past eight at night, so Lena should still be doing homework, but when we pause, listening for any sound from her room, only silence greets us.
“She must have gone to bed early,” I whisper. “We’ll have to wait until morning to talk to her.”
I leave my shoes at the door and pad toward the hallway bathroom, Rowan trailing behind me, his footsteps silent on the floor, avoiding all the places that creak as if he memorized them the last time he was here.
We pass Lena’s closed bedroom door, the gap at the bottom showing only darkness, and a familiar protectiveness pauses my steps.
I hold up a hand for Rowan to wait and crack open her door far enough to double-check that there’s a sister-sized lump in her bed.
Her quiet snore eases the tension from my body, and I close the door again before I continue down the hall.
The bathroom door squeaks when I push it open, and I wince at the sound. Rowan’s hand settles on my lower back, guiding me inside before closing the door behind us with care.
Under the harsh fluorescent light, the bathroom’s flaws stand out in stark relief. The chipped blue tiles from the seventies, a sink with rust stains around the drain, and a shower stall designed for only one person.
The contrast with his marble-tiled bathroom hits harder now, with him standing here amid the peeling wallpaper and water spots on the ceiling.
“Sorry about…” I gesture at the cramped space.
Rowan steps closer, his fingers finding the buttons of my shirt. Blood from the guard still darkens my sleeve as proof of what I did to protect him.
His pupils expand as he finds the stain, his thumb brushing over it with reverence rather than disgust.
“Shower,” he murmurs, gravel-rough with desire. “Now.”
Water sputters from the showerhead, running cold, then lukewarm, before heating. Steam rises in thin wisps that curl around our bodies as we undress, and I can’t stop myself from staring at the muscled expanse of Rowan’s bare chest and the fading marks I left on him during our last night together before I walked out.
He steps into the stall first, water sluicing down the planes of his body, and beckons for me to join him. The glass door closes, sealing us in a pocket of steam and heat. Our bodies slide together by necessity, wet skin slippery. The top of my head reaches his chin, his bulk taking up most of the available space.
Rowan’s hands move over me, his fingers trailing down my arms, my chest, lingering on the purple mark he left on my collarbone. His touch sets my sleet-chilled skin on fire, igniting nerves I’ve spent a week trying to numb.
“Turn around,” he orders into my ear so his deep rumble doesn’t carry through the thin walls.
I comply, bracing my palms on the wet tiles as the spray hits my back. His fingers dig into the knots of tension between my shoulder blades, working down my spine. Then he lathers soap across my skin, washing away the evidence of the night’s work.
As he rinses away the suds, his touch changes, his hands sliding lower to grip my hips with bruising force, and he drops to his knees on the hard porcelain. My breath catches as I understand his intent. Water streams over us as his mouth finds the small of my back, tongue tracing the knobs of my spine downward.
My fingers curl, nails scraping the ceramic tiles as he spreads my cheeks open. The first touch of his tongue at my entrance tears a gasp from my lips that echoes in the small space. His grip tightens in warning. Lena’s room sits right next door, and the apartment’s paper-thin walls do nothing to block sound.
