I need to let her leave, but my eyes won’t let go.
She’s zipping up her jacket when I cut across the room and block the door.
“If clothes can confess a mood…” I tilt my head.“Yours say,Princess of the scrapyard.Kiss me dirty or don’t bother.”
“Not wrong.”Her lips curve.
“What do mine say?”
She examines my outfit and returns to my face.“Falling apart, but the seams are stubborn.”
Christ.My chest stutters.That’s it.That’s me.How does she do that?
Before I think better of it, I fist the back of her neck, clamp a hand on her hip, and haul her against me.
My mouth crashes down on hers, hard and hungry.She gasps, lips parting, and I dive in.Sweet heat and cool metal from her piercing roll against my tongue.
The kiss is teeth and desperation, the clash of breath caught and stolen.Her hands are everywhere, clutching my flannel, sliding under it, nails scraping skin and setting me ablaze.
My ribs ache from the pressure of her chest against mine, the way we weld together.Still, I grip her tighter, anchoring myself against the inevitability of letting her go.
The pleasure of her kiss in my mouth is seductive and surreal, flooding me with fire and sparks that make every muscle twitch.My hips drag toward hers, reaching, chasing, controlled by a magnetic pull.
Not a drop of blood remains in my head.Every ounce drains south, pounding thick in my cock.Her heat seeps into my skin, burning through muscle, spreading fast, and untangling nerves wound too tight for too long.
I didn’t realize how shattered and empty I was until she started fitting into the cracks, until this fragile, feverish happiness started chasing away a lifetime of coldness.
“God, I love the way you kiss.”She slides her nose along mine, nibbling at my lips.“I don’t want to go.”
Breaking apart feels like ripping open stitches, but there’s comfort in her reluctance, in knowing she hates the separation, too.
“Good luck today, Wolf.”She drops a kiss on my bottom lip.“Text me if you need me.I’ll drop my tools and head back the second you do.Got it?”
I nod and force myself to let her step back, force my fingers to unclench from her jacket.She opens the door, and the morning light outlines her in a holy, angelic glow.
The second she’s gone, I snatch my phone and fire off a text to her guards.
Me: Escort Dove from the island to work.Don’t let her out of your sight.If she doesn’t come back to me tonight, don’t bother coming back yourselves.
GI Joe Carl: Understood, sir.We’ll maintain constant visual contact, comms on, and keep you updated with ETA and any deviation.
My pulse still shakes from her mouth as I drop on the couch and pull Frankie’s journal onto my lap.
“All right, Dorothy.Remind me why there’s no place like home.”
I don’t go in gentle.I open page one and jump, throwing myself into the graphic account of her first day in captivity.
Several dozen pages later, I take my first breath.
Christ, I forgot how horrible we were to her.She miscarried Monty’s baby, my would’ve-been sister or brother, and we acted like it was nothing.She was scared out of her mind and so fucking alone, and we piled on, and on, and on.
We were monsters.
The memory hooks me under the ribs and yanks hard.I breathe.In for four.Hold for four.Out for six.Dr.Thurber’s box breathing technique.Dr.Freud.Whatever.
I power through the first half of the journal without pausing.The imagery is vicious, the details merciless.My brain wants to sprint ahead to where it hurts less, but I make it stay and absorb every painful word.
Monty comes in once, carrying a tray of sandwiches, pasta salad, and ice water.
