He slams in one last time, buried to the hilt, and his body locks behind me with a raw, brutal curse.
“Take it. Every fucking drop.”
He groans, violent and devoted, ramming deep, holding me in place, impaled and undone. Thick, possessive cum floods me.
We stay that way a while longer while the rain comes down on us. His weight settles over me—not crushing, but covering. A barrier, a claim, a truth no one else gets to see.
Mud coats my thighs, and leaves cling to my knees. There’s dirt under my nails—and spit and cum slick in the crack of my ass, seeping slow as proof of what he did to me. What I let him do. What I begged for him to do.
It should be degrading. But it’s not.
It feels more like being worshipped.
Eventually, he pulls out and his thumb drags through the slick mess he left between my cheeks. His signature. There’s a quiet tenderness in the act, almost reverent.
Then he pulls my pants up for me, rough hands steady against my trembling hips. Not because I’m weak. Because this is who he is. He ruins me and then puts me back together.
He helps me up and we walk back to the house—silent, soaked, and spent. The rain lets up halfway through, leaving behind the scent of wet pine and sex.
Inside, we don’t stop. We go straight to the shower.
He strips me slowly, fingers lingering over every bruise, every scrape, every place he left his mark. There’s no performance now. No predator and prey. Just skin, heat, and us.
The water’s hot. The silence heavier.
We don’t speak as we scrub the dirt from each other’s bodies. He washes my hair, and I trace the ridges of old scars and tattoos across his chest.
By the time we step out—skin flushed, wrapped in towels, breath steady again—the edge has softened.
I stand at the counter while he brushes out my hair. His eyes stay on his task, his hands gentle.
“What if I asked you to end Evan Lemaire?”
Bastien doesn’t hesitate or blink. Doesn’t even look up. “I’d do anything for you, my love.”
It’s a promise few men would dare to make. I smile—not because it’s sweet, but because it’s proof of how he feels about me. Because we both know what that says about us.
I used to think I was standing at the edge of darkness. One foot in, one foot out. Still clean. Still untouched by the worst of it.
But now? I’m not afraid. Because I’m not at the edge anymore.
I’m already inside the darkness… with my eyes wide open.
Chapter 39
Bastien Montclaire
Every girl should getwhat she wants for her birthday.
The morning light cuts through the kitchen window in sharp angles. Laurette sits at the table, hair pinned back, coffee going cold beside her.
She doesn’t say his name anymore. But I know she thinks of him. Too often.
She wanted justice for Emily Westbrook. For Hannah Sorensen. For every girl the law forgot the second it became inconvenient.
Now she wants something else. And today, I’m going to give it to her.
She watches me over the rim of her coffee cup, her eyes tracking my movements.
