Then he begins to move.
He slams back into me, and the impact is raw, perfectly timed to the deep, throbbing pulse of the music. He drives hard, a powerful, measured rhythm that shakes my foundation, lifting me slightly off the couch with every deep, relentless stroke. My legs clamp around his waist, desperately trying to pull him closer, trying to contain the sheer force of him.
He buries his face deep in the curve of my neck, his breath hot and ragged against my wet skin, right where my pulse hammers. " Let me see you take every inch."
His body begins to move faster, the pace accelerating to a desperate scramble, focused entirely on the explosive release he knows is coming.
When I finally let go his hand finds mine and holds it, anchoring me through every violent wave that hits. The raw, guttural climax tears through me, leaving me shaking against him, my face buried in his shoulder, breathing hard, the world blurred around the edges.
When it’s over, when I’m still catching my breath and he’s still holding my hips like he doesn’t want to let go, the only thing I can think about is the warmth in my chest that has nothing to do with the room, nothing to do with the club, nothing to do with sex at all.
When we step out of the room, the hallway feels colder than it should, the red lights softer somehow, as if the air outside can’t keep up with what just happened behind the door. My legs feel shaky and unsteady, not like I’m going to fall, but like every steptakes a second longer than it should, my dress still clinging to my skin, my breathing shallow and uneven in a way that makes my chest feel too tight.
Artyom doesn’t let go of me right away; his hand stays low on my waist, steady and warm, anchoring me to something that isn’t flickering lights or the distant thrum of music. I can’t look at him yet, not when I’m still trying to gather all the pieces of myself.
The corridor stretches ahead of us, people passing by without giving us more than a glance, like the world hasn’t shifted under my feet, but the moment we reach the darker corner that leads toward the exit, Artyom stops and turns me slightly, nudging my chin up with the tips of his fingers. The look in his eyes is impossible to decipher. There’s heat, sure, but also something quieter, heavier, like he’s trying to read what this did to me, what I’m too overwhelmed to say.
“You okay?” he asks, voice low and steady.
I nod too quickly, the movement almost clumsy. “Yes. I just… need a second.”
His thumb brushes once along my neck, the gentlest touch he’s ever given me, which somehow feels more dangerous than anything that happened inside that room. For a moment, neither of us moves. Then he steps back, lets his hand slip away, and the cold that replaces it makes my stomach twist.
He simply walks beside me as we head toward the exit, no talking or teasing, the heavy door opening into a quiet streetwashed in weak yellow streetlight. A black car waits at the curb, the engine already running, and he gestures for me to get in first. I slide into the backseat, my heartbeat still too fast, my dress still not fully zipped because my hands wouldn’t stop shaking long enough to fix it.
Artyom joins me on my left, the door shutting with a soft thud that echoes too loudly in my chest. He doesn’t touch me this time, doesn’t put a hand on my knee or my thigh, doesn’t reach for me at all, but the space between us feels electric, like a line connecting us that neither of us knows how to cut.
The driver pulls away, and the hum of the engine settles into a steady vibration beneath us, the kind that usually lulls the city into the background, but tonight the air feels too heavy and too warm, as if the walls of the car are holding onto everything that just happened between us. The club disappears behind us in a blur of dark windows and neon reflections, and for a moment the city seems almost calm, the streets sliding past in long, quiet streaks of light that make the darkness that descended while were at the club look softer than it is, giving me just enough space to breathe, to feel the lingering heat on my skin, to realize my heart still hasn’t returned to a normal rhythm.
The calm barely lasts a breath before the entire night tears open around us.
A deafening crack tears through the air, the car jolting violently as the windshield shatters inward, glass spraying across my lap. The driver screams as blood splashes the steering wheel, and the car swerves wildly before crashing into a row of trash bins,metal clanging against metal in a sickening screech. Artyom’s arm slams across my chest, pinning me to the seat, shielding me with his body, even as bullets rip through the doors like they’re made of paper.
“Down!” he growls, grabbing the back of my head and forcing me low, my cheek pressed to the floor mat. My ears ring from the gunfire, from the screams outside, from the way the world suddenly feels like it’s shattering into a thousand violent pieces.
Hands tear open the back door and rough fingers dig into my arms.
Someone yanks me out of the car so hard my knees slam against asphalt, the burn shooting straight up my legs. I try to scream, but a hand clamps over my mouth, muffling the sound. Two men drag me backward, their grip bruising, their masks dark and tight around their faces.
And then I see him. One of the attackers, tall, broad-shouldered, turns for half a second when the streetlight hits him, and something about the shape of his jaw, the slant of his cheekbone, the lines around his eyes?—
It hits me like a punch.
Lucas.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Kira
My heart slams so hard I choke on my own breath. I try to look again, try to focus, try to make sense of what I’m seeing, but he disappears behind another car, swallowed by dark and gunfire.
Before I can process it, a gunshot cracks so close to my ear I feel it more than hear it, and one of the men holding me jerks violently, dropping to the ground as blood sprays across my legs. The other tries to drag me backward, using me as a shield.
But Artyom is already there.
He hits the man from behind with a force that feels unreal, ripping him off me and slamming him onto the ground, knee digging into the attacker’s spine. Another man comes at him from the left, gun raised, but Artyom turns and shoots him inthe forehead without hesitation, his arm steady even as blood trickles down his own shoulder, dark and wet.
He’s been shot. He’s bleeding, but he keeps fighting like pain doesn’t exist for him, like he’s made of something that doesn’t break.
