“You’re mine,” I growl, the possessiveness clawing out of my chest. “I saved you.”
“I’m yours,” she cries out. “I’m yours.”
The words break the dam. I speed up, chasing oblivion. I need to empty my mind, forget the dead men in the rain, forget the betrayal. I need to exist only in this moment, buried deep inside her.
She tightens around me, her breath hitching, her body going rigidly taut.
“Cassian!”
She shatters.
Her release pulses around me, a hot, tight clench that pushes me straight over the edge.
I groan, burying my face in the crook of her neck, thrusting one last time, deep and hard, as I pour myself into her.
The release hits hard. It burns through the rage and the fear. For a few seconds, I’m nothing. I’m no one. There is only sensation.
I hold her, pinned against the wall, as the waves subside. My pulse hammers against hers, our breathing loud and ragged, filling the silence of the room.
Slowly, gravity returns, and the world comes back into focus. I lower her feet to the floor on weak legs, leaning my forehead against hers and closing my eyes. We stay there for a long time—tangled together, sweating, bleeding, breathing.
Then, she pulls away.
I open my eyes.
She’s staring at me, and she looks... terrified.
The wild, animal panic of the crash is gone. The adrenaline is fading. In its place settles a cold, quiet dread.
She touches her lips, finding them swollen. She looks down at herself—at the ruined shirt hanging off her shoulder, at the bruises blooming on her skin, and at the cum leaking down her inner thigh.
“Oh god,” she whispers.
Stepping back, she stumbles slightly, grabbing the edge of the dresser to steady herself.
“Iris,” I say, reaching for her.
“Don’t,” she says. She holds up a hand. “Don’t touch me.”
The pieces fall into place, bit by bit.
“I...” She shakes her head. “I wanted that.”
“It was adrenaline,” I say, giving her the out. “It was shock.”
“No,” she says. Her voice is hollow. “It wasn’t shock. I wanted you.”
She looks at the bed. At the door. The realization hits her—horror contorting her face.
“I need a shower,” she whispers.
She turns and walks into the bathroom, closing the door with a quiet click.
I stand alone in the dark room, smelling of sex. My hands are steady now. The tremor is gone. But as the shower turns on, I realize the truth.
I won the battle.
I saved her life. I claimed her body. But I’ve broken her in a way that bullets never could.
