“I should walk away,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Should leave you safe on the other side of that door and not drag you into this any deeper.”
“Then why don’t you?” My voice was barely above a whisper.
His eyes blazed hotter, darker. “Because I can’t.”
Chapter 39
Lucy
Imoved first, or maybe he did, I couldn’t tell. All I knew was the sudden press of his mouth against mine. Soft at first, testing, then hungrier, demanding, like the years of silence and restraint had finally snapped.
My hands fisted in his kutte, dragging him closer. His hands spanned my waist, pulling me tight against the hard planes of his body.
The word clawed up before I could stop it.I nearly choked on it, nearly let it disappear. My pride screamed no, but my heart whispered yes. In the end, it slipped out broken anyway.
“Stay,” I whispered against his lips, desperate.
His forehead pressed to mine, his breath harsh. “Princess... are you sure?” His hands hovered at the hem of my dress, trembling with the effort to hold back. “This is the first and only time I ask.”
“I want this. I want you. Make me forget, Jay. Make me feel good, even for a little while. Please.”
The war behind his eyes was visible, loyalty, hesitation, raw hunger all colliding. Then his fingers caught on the torn fabric, sliding it down, and the dress fell away.
“Christ, Lucy.” His voice was a growl as his gaze swept over me. His fingertips traced the bruises on my ribs, fury sparking in his eyes. “I’m going to kill every last one of them. They’ll beg before I finish.”
For a heartbeat, I couldn’t breathe. His anger wasn’t aimed at me, but the force of it seared straight through my skin. I should’ve felt small under that look, fragile, but instead, something in me ached. Because in his fury I saw what he wouldn’t say out loud, how much I mattered. And God help me, even with his jaw tight and his hands trembling, I wanted him. My hand caught his wrist, stopping him.
“I’m safe. With you.”
His breath shuddered out, and then he was kissing me again, fiercer, like the world outside didn’t exist. My body answered, every nerve lit, every fear drowned under the weight of him. He unclipped my bra like a man who’d had plenty of practice and dropped my panties. He picked me up and laid me across the bed, gazing down at me with a fire that burned through me.
I reached for the edge of the sheets, but his hand shot out, slamming mine against the mattress. Heat and force collided, making me flinch. His eyes locked on mine, dark, feral, claiming, like he’d been hunting the moment since the day we’d sat side by side in the bar all those years ago.
“No,” he growled, low and rough, edged with danger and something I couldn’t word.
I froze. “No?” My defiance trembled beneath the tension, but I didn’t lower my gaze.
“If you want me . . .” His lips grazed my jaw, dragging fire down my neck, teeth skimming, leaving me raw and trembling. “Then make me take you.”
I lifted my chin, fire sparking in every line of my body. “Then try,” I whispered, daring him.
His grin was lethal, sharp, all Reaper. “Fuck it.”
He kissed me hard, relentless, until I broke away, breathless, pushing at his chest. For a heartbeat, his eyes went dark, unreadable.
“Not here,” I whispered. “Not like this. The blood... the dirt...” My throat caught. “I need it gone.”
His chest heaved. He stared down at me, and I thought he might argue, then wordlessly scooped me up, carrying me into the bathroom.
The steam rose fast as he turned the water on. He stripped off his clothes in silence—shirt, kutte, jeans, every layer hitting the tile until there was nothing left but him. My breath caught, not from the heat but from the sight of him laid bare, scars and ink carved across his skin like a map of every battle he’d survived.
For the first time, I realised we weren’t so different. His scars were on the outside, mine hidden deeper, but both of us carried ghosts etched into our bodies. Both of us bleeding in ways no one else could see.
Then his hands were on me, steady, careful, guiding me under the spray. The water hit hot, stinging against raw skin, but his touch was gentle, smoothing dirt and blood away, fingertips tracing bruises like vows he couldn’t speak.
“Every mark on you,” he muttered, voice breaking. “Every damn bruise... they’re mine to answer for.”
“Jay—”
