I come.
It hits me like a train, pleasure whiting out my vision, my body seizing. I spill over his fist, onto my own stomach, making a mess of us both. He works me through it, gentler now, murmuring words I can't quite hear.
When it's over, we lie there in the grass, breathing hard, covered in sweat and cum and melting snow.
"We should probably get up," Jonah says eventually.
"Probably."
"The ground is wet."
"Very."
"We're going to catch cold."
"Likely."
Neither of us moves.
"Hey," he says, tilting his head to look at me. "I love you."
"I love you too." The words come easier now. Still foreign, but less frightening. "I'm glad you're alive."
"Me too." He grins, that shit eating grin that I've come to love. "Now help me up. I'm stuck."
I help him up. We brush grass and dirt from our clothes, make ourselves presentable enough to walk back to the farmhouse. The sun is warm on our faces, the forest quiet around us.
"Same time tomorrow?" he laughs with a wink.
"We'll see."
"I'll take that as a yes."
Chapter Twenty: Jonah
Thefrontdoorslamsopen hard enough to crack the wall behind it.
I'm on my feet before I register moving, reaching for a weapon I don't have. Jagger is faster, gun already drawn, pointed at the doorway.
A man fills the frame.
He's massive. Not quite as tall as Jinx but broader, built like a brick shithouse wrapped in a leather jacket. His head is shaved, his nose crooked from multiple breaks, and his hands are covered in faded tattoos that look like they came from a prison cell. He surveys the room with flat, dark eyes that miss nothing.
"What the fuck," Jinx says from somewhere behind me, "are you doing here?"
The man's gaze lands on Jinx. Amusement flickers in his expression.
"It's my cabin, dickhead."
The silence that follows is deafening.
Jagger hasn't lowered his gun. Jace has appeared from nowhere, knife in hand. Elliot is pressed against the far wall, eyeswide. And Jinx is standing in the middle of the living room, looking like someone just punched him in the gut.
"Your cabin," Jinx repeats flatly.
"My cabin. My contact. My safe house." The man steps inside, closing the door behind him with deliberate care. His boots are heavy on the wooden floor, each step measured. "Did you think Margot owned this place? She's my aunt. She called me when three men and a wounded journalist showed up needing somewhere to hide."
"She didn't mention—"
