"I killed her."
"I know."
"Made it hurt. Like you said."
"I know." He doesn't flinch. Doesn't judge. Just sits there, warm and solid and present. "Do you want to talk about it?"
"No." I crack open the water, take a long drink. My throat is raw, scratchy. I don't remember screaming, but I must have. "I want to stop thinking. I want to feel something other than this."
"Other than what?"
"Empty." I set down the bottle, turn to face him. "I spent my whole life waiting for that moment. Building toward it. And now it's over and I don't know what comes next. I don't know who I am without her to hate."
Asher reaches out, cups my face in his hands. His thumb traces a line up and down on my cheek.
"You're Jinx Harrison. You're a survivor. You're someone who just saved a bunch of kids from becoming what you almost became." His thumb strokes across my cheekbone. "You're the man I love. That's who you are."
"Is that enough?"
"It's all I got."
He kisses me. Soft at first, gentle, the kind of kiss you give someone who's fragile. But I don't want gentle. I want to feel. I want to drown out the hollow ache in my chest with something real, something physical, something that proves I'm still alive.
I grab his shirt and pull him closer, deepen the kiss, turn it into something hungry.
"Are you sure?"
"I need you." The words come out rough, desperate. "I need to feel something that isn't this. Please."
He searches my face. Whatever he sees there makes him nod.
"Okay. Whatever you need."
He pushes me back onto the cot, covers my body with his. The weight of him is grounding, solid, an anchor in the storm that's been raging inside me since I walked into that office. His mouth finds my throat, my collarbone, the hollow above my heart. Hekisses each scar he passes, each mark of what I've survived, like he's mapping the history written on my skin.
His hands work at my clothes, stripping away the blood-stiff fabric, baring my skin to the cold air. The shirt sticks where Helena's blood has dried, and he peels it away carefully, tenderly, like he's unwrapping something precious rather than damaged.
I do the same to him. Shirt off, pants off, until we're pressed together, naked and wanting. His cock is hard against my hip, and I reach down to wrap my hand around him, stroke him slow and steady.
"Jinx." He groans into my mouth. "What do you need?"
"Fuck me until there’s nothing left."
He flips me onto my stomach, presses me down into the thin mattress. The cot groans under our weight. A cap clicks, and slick fingers press between my legs, working me open with efficiency rather than tenderness. One finger, then two, stretching me fast, preparing me for what's coming.
It burns. The stretch is just this side of too much, the pressure bordering on pain. I welcome it. Pain means I'm alive. Pain means I can feel something other than the ache that's been eating me from the inside.
"Ready?" His voice is rough, strained with holding back.
"Yes. Fuck, yes. Stop being careful with me."
He positions himself, the blunt head of his cock pressing against me. he hesitates, and I push back, taking the first inch myself.
"I said stop being careful, give me the pain, I need it."
He pushes inside in one long thrust, burying himself to the hilt.
I groan into the pillow, fingers clawing at the sheets. He's thick and hard and exactly what I need, filling me up, splitting me open, driving out everything else. There's no room for grief when he's inside me. No room for emptiness. No room for Helena's dead eyes or the sound of her screams or the wet crunch of her fingers breaking. Just sensation, overwhelming and immediate and real.
