“You didn’t destroy my life.” I pull back to look at him. “You changed it. It was brutal and terrible and wrong. But it also brought me to this moment, to you, to us. I…wouldn’t trade that for anything.”
He kisses me with renewed urgency, his hands sliding down my body.
I arch into his touch, needing this connection as much as he does.
We’ve been running for days, sleeping in shifts, always looking over our shoulders.
This moment of intimacy feels stolen, precious.
When he enters me, it’s with a tenderness that makes me almost cry.
We move together slowly, our eyes locked, our breathing synchronized.
This isn’t about passion or lust.
It’s about survival, about two people finding solace in each other when the whole world is trying to tear them apart.
We climax together, our bodies shuddering in unison.
Afterward, we lie tangled in the narrow bed, our skin slick with sweat despite the cool air.
Mikhail traces lazy patterns on my shoulder, and I listen to the steady thump of his heart.
A sound gains my attention.
A soft thump from the front of the house, followed by silence.
Mikhail tenses immediately. “Stay here,” he orders, reaching for his gun on the nightstand.
“No.” I grab his arm. “We stay together.”
He looks like he wants to argue, but there’s no time.
We dress quickly, quietly, and Mikhail moves to the bedroom door.
He peers out into the hallway, his body coiled and ready for violence.
“Father Miguel?” he calls softly.
No answer.
My heart pounds as we creep down the hallway toward the living room.
The afternoon light seems too bright, too cheerful for the dread pooling in my stomach.
We find Father Miguel in his chair by the window.
At first, I think he’s sleeping.
Then I see the blood.
So much blood.
It’s everywhere.
On the walls.
On the floor.
