I shatter.
It’s a violent, white-hot explosion that strips my mind bare. My body convulses under him. My internal muscles pulse in a rhythmic, desperate sequence, clenching around his invading shaft like a hungry throat trying to swallow him whole. A flood of my own fluids gushes out around him, hot and slick. The sensation is so intense it borders on pain, a hypersensitivity that makes every subsequent thrust a glorious, overstimulating torture.
He follows me a heartbeat later. A guttural, raw sound escapes him as he drives in one last, brutal pump and holds there. I feel the hot, sudden spill of him inside me, a thick, pulsing release that fills the space his hardness has carved. His body shudders with the force of it, every muscle in his back and shoulders locking tight.
We stay like that for a long moment, tangled together in the wet, trembling aftermath. Him still inside me, softening slightly but still present. The mixed fluids of our bodies seep out onto the sheets, a warm, sticky pool beneath us.
He finally pulls out, a slow withdrawal that makes me gasp at the empty, sensitized feeling. He collapses beside me, pulling me to his chest. His good arm—the unbandaged one—wraps around me, holding me tight against the sweat and salt of his skin. I can feel the warmth of him, the steady rise and fall of his breathing. My own clit throbs.
He turns his face toward me. His eyes are still dark, but the edge of possession has softened into something else. Something warm. “That,” he says, his voice a rough whisper against my temple, “was just the beginning.”
"Your shoulder," I whisper, my hand resting on the white bandage. I pull back to look, and my heart sinks. A small, dark red bloom is starting to spread through the gauze. "Rafael, you’re bleeding. I told you?—"
"It was worth it," he says, his voice sleepy but firm. He pulls me back down, his chin resting on the top of my head.
“You’re insufferable.” I say with a smile I can’t help.
I close my eyes, a sense of peace I haven't known since I was a child finally settling over me. I’m safe. I’m with a man who knows my scars and isn't afraid of them.
But as I drift toward sleep, the memory of the silver wolf charm and my father’s threat flashes in my mind.
I love this man, I realize, the thought as terrifying as any bullet.
And if my father finds out, Rafael won't just be bleeding. He’ll be dead.
I hold him tighter, praying that the morning never comes.
CHAPTER 31
GIA
I’m awake before the sun has even managed to burn through the morning mist.
My body has its own internal alarm clock now, one that doesn't chime but rather stabs me in the chest with a cold, sharp needle of adrenaline. I lie there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, my fingers tracing the sheets.
Last night—the heat, the weight of him, the way he looked at me like I was something worth keeping—is still clinging to my skin. It’s eating me inside out, a delicious, terrifying rot that I can’t seem to stop.
Don't think about it. You can't afford to be soft right now.
I slide out of bed, my feet hitting the cool marble floor. The house is eerily silent. Usually, there’s the distant clatter of the kitchen or the heavy tread of guards in the hallway, but today, the air feels thin and vacant. I head toward the dining room, mystomach doing a nervous little flip-flop. I’m expecting a buffet and a half-dozen silent servants.
Instead, I find him.
Rafael is seated at the head of the long mahogany table. He’s discarded the sling, his left arm resting cautiously on the table, while his right hand flips through a stack of documents. He’s wearing a crisp white shirt, the top three buttons undone, exposing the hard line of his collarbone and the faint edge of the bandage beneath. He looks… healthy. Irritatingly, devastatingly healthy.
And God, he looks beautiful in the morning light.
"You're up early," he says without looking up. His voice is a low, morning rumble that settles in my bones, vibrating through the floorboards and straight into my core.
"I couldn't sleep." I pull out the chair to his right, the wood scraping softly against the rug. "Where is everyone? Did you fire the entire staff while I was sleeping?"
"Perimeter rotations," he mutters, finally setting the papers aside. He looks at me, his green eyes scanning my face with a disconcerting intensity that makes my skin feel like it’s humming. He lingers on my lips for a second too long, and I have to remind myself to breathe. "The O’Rourkes are quiet. Too quiet. I wanted more eyes on the fence and fewer eyes on my eggs. Sit down, Gia. Eat."
I look at the spread—fresh fruit, pastries, smoked salmon, and a silver pot of coffee. "Is this a trap? Is the kale smoothie hiding in the coffee pot?"
Rafael’s mouth twitches. It’s the closest thing to a genuine smile I’ve seen on him in days, and it does terrible things to my resolve. "No traps. Just food. I’m told your appetite is legendary for someone of your… delicate stature."
"Delicate?" I scoff, reaching for a croissant. Our fingers brush as I reach for the plate, and a jolt of pure, unadulterated electricity shoots up my arm. I pull back, but not before I see the way his pupils blow wide. "I’ll have you know I once ate an entire baguette and a wheel of brie in a single sitting in Paris. It was a dark time, but I survived."
