He steps closer and begins to strip me. He does not use the raw, ripping violence he displayed in the cabin. He moves with a slow, deliberate, agonizing reverence. He gently pulls the heavy sweater over my head. He unbuttons my damp, stiff thermal pants and pushes them down my legs. He takes my blood-stained clothes and tosses them carelessly into a pile in the corner.
Then he sheds his own gear. His shirt hits the floor. His chest is lean, pale, and hard with muscle. The silver streaks in his hair catch the low light. The sharp lines of his collarbones and ribs map a body built for distance and endurance, not display.
He takes my hand and leads me into the attached bathroom. The walk-in shower is constructed of dark slate tiles and equipped with multiple brass showerheads.
He turns the water on. Thick white steam immediately billows into the air.
We step beneath the spray. The scalding hot water hits my freezing, battered skin. I hiss, my muscles locking up from the sudden temperature change.
Santi immediately pulls my back flush against his chest. He grabs a heavy bar of expensive soap. He begins to wash me. His calloused hands are shockingly gentle as they slide over my bruised hips, my scraped, purple knees, and the edges of the bandage still taped to my forehead. He methodically cleans the dried blood, sweat, and wilderness dirt away.
I close my eyes and lean all my weight back into his solid, immovable strength.
I have been alone for years. I learned through brutal necessity how to fix my own engines, negotiate my own contracts, and fight my own battles. I learned to need no one. The mere concept of relying on another human being has always felt like a fatal weakness. A vulnerability I simply could not afford to indulge.
But standing here in this luxurious shower, surrounded by the thick steam and the intoxicating scent of expensive soap layered over old paper and gunmetal, I realize something utterly terrifying.
I am not afraid of the Bellanti family. I am not afraid of the hitmen, the guns, the blood feud, or the compound.
I am terrified of how easily I could let this man carry the weight of the world for me. I am terrified of how desperately I want to stay inside this fortress forever.
I open my eyes. Water slicks his dark, silver-streaked hair flat against his skull. He is watching me. His eyes track every micro-expression on my face. He always watches me.
"You are overthinking," he states flatly, his hands pausing on my waist.
"I am a pilot. I am professionally trained to analyze the entire flight path."
"The flight is over," Santi says, his voice thick with certainty. His wet thumbs smooth gently over my soaked cheeks. "You landed."
"I landed in the middle of a mafia compound."
"You landed in my bed."
I let out a wet, huffing laugh that echoes off the slate tiles. "You are incredibly arrogant."
"I am incredibly possessive," he corrects instantly. "There is a massive difference."
He turns me in his arms and kisses me. It is wet, hot, and fiercely claiming. His tongue sweeps deeply into my mouth, demanding total, unconditional surrender. I give it to him instantly. My hands tangle desperately in his wet hair. My wet breasts press flush against his inked chest. The spark of desire ignites, hot and fast, chasing away the last lingering, bone-deep chill of the wilderness.
He lifts me by my thighs. My legs wrap tightly around his waist. He presses my back flat against the wet slate wall of the shower.
He does not push for sex. He just holds me pinned there, letting the scalding water sluice over our joined bodies. He lets the certainty of our profound connection sink deep into my marrow.
"You do not need to fight the world anymore, Reese," he says, his lips dragging hotly against my wet neck. "You do not need to survive alone."
"I know exactly how to survive."
"I know," he says. He kisses the sensitive skin beneath my jaw. "But now, you finally get to live. With me."
We eventually turn off the water and dry off. He wraps me in a plush white towel. He pulls on a pair of soft gray sweatpants, leaving his scarred chest bare. I dig into his organized closet and pull out a soft, dark cashmere sweater. It hangs loosely off myshoulders, the sleeves swallowing my hands, but it smells like him.
We walk barefoot back into the bedroom.
The sun is beginning to set over Chicago, casting long, fiery orange light through the reinforced glass windows.
I sit cross-legged on the edge of the perfectly made bed. I look at the man standing by the window. He is looking out over the sprawling training yard, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. He looks like the perfect, lethal shadow forever watching the perimeter.
I think about my father's grave. I think about the empty, drafty apartment I left behind near the airfield. The stack of unpaid bills. The endless, lonely nights staring at the ceiling, wondering if struggling to survive was all there was to life.
