"I thought I wasn't going to see you again." His voice cracked halfway through the sentence. "They showed me a picture of you on the steps. I thought that was it."
I turned.
He looked up at me, eyes wide and hollow, but focused. He was slipping back into himself by increments.
"You're here." It was all I could manage.
His mouth opened. Closed. Then he stood—not steadily, but under his own power—and crossed the space between us in three steps that cost him everything. His hands landed on my chest. Not gripping. Resting. Contact.
"Matthew," he whispered.
He didn't ask for permission. He shoved me. Hard. Right into the wall, and then kissed me like the world had tilted and we were sliding off the edge.
There was nothing gentle in it. His teeth clicked against mine. His breath hitched with pain when I reached for his side, but he didn't pull away.
Dorian bit my lower lip like he needed proof that I tasted the same. And then he pushed again, and this time I went where he aimed—backward, onto the bed, dragging him down with me.
His body felt too warm and too wired. He straddled my thighs, hands trembling as he shoved my hoodie back, pressing his lips to my collarbone.
I rolled us gently, careful of the bandage on his side. "We're not safe yet," I whispered against his cheek.
"Don't care." He hooked a hand into the waistband of my jeans, breath hot in my ear. "I need to feel something real."
We shed only what was required. We'd be too exposed and vulnerable otherwise. Just enough fabric was pulled back to reach bare skin.
His torso displayed fresh damage in vivid detail, but when I touched the unmarked hollow of his throat, he leaned into it, full of desire.
He was trembling, but it wasn't fear. I felt the vibrations up through my jaw. He shuddered when my palm slid under his ribs, upward along the contours of muscle and bone.
I was careful around the tender places—not only the fresh injuries, but the deeper aches that had never quite resolved. Healing happened in layers, and some layers took longer than others.
Our movements had no planned choreography—only Dorian's thigh wedged between my knees. He tried to flip me over like we were wrestling for dominance back in the cabin.
I pinned his right wrist above his head and breathed him in. He stank of disinfectant and the brackish tang of adrenaline sweat. His pulse banged against my fingers, and his face was open and defenseless. Something broke in my throat.
He arched his hips up, and I let my hand drift between us, feeling his hardness through denim. He kissed me again, less violently this time.
Somewhere in the next room, Michael and Marcus argued in low, strategic voices—debating escape routes and possible timelines. Dorian ignored them and clawed my shirt off my shoulders. I couldn't tell whether he was trying to get closer or tear a piece off of me to keep for himself.
I slid my palm down the bruised slope of his abdomen. He made a noise when I pressed there—a sound between a whimper and a yelp of pain.
I undid his belt buckle, pushing the denim down just enough to expose him. He dragged my hand to his cock, forcing my fingers around him. I saw raw hunger in his eyes.
When I kissed him again, he bit back a sob. He rocked his hips into my grip, every movement animal and frantic. I ached for him, and kept my lips locked against his, taking his tongue into my mouth.
He came quickly, all the tension erupted in a single violent spasm, and after, he wouldn't let me go. Sweat cooled on his skin, and he rolled me under him, burying his face against my neck until his breathing steadied.
"Fuck," he said. "Fuck, Matthew. I thought I'd never—" He cut the sentence off with another kiss.
"You can let go. I'm not going anywhere."
He laughed, sharp and a little wild. "You're going to have to prove that. Once wasn't enough."
I pulled him down, letting my fingers brush the sensitive underside of his cock—still flushed and twitching in the afterglow. "I can try again."
He hissed, and I heard a chuckle. "You're an asshole."
I grinned against his throat, scraping my teeth against his stubble.
