Something primal took over his expression.
“Then help me feel it,” he said as I released his hands, fingers digging into my hips as he guided my movements.
I complied, riding him with increasing intensity, chasing our pleasure with single-minded focus. His thumb found my center with surprising tenderness even as his hips drove upward with brutal force. The contrast between violenceand tenderness—the essential paradox of him—pushed me toward the edge.
The orgasm hit with devastating intensity, my inner walls pulsing around him as waves of pleasure crashed through me. His eyes locked with mine as my release triggered his own—his body jerking beneath me as he followed me over the edge. In that moment, we were both completely vulnerable.
We had seen each other—really seen each other—beyond conditioning, beyond programming, beyond masks.
I collapsed against his chest, aftershocks still rippling through me. My body would not stop trembling, even minutes after my peak. His arms came around me, one hand tracing idle patterns on my spine while the other remained tensed, ready to reach for the weapon on the nightstand.
Even now, he remained the perfect weapon—lover and protector in one dangerous package.
Reaper’s arms tightened around me, pulling me closer against him in a gesture so protective it made my chest ache.
“Mine,” he murmured against my hair, the word so soft I almost missed it.
I felt his body go still, surprised by his own declaration. The word hung between us, dangerous and new—maybe the first thing he’d claimed for himself since they’d stripped away his identity.
I didn’t contradict him. Couldn’t. Because in some primal, reckless way, I wanted to be his. And he, mine.
His eyes suddenly tracked to something on the floor. Following his gaze, I spotted the red poker chip gleaming against the floorboards where it must have fallen duringour frantic coupling. His fingers twitched toward it automatically, muscle memory seemingly stronger than conscious thought.
“What is it?” I asked, my voice still husky.
Confusion clouded his features as he reached down and retrieved it, turning the chip over between his fingers.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But it’s mine. Not theirs.”
His thumb caressed its worn edge with unexpected tenderness.
“Sometimes I hear cards shuffling when I hold it,” he continued, surprising me with the voluntary disclosure. “Laughter. A man’s voice…”
The vulnerability in his admission stole my breath. This was the first memory fragment he’d willingly shared, offered without prompting or pain.
“That’s good,” I whispered, touching his face. “That’s how we start rebuilding. One piece at a time.”
Sleep pulled at me despite my determination to remain alert. My last conscious thought was both terrifying and exhilarating: this connection was becoming something I couldn’t afford but couldn’t resist.
As my breathing deepened, I felt his fingers tracing what felt like letters on my bare shoulder. His lips pressed against my throat, breathing me in as if memorizing my scent.
“I choose you,” he whispered, thinking I was already asleep. “God help us both.”
Chapter 11
Maeve
I trailed my fingers across Reaper’s back, feeling the texture of his skin change slightly where the tattoo had been. Not removed—burned away, leaving a patch of scar tissue that puckered beneath my touch.
The pre-dawn light filtered through tattered blinds, casting bruised shadows across our tangled bodies. My skin still hummed where he’d touched me hours before, the memory of his hands making me hyper-aware of every point where we connected now.
A part of me still couldn’t believe we’d slept together last night, yet the rest of me was so at peace with it that I didn’t even question it. The way we fit together just… made sense. I had been on my own for so long, and now, I finally had someone to help me through all this.
“Rest,” Reaper murmured, his voice a low rumble against my shoulder as it broke through the noise inside my mind. His arm tightened around my waist, simultaneously possessive and distant—as if he’d remembered his programming and was now attempting to reestablish boundaries between us.
“Not yet,” I said, pressing my fingertips more firmly against the erased tattoo. Right now, I allowed most of my attention to be occupied by it. “Do you remember what it was? Before they took it away?”
His muscles coiled beneath my touch, and he remained silent.
