“Lila,” he growls into my mouth, his voice rough with barely contained hunger, vibrating against my lips like a warning.
But I don’t want words—I want oblivion, a reprieve from Casey’s waxy face on the morgue table, from the damning recordings that could unravel everything, from the guilt that’s clawing at my chest like a living thing. My nails rake down his back, scratching through the thin cotton, leaving trails of heat in their wake, and he hisses, the sound sharp and primal, sending a pulse of desire straight to my core. I press myself closer, grinding against him, needing to feel every inch of him, to erase the distance between us with the sheer force of our bodies.
We stumble toward the elevator, a tangle of limbs and desperation, barely breaking apart as his mouth devours minewith the same methodical intensity he once brought to his rituals. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, claiming every inch, tasting of coffee and something raw, like the edge of a blade. One hand fists in my hair, angling my head for deeper access, while the other grips my ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh, pulling me up onto my toes. My heels scrape against the concrete, the sound swallowed by our ragged breaths. The elevator doors ding open, and he shoves me inside, pinning me against the cold metal wall with the weight of his body. The air inside is stale, heavy with the scent of cigarettes and industrial cleaner, but all I can focus on is him—his heat, his scent, the way his thigh presses between my legs, forcing them apart with unyielding insistence. His teeth graze my pulse point, scraping along the sensitive skin of my throat, not gentle but possessive, marking territory he thought he’d lost forever.
“You think I didn’t suffer?” he mutters against my skin, his breath hot and ragged, lips trailing fire down my jaw to the hollow beneath my ear. “Every fucking day, wondering if you hated me, if you’d forgotten me.” His hand tightens in my hair, yanking my head back to expose more of my throat, and I gasp, the sharp pull sending a jolt of heat through me, pooling low in my belly.
“I tried,” I choke out, my fingers fumbling with his belt, the leather slipping through my trembling hands. The buckle clinks as I free it, my knuckles brushing against the hard length straining against his jeans, hot and pulsing under my touch. “God, I tried to forget you.”
The elevator jerks to a stop on my floor, the doors sliding open with a groan, and we spill into the hallway, a chaotic mess of need and unresolved history. My heels click frantically against the polished floor as I dig through my purse for my keys, my hands shaking with adrenaline and desire. Kent snatches themfrom me, his movements precise despite the hunger blazing in his dark eyes, and he unlocks my apartment door with the efficiency of a man who’s broken into far more dangerous places. He kicks it shut behind us, the slam echoing like a gunshot in the quiet space, rattling the framed degrees on my wall—Dr. Lila North’s carefully constructed armor.
Inside my apartment—my fortress, my meticulously curated world—he doesn’t give me time to think. He spins me around, pressing my front against the door, the wood cool and unyielding against my overheated skin. His body cages me in, one hand sliding up my thigh, fingers catching the hem of my skirt and rucking it up to my waist with a slow, deliberate drag that makes my breath hitch. The fabric bunches, exposing the tops of my stockings, and he hooks his fingers into the delicate nylon, ripping them apart with a sharp, satisfying tear that reverberates through the room. The sound sends a rush of heat between my legs, my panties already soaked, clinging to my skin. His other hand yanks down the zipper of my dress, the teeth parting with a low, predatory hiss, and he peels the fabric away, letting it pool at my feet like a discarded skin. I’m left in nothing but black lace panties and the tattered remains of my stockings, the cool air of the apartment raising goosebumps across my bare skin, a stark contrast to the fire burning inside me.
“You’re mine,” he rasps, his breath hot against my ear, one hand splaying possessively across my stomach, fingers spreading wide to claim as much of me as possible. The other hand traces the curve of my hip, teasing the edge of my panties, his touch both a promise and a threat. “You always were. Even when I walked away, you were mine.”
The words should infuriate me, should spark a fight about autonomy and choices, should remind me of the years I spent forging Dr. Lila North into a weapon to protect myself fromexactly this kind of claim. But instead, they ignite something primal, a dark acknowledgment that he’s right. I’ve been his since that night in my father’s kitchen, our hands stained with the same blood, our fates intertwined by a shared act of violence. My body arches back against him, seeking friction, my ass pressing against the hard ridge of his cock still trapped in his jeans. He groans, a low, guttural sound that vibrates through his chest into mine, and he grinds against me, the rough denim scraping against my bare skin, sending sparks of pleasure-pain through me.
“Show me,” I challenge, turning my head to meet his gaze, my voice hoarse with need. His eyes are storm-dark, pupils blown wide with desire, the same intensity he once brought to his kills now focused entirely on me. “Prove it.”
He doesn’t hesitate. With a growl that vibrates through his chest, he spins me again, lifting me effortlessly, my legs wrapping around his waist as he carries me into the living room. My thighs clench around him, the friction of his jeans against my bare skin sending jolts of heat through me. We don’t make it to the couch. He drops me onto the glass coffee table instead, the surface cold and unforgiving against my back, sending a shock through my spine that makes me gasp. A vase crashes to the floor, shattering into jagged fragments that glitter in the dim light filtering through the blinds, but the sound is distant, irrelevant. All I can hear is the pounding of my own heart, the ragged edge of his breathing, the low hum of the city outside my windows.
Kent looms over me, his silhouette sharp and predatory against the slanted light, and he strips off his shirt with rough, impatient jerks, the fabric catching briefly on his broad shoulders before falling away. Scars mark his torso—jagged lines and faded punctures, a map of violence etched into his skin fromhis past life as the Carver. Some are old, silvery, barely visible; others are darker, raised, a testament to wounds that cut deeper than flesh. I reach up, tracing one with my nails, dragging hard enough to leave red welts across his chest, a fresh mark to claim him as mine. He hisses, catching my wrist in a bruising grip, his fingers tight enough to make my pulse throb under his touch. His other hand slides between my thighs, cupping me through the lace, his touch possessive, proprietary, the heat of his palm searing through the thin fabric.
“You want this?” he asks, his voice low and dangerous, pinning my wrist above my head against the glass, the cold surface biting into my skin. His fingers press harder, the lace doing nothing to dull the intensity of his touch, and I can feel myself clenching, aching for more. “You want me to fuck you like the world is ending?”
“Yes,” I breathe, bucking against his hand, the friction sending sparks through my core, my hips rolling instinctively to chase the pressure. “Make me feel something besides this guilt. Blot it out.”
His eyes flash with understanding, with shared darkness, and he rips my panties aside, the lace tearing like tissue paper, the sound sharp and final in the quiet room. His fingers plunge into me without warning—two, then three, stretching me with a sudden, overwhelming intrusion that makes me cry out, my voice echoing off the bare walls. The burn is exquisite, raw, a delicious edge of pain that grounds me in my body, pulling me away from the horrors of the morgue. He curls his fingers, stroking that spot inside me with ruthless precision, each movement calculated to unravel me. His thumb circles my clit in hard, demanding spirals, the pressure unrelenting, and my thighs tremble, my body arching off the table as pleasure coils tight in my core.
“You’re so fucking wet,” he murmurs, his voice almost accusatory, leaning down to bite my collarbone, his teeth sinking in just shy of breaking skin. The sharp sting sends a fresh wave of heat through me, and I clench around his fingers, desperate for more, my hips bucking against his hand. “Even now, with everything falling apart, your body knows who it belongs to.”
I arch off the table, pleasure building to a breaking point, but it’s not enough—I need him, all of him. My free hand fumbles with his jeans, shoving them down just enough to free his cock—thick, heavy, pulsing with the same urgency that’s thrumming through my veins. I wrap my fingers around him, stroking firmly, my grip tight and unyielding, matching the rhythm of his fingers inside me. He groans, the sound raw and guttural, his hips jerking into my touch, the head of his cock slick with precum that coats my palm.
“Nine years,” I whisper, my voice breaking as I guide him to my entrance, the blunt head of him pressing against me, hot and insistent. “Nine fucking years without this.”
Our eyes lock—his stormy with emotion, pupils dilated with raw need, mine wet with unshed tears, reflecting the dim light like fractured glass. He thrusts forward in one brutal stroke, burying himself to the hilt, filling me so completely I can barely breathe. The stretch is searing, a delicious pain that borders on too much, my body straining to accommodate him after so long. I wrap my legs around him, heels digging into the small of his back, urging him deeper, harder, my nails scraping down his arms, leaving red trails in their wake. He doesn’t hold back, pulling out almost completely before slamming back in, the table creaking ominously under the force of his thrusts, the glass cool against my overheated skin. Each movement is primal, punishing, a claiming that erases the years apart with sheer physical dominance.
“Fuck, Lila,” he grunts, his pace relentless, one hand bracing beside my head, fingers curling against the glass, the other gripping my hip so tightly I know I’ll carry his marks tomorrow. His thrusts are deep, unyielding, each one driving him deeper, as if he’s trying to imprint himself on every inch of me. “You feel…perfect. Like you were made for this.”
I rake my nails down his chest, hard enough to draw blood, thin red lines welling up against his scarred skin, and he responds by angling his hips, hitting that spot inside me that makes stars explode behind my eyelids. Pleasure spikes, sharp and overwhelming, bordering on pain, and I cry out, my voice raw, echoing in the quiet apartment. The room fills with the sounds of us—skin slapping against skin, ragged breaths, my moans mingling with his growls, the table groaning under our weight, threatening to shatter. It’s not sweet; it’s feral, a battle for dominance where neither of us wants to win, only to consume, to burn away the pain and guilt in the heat of our bodies.
Tears slip down my temples, soaking into my hair, not from pain but from the overwhelming rush of emotion—guilt, love, rage, all tangled together in the heat of him moving inside me. “Don’t leave,” I gasp, clenching around him, my body trembling on the edge of release, my thighs shaking against his hips. “Promise you won’t leave again.”
“Never,” he vows, his thrusts growing erratic, harder, deeper, his control fraying at the edges. He leans down, his forehead pressing against mine, sweat mingling between us, dripping onto my skin. “You’re mine, Delilah. Lila. Whatever the fuck you want to be called. Mine.”
The use of my old name—Delilah—snaps something inside me, a final tether to the girl I was, the girl who loved him in a blood-soaked kitchen, who watched him carve justice outof monstrosity. Pleasure crashes through me like a tidal wave, my body convulsing around him, pulling him deeper as I come undone. My nails dig into his shoulders, anchoring me to him as the orgasm rips through me, white-hot and relentless, my vision blurring with the force of it, my cries echoing off the walls. My body arches off the table, every muscle taut, and he holds me through it, his grip unyielding, his breath hot against my neck.
He follows moments later, a guttural groan tearing from his throat as he buries his face in the crook of my neck, his teeth grazing my skin as he comes, his release hot and claiming inside me. His hips jerk once, twice, then still, his weight pinning me to the table, our bodies slick with sweat and trembling with aftershocks. His breath comes in harsh pants against my skin, and I can feel the rapid thud of his heart against my chest, matching the frantic rhythm of my own.
For a long moment, there’s only the sound of our ragged breathing, the faint hum of the city outside, the distant drip of a faucet somewhere in the apartment. The shattered vase lies forgotten on the floor, its fragments catching the light like scattered stars. He lifts his head finally, his dark eyes searching mine, and he brushes sweat-damp hair from my face with a touch that’s almost tender—but not quite. There’s still that edge, that darkness in his gaze that mirrors my own, a reminder that we’re both predators, bound by blood and choice. His thumb traces my cheekbone, wiping away a tear I didn’t realize I’d shed, and the gesture is so intimate it nearly breaks me again.
“We’re in this,” he says quietly, his voice rough with exhaustion and conviction, still buried inside me, our bodies still joined. “No more running. No more hiding.”
I nod, my throat too tight for words, and pull him down for a kiss that’s slower this time, but no less possessive, our lips moving together with the weight of nine years of longing.His tongue traces the seam of my mouth, a gentle exploration that contrasts with the ferocity of moments ago, and I melt into it, letting myself feel the depth of our connection. The world outside—Finch, the recordings, the copycat—still waits to destroy us, but in this moment, with him still inside me, our bodies entwined like they were always meant to be, I feel something solidify: We’re committed now, fully, irrevocably, two predators choosing each other over everything else.
I shift beneath him, the glass table cold against my back, and he pulls out slowly, both of us wincing at the loss, the sudden emptiness a sharp reminder of our vulnerability. He helps me sit up, his hands steady on my hips, fingers brushing gently over the bruises he’s left, a silent acknowledgment of the marks we’ve both claimed. I lean into him, resting my forehead against his chest, the steady thud of his heartbeat grounding me. His arms wrap around me, one hand stroking my hair, the other resting possessively on my lower back, and I let myself sink into the moment, the quiet after the storm.
“Whatever comes next,” I murmur, my voice barely audible, muffled against his skin, “we face it together.”
