I force the stale air into my lungs. I lock the trauma back into its steel box at the bottom of my mind. I cannot afford to break down. Not here. Not now. I have a woman to protect. I shove the pistol back into the thigh holster. I wipe a bead of cold sweat from my forehead. I straighten my spine. The steel casing of my discipline slides back into place, cold and unyielding.
I walk back into the main living area.
Gemma is standing exactly where I left her. She is shivering, though the room is stiflingly warm. The adrenaline crash is finally hitting her. She shivers in the stifling heat of the room, looking exhausted and completely vulnerable.
"It's clear," I say. I walk over to the velvet drapes and pull them shut, sealing off the outside world and plunging the room into deep shadows. I flick a switch on the wall. A single, low-wattage lamp on the nightstand illuminates the space with a warm, amber glow.
She drops her arms. She looks around the room, taking in the dust, the gilded mirrors, the oppressive silence.
"How long do I have to stay here?" she asks. Her melodic voice is barely a whisper in the vast space.
"Until I say otherwise."
Her head snaps toward me. The spark of defiance reignites in her dark eyes. Good. I need her angry. Angry keeps her sharp. Angry keeps her fighting.
"You don't own me. You don't get to dictate my life. I have an apartment. I have friends. I have things I need to deal with."
"The Bellantis know your face now. You go back to your apartment, they will shoot you through the window before you even unlock the door. You go to your friends, you sign their death warrants and paint targets on their backs. You are staying here."
"For how long?!" she demands. She takes a step toward me. She tilts her chin up, exposing the long, elegant column of her throat. She is fearless.
I close the distance between us in three long strides. The clinical armor shatters entirely. The feral beast inside me rips the cage doors off the hinges.
I step directly into her space. I crowd her backward. She retreats until her shoulders hit the wall next to the entryway. My wide build eclipses her smaller frame. I lean down. My face is mere inches from hers. My fists lock at my sides. My rugged beard grazes the soft skin of her cheek. The sheer heat radiating off her body is intoxicating.
Sweet orange. Warm cumin.
"You are staying here until the threat is neutralized," I growl. My voice drops a full octave, rumbling deep in my chest. "You are staying here until I decide it is safe for you to walk out that door. And even then, you are not leaving my sight."
Her chest rises and falls rapidly, brushing against my tactical vest with every panicked breath. Her warm breath ghosts over my lips. "Why do you care?" she whispers.
I stare down into her dark, furious eyes. I do not have a logical answer. I do not have a tactical justification. I only have the undeniable truth pounding through my veins. The obsession. The possession. The sudden realignment of my entire universe around the curvy, defiant woman standing against the wall in front of me.
“Because I claim what enters my territory… and you are firmly inside it.”
She swallows hard. Her dark eyes widen. She does not push me away.
She does not know it yet, but her old life died in that fiery alley tonight. Her new life begins in this dusty, abandoned hotel. With me.
I will burn the entire city of Chicago to the ground before I let anyone take her from me.
3
Gemma
A wallof muscle and heat pins me against the faded floral wallpaper. His presence consumes the air in the small room, cutting off any route that isn't through him. Dust motes dance around his wide shoulders. His declaration hangs in the stale air, vibrating straight through my ribs.
My prize.
He says he will burn the city down to protect me. The raw intensity in his dark eyes strips away the professional mask he wore ten minutes ago in the alley. The guard is gone. Something else is awake now.
My spine presses hard against the wall. The rough paper snags the fabric of my ruined shirt. The man is a force of violent intention. His wide build consumes the space. The sleeves of his dark henley are pushed up to the elbows, exposing a chaotic sleeve of ink. Armor, complex knotwork, and a compass wrap around his right forearm. A skull tangled in dark roses stains the left. Every line of his body broadcasts danger. My every instinct bellows for me to run.
But there is nowhere to run. We are locked on the fourteenth floor of a dead hotel, fourteen stories above a city that just tried to shoot me to pieces.
The scent of him rolls over me—danger and security all at once. My treacherous body leans into that scent. An unbidden throb settles deep in my pussy, making the walls of my sex pulse against the denim of my jeans.
He thinks he can just bark an order at me and expect my submission and I will swoon into a puddle at his boots. Please. I survived the South Side restaurant hustle. I have chased armed robbers away from my griddle with an iron spatula.
