My restraint snaps. I crash my mouth down onto hers.
There is no gentleness. There is only possession. My tongue sweeps past her lips, claiming the wet heat of her mouth. She tastes like coffee and adrenaline. She meets my aggression with her own, her hands gripping my shoulders, her nails biting into my skin.
I walk her backward until her spine hits the concrete wall. I pin her there. My thigh parts her legs, pressing against her center through the fabric of the shirt. She gasps into my mouth. A soft, desperate sound that sends a violent jolt of pure testosterone straight to my groin.
I pull back just enough to look at her. Her lips are swollen. Her breath is ragged.
"Mine," I growl against her jaw.
"Yours," she breathes the word into my skin. "Only yours."
The war is raging outside. The compound is bleeding.There is a leak in the system, and it is tearing my family apart. But I am standing here, in this heavily fortified room, holding the woman who just accepted my darkness.
I have never been more dangerous.
9
PRIYA
My back hitsthe concrete wall with a dull thud. The impact rattles down my spine, swallowed immediately by the solid, unyielding heat of Nico's chest pressing against mine. His mouth is unforgiving. He kisses me like a starving man who has lived on cold rations and just found a feast. The hard plastic edges of the access keycard burn a hole in my pocket. The tiny piece of black plastic carries the weight of a mafia empire. My fingers curl around it through the fabric of his shirt.
Most men bring flowers on a third date. Mine brings security access to a fortified compound.
His lips finally break from mine. Air rushes into my burning lungs. Nico doesn’t step back. His body is the wall. There is no space between us. His chest heaves. His eyes sweep over my face. He catalogues every eyelash, every bruised inch of my lips. He is off his leash, running on instinct and testosterone.
His scent hits me again, baked into his skin, mixed with the sharp metallic tang of fresh blood and the grit of pulverized brick. He smells like a war zone. He looks like a gargoyle whojust descended from a cathedral roof to murder someone for looking at me wrong.
My hands flatten against his chest. Tactical armor meets my palms. Kevlar and nylon. The gear is covered in a layer of dust.
"You're bleeding on my floor."
A low growl builds in his chest. The vibration transfers directly into my ribs. He doesn’t care about the blood. He doesn’t care about the tactical gear. He only cares about the fact that I am safe inside his arms.
"The floor can be replaced." His voice is gravel and smoke, harsh from barking orders and breathing dust. "You cannot."
I push against his shoulders. He is an immovable object, but the physical therapist in me brooks zero disobedience from stubborn patients. "Back up, Rambo. You need an assessment."
He drops his forehead to mine. He takes one long, ragged breath, stealing the air right out of my mouth, before finally pushing off the wall. The sudden absence of his heat leaves my skin cold. He steps back into the fluorescent light of the safehouse hallway.
The damage is extensive. Gray brick dust coats his hair, smudging the silver strands darker. A vicious scrape runs across his cheek. His tactical shirt is scorched at the shoulder, the fabric eaten through where a Bellanti round grazed him during the perimeter sweep. Blood drips steadily from his knuckles onto the linoleum.
He just tore through a Bellanti strike force. He reinforced the defense of his family's compound after the breach was already contained. He slaughtered his way back to me.
Panic tries to claw its way up my throat. The rigid clinical structure I use to suppress my trauma screams at me to run. The Bellantis firebombed the building next to my clinic. They nearly destroyed my life once. Now, they are back, crawling around the edges of my rebuilt sanctuary. The logical, surviving part of my brain demands I pack a bag, change my name, and disappear into the Midwest.
Then I look at Nico.
He stands still. His hands hang at his sides. He is not guarding the door. He is guarding me. His eyes never leave my face. His throat shifts as he swallows. He is waiting for my reaction. He expects the fear. He expects the rejection.
He is going to be incredibly disappointed.
"Kitchen. Now." I point down the hall.
His eyebrows snap together. A flicker of confusion crosses his face. The lethal enforcer of the Costa family doesn’t get ordered around by a civilian wrapped in his blanket.
"Priya." His voice holds a warning.
"Don't 'Priya' me. You're tracking biological hazards all over this ugly linoleum." I cross my arms over my chest, channeling every ounce of professional authority I possess. "Sit on the stool. Take the Kevlar off. If you bleed out in this hallway, I'm going to be extremely irritated."
