Page 158 of What We Become

“How hard is it to find a loaf of bread and leave?” Fury whispers, and I hold a finger to my lips to shush her.

She leans in closer, and I can feel her pulse racing where her chest presses to mine—fear, adrenaline, that edge she thrives on. We stay frozen, breathing shallow. Fury shifts minutely, her body molding to me, and I tighten my grip on her waist—part warning, part reassurance. No moving. No sound. Eli’s eyes meet mine over her head in the dim crack of light from around the door.

“Do we abort?” he whispers.

I mouth back, Wait.

The neighbor chats idly—something about the weather, school pickups—while Waldock mumbles responses. Minutes drag. My muscles coil tighter, the noose still clutched in my free hand, dangling useless for now.

Fury’s fingers find my belt loop, clinging, and I drop my head to murmur against her ear, voice barely a whisper. “Breathe slow. We’ve got this.”

She nods, lips brushing my collarbone, and the contact sends a low hum through me despite the tension. Eli adjusts his stance, his arm sliding around her from behind, sandwiching her between us in this coffin of a closet. It’s not the time. But she’s trapped and trusting and pressed against every inch of me, and my body has stopped taking orders.

Fury lifts her face just enough that her mouth finds mine in the dark.

It’s not graceful. There’s no room for graceful in here. It’s a press of lips and heat and nerves, her breath catching into my mouth like she’s trying to steal calm from me and give me some of her fire in return. I take it, kissing her back, hard and brief, one hand tightening at her waist while the other still grips the rope.

Behind her, Eli’s hand slides up her spine and settles at the nape of her neck. His mouth brushes the corner of her jaw, then her cheek, then catches her lips when she turns half toward him, split between us in the dark. She makes the smallest sound—swallowed fast, more exhale than moan—and I feel it in my chest.

Jesus.

The kitchen cabinet shuts.

All three of us go still.

Marla keeps talking. Something about lunch boxes. Something about a field trip. My pulse is a war drum in my throat. Fury’s fingers are fisted in my shirt now, and I can feel Eli crowding closer behind her, all heat and tension, his breath feathering against her ear.

She tips her head back against his shoulder and he kisses her again, softer this time, like he’s sealing the panic in. I drag my mouth down the side of her throat before I can stop myself, a rough touch of lips to skin. Her body shivers between us.

The old law beneath every plan is simple: if something goes wrong, I get Fury out. It settled into me the night she wrapped both hands around my knife on the beach, and every threat since has driven it deeper.

But she isn’t panicking. Her pulse is fast and her body alert between Eli and me, yet the hand fisted in my shirt is steady. When her eyes meet mine, she isn’t asking me to carry her out. She’s waiting for my signal to continue.

So I hold her, watch the light around the door, and wait with her. If this gets worse, I move. Until then, she stays because she chooses to.

Fuck. She wants this.

“Touch me,” she whispers.

I tighten my grip on Fury’s waist and slide my hand up her ribs, slow, giving Eli time to adjust to whatever this is becoming. She arches into the touch, her breath catching, and Eli’s hand at her nape tightens.

“Quiet or this stops,” I whisper against her ear, barely a sound at all.

She nods, pressing closer, and I find the edge of her pants, working my way beneath her shirt until my thumb finds skin. I trace the line of her hip, then higher, until I’m cupping her breast, feeling her nipple harden against my palm. She bites her lip to keep silent, her eyes closing, her body swaying between us.

Eli’s hand moves from her neck down her spine, slow and deliberate, until he’s gripping her ass, pulling her back against him. I feel the shift in her posture, the way she opens for it, for us, for this insane thing we’re doing while a woman hunts for sandwich bread with our target fifteen feet away.

I roll her nipple between my fingers, and she makes a sound—cut off fast, choked back—and Eli’s mouth finds her throat, sucking. My cock is hard against her stomach, trapped in my jeans, and I grind forward because I can’t not, because she’s asked for this and I’m going to give her everything she wants.

Eli’s hand slips lower, sliding beneath the waistband of her pants, and I feel her breath hitch against my mouth. I swallow the sound with another kiss, deeper this time, my thumb still working her nipple beneath her shirt. She arches into both of us, trapped between my chest and Eli’s, and I can feel every tremor running through her frame.

“Quiet,” I remind her, the word barely a vibration against her lips.

She nods, biting down on her bottom lip, her eyes glassy and dark as Eli’s hand slides down the front of her pants, his fingers finding her, sliding through the heat I can feel radiating off her even without touching it myself. I keep my hand at her breast, rolling and pinching, matching his pace with small cruel twists that make her thighs press together, seeking friction.

The neighbor laughs at something Waldock says, and the sound carries through the walls like background static. None of it matters. What matters is Fury’s mouth opening under mine, her body going pliant and tight at once, the way she rocks between Eli’s hand and my chest like she’s forgotten where we are entirely.

I break the kiss to watch her face. Her eyes are squeezed shut, her lip caught between her teeth, white with pressure. Eli’s mouth is at her ear, whispering something I can’t hear, and whatever it is makes her shudder hard enough that I have to tighten my grip on her waist to keep her upright. My cock throbs against her stomach, demanding attention I can’t give it, but I grind forward anyway because she needs to feel what she’s doing to me, what we’re doing together.