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The feeling of my orgasm triggering his own is instantaneous. He lets out a guttural roar, his hips bucking upward with a force that nearly knocks the wind out of me. He grips my waist so hard I know there will be bruises, and I feel the hot, thick jet of his cum erupting deep inside me, filling me to the brim.

I collapse onto his chest, trembling and breathless, my heart racing against his. We stay like that for a long time, the only sound the synchronized thumping of our hearts and the heavy rasp of our breathing.

Torch wraps his arms around me and kisses the top of my head.

“Okay,” he murmurs, and I can hear the grin in his voice. “Think I like your rules, sweetheart.”

A few hours later, I'm standing in the safe house kitchen, contemplating whether canned chili counts as an acceptable lunch.

“Who stocks this place?” I ask. “Someone with a personal grudge against vegetables?”

Torch looks up from his phone.

“It's a safe house, sweetheart. Not a restaurant.”

“A tragedy, really. You'd think hardened criminals would appreciate a decent meal.”

His mouth twitches.

“Keep complaining and you're cooking.”

“With what? A can opener and blind optimism?”

He laughs.

I like that sound far more than I should.

His phone rings.

“Striker,” he says, answering.

I return my attention to the cupboard.

“Yeah. What've you got?”

A pause.

I glance over my shoulder.

Torch has stopped smiling.

“You sure?”

Whatever Striker says makes him straighten.

“Send me the report. I'll handle it.”

He hangs up and looks at me.

“Madison, we need to talk.”

My stomach sinks.

“That's never the beginning of a good conversation.”

“Striker got a result from a DNA test.”

I blink.