Page 11 of Vicious Vines

Liam pulls me down to him, a hand wrapped around the back of my neck as he kisses me and I come undone as he pounds up into me, chasing his own orgasm.

We sit there panting and wrapped in each other's arms, momentarily cocooned from a world that would tear us apart without a second thought. In Liam’s embrace, I could let myself pretend and dream of a future where we could be together without casting furtive glances over our shoulders.

But dreams are dangerous, and time was a thief lurking just outside our haven, waiting to steal these precious moments. So for now, I allow myself to sink deeper into Liam's hold, to savor the warmth of his touch and the promise it holds—that no matter how dark the night, we'd find our way back to each other. Always.

Pulling back just enough to glimpse the questions lingering in his dark eyes, I search for the certainty I feel ebbing from my resolve. The shadows play across Liam's face, casting doubt and highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw that set my pulse racing. Yet, as much as the darkness tries to obscure him, his eyes shine with an unwavering intensity that beckons me closer to the flame.

"Tell me we can make it through this," I whisper, my voice threading through the charged silence between us. It is a plea wrapped in steel, a vulnerability sheathed in the armor of hope. My heart beats against my ribcage, terror kept at bay by the hands holding me.

Liam’s fingers trace the line of my jaw, a touch light as feathers yet laden with unspoken promises. We move together, bodies drawn by an unseen force, to the shell of a couch that bore witness to our stolen moment. The cushion sags beneath us, but it is an island in a sea of chaos—a momentary respite.

The warmth from his touch seeps into my veins, emboldening me. I swallow hard, the taste of fear sharp on my tongue, yet beneath it lingers the sweet aftertaste of hope. "Liam," I begin, my voice trembling like a leaf caught in a gentle breeze, betraying the maelstrom of emotions that threaten to overflow. "I'm terrified."

"Of what?" He tilts my chin up so that I can’t escape his penetrating gaze, eyes like twin flames in the dim light of the hideout.

"Of this—us." My confession hangs between us, a fragile bubble ready to burst. "If our families find out about our relationship, it could unravel everything. The truce is delicate, held together by little more than spider silk and shadows."

His grip on my chin tightens, not enough to hurt, but enough to tether me to the present, to him. "Sloane, look at me." His command is soft but insistent, and I find myself unable to resist. In those eyes, I see an echo of my own fears reflected back at me, but there is something else too—a fierce determination that burns away the edges of my anxiety.

"Love shouldn't be a thing of fear," he says, each word etched with conviction. "Not for us. We'll navigate this labyrinth together and find our way out of the darkness. I promise you, we won't let the ghosts of old wars dictate our future."

I want to believe him, to let his confidence seep into my bones and replace the marrow of doubt, but I just can’t seem to cross that bridge, no matter how much my heart wants to.

Chapter 7

The night air is a tempest, rain hammering against the sleek curves of my black sports car. Kingsdale's streets morph into treacherous rivers beneath me, but I don't let up on the gas. I can't. The roar of engines is a constant thunder in my rearview mirror—Victor's hounds nipping at my heels.

I swerve, a dance with death and asphalt, the city a blur of neon and shadow as I thread through the chaos. The tires scream in protest, a symphony to my desperation, but I coax every ounce of power from the car's growling beast of an engine. My grip on the steering wheel is ironclad, each movement precise, calculated. I'd been born into a world where control is everything, and now it's all that stands between me and a bullet's kiss.

The stench of burning rubber laces the air, mixing with the petrichor of rain-soaked asphalt, a scent that spells both danger and exhilaration. It seeps through the fractures in my shattered windows, remnants of the less-than-friendly greetings from Victor's crew. Each breath I take is sharp, the taste of adrenaline bitter on my tongue.

They think they can catch me, cage me, but they don't know who they're dealing with. Sloane O'Neil doesn't run scared. I'm the storm they never saw coming, and tonight, I'll prove just how dangerous the lightning's caress can be.

A bead of sweat trickles down my temple, mingling with the rain that whispers secrets against my skin. Ahead, the alley looms like a treacherous lover's promise—narrow, dark, and full of peril. But it's a chance, a fleeting opportunity to slip through their fingers. With a sharp intake of breath, I swing the wheel hard left, my heart thundering in sync with the engine's roar.

Metal groans a primal song as I force the sleek black beast into the mouth of the alley. The city's jagged teeth scrape along its sides, a visceral reminder that there is no room for error. My muscles coil, every sense heightened. I am the eye of the storm, calm within chaos, guiding this hurtling mass of power on a knife's edge between salvation and ruin.

The rearview mirror catches the glint of pursuit—headlights that hunger for my downfall. They're closer now, emboldened by the scent of my desperation. I can almost feel their gaze upon me, ravenous and relentless.

My sleek black sports car, scarred from our deadly dance, groans in protest as I push it to its limits. Then, gunfire ruptures the night, a staccato rhythm meant to intimidate. Glass shatters, a spiderweb fracturing across my window before giving way to the void. Cool air rushes in, laced with danger and the metallic tang of bloodlust.

Ducking low behind the dashboard, my hands never falter; they know the dance of survival all too well. Each shot fired is a note in the deadly symphony that surrounds me, but I refuse to be its finale. I am not prey—I am the predator. Tonight, Victor will learn the true cost of hunting the queen of shadows.

I slide the car into a nondescript alley and kill the engine. The silence is deafening after the cacophony of the hunt. My breath comes out in white plumes that match the rhythmic beat of adrenaline-fueled blood throbbing in my ears.

Grabbing my phone and gun, I slip out of my car and head out on foot, hoping to slip away in the darkened streets. My stiletto heels click onto the pavement, the sound slicing through the hushed anticipation of the night. Each step echoes, a chorus of survival that resonates off the damp brick walls.

I move with purpose, my stride confident despite the palpable danger nipping at my heels. The scent of wet asphalt fills my nostrils, mingling with the electric charge of fear and excitement that defines my existence. The rain is a relentless adversary, turning the ground treacherous beneath my feet. But even nature itself can't quell the fire that blazes within me—a fire kindled by necessity, by the instinct to protect what is mine.

They are close, too close. The muffled shots wiz past as Victor’s men get closer, so I half turn as I run, shooting in the direction they’re coming from, giving me a moment of cover as I weave through the streets to shake them off. These men believe victory is within their grasp, but I am not a trophy to be claimed or a prize to be won.

My breath comes in short, sharp gasps as I round another corner, the slick cobblestones a testament to the city's age-old indifference to modern perils. It's not long before my pursuer manifests from the shadows—a hulking silhouette that blocks my only route of escape.

"End of the line, Sloane," Victor growls, voice rough as gravel, his presence an immovable object set against my unstoppable force. But he is mistaken if he thinks I am cornered so easily.

"Never," I spit back, tossing my now empty gun to the ground, where it splashes in a puddle. Predictably, Victor doesn’t have a gun on him, expecting his men to do the dirty work for him. I widen my stance, readying myself. Raindrops pelt my skin like tiny daggers, mingling with the sweat that trickles down my temple. My heart thunders, my senses heighten—everything narrows to the enemy before me.

He lunges first, a predictable move for a man of his size. I sidestep, using his momentum against him, my hand striking out in a blurred arc to connect with the tender spot beneath his ribcage. He grunts, stumbling, but recovers with a swing aimed at my head. I duck, feeling the whoosh of air as his fist passes inches from my hair.

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