Page 46 of Poisonous Savage

"Harder," she gasped, her voice laced with the kind of darkness that matched my soul.

Iobliged, my thrusts growing more urgent, the sound of our bodies slamming together drowned out only by our moans and our desperate pants for air.Herdark eyes locked on mine, desire within their depths.Isaw the flames there, stoked by each movement, each moment of fucking friction.

Herinner walls clenched around me, pulling me deeper into the abyss of pleasure.Shewas the daughter of my enemy, the bright light to my darkness, my bride.Butat this moment, she was nothing but mine, body and soul.

"Rosalind,"Ihissed, her name a curse and a benediction on my lips as we spiraled toward that edge.Thecar shuddered with the force of our movements, a small space for the vastness of the storm we created.

"Fuck,Hunter!" she cried out, and the sound pierced through the haze, driving me to the brink.Withone final thrust,Iburied myself deep as we shattered, our release tearing through us with the ferocity of a bullet.

"Shit,"Ipanted, the aftershocks of our ecstasy still vibrating through my veins. “Thatwas… you are…”

"Yours," she whispered, her voice ragged and beautiful in its surrender.Andat that moment, despite the darkness that clung to my bones, despite the blood on my hands and the ink on my skin,Iknew that this woman, this force of nature, had somehow become the pulse in my goddamn chest.

Breathless, fuckin' spent,Islumped back against the leather of the seat,Rosalindwrapped around me.Herhead rested on my chest, the rise and fall of her breathing syncing with the slowing throb in my veins.

Thetaste of her lingered on my tongue, mixed with the metallic tang of adrenaline.Ibrushed a curl from her face, fingers trailing down her cheek.Thecontrast wasn't lost on me, the way my bloodstained hand looked against her beauty.Thecounter-point anchoring me here.Toearth.

Hereyes met mine, dark pools reflecting a man who took what he wanted, consequences be damned.Butin their depths,Isaw more than the reflection of a monster.Isaw a hunger that mirrored my own, a shared craving for the fire we stoked within each other.

She’dchanged me.Mademe a better man.Onethat would fight until the death for her, but one that also reconnected with the feelingsI’dhad to hide for so long.Shesaved me, and in that salvation,I’dfinally found my match.

MyQueen.

EPILOGUE: ROSALIND

FIVE YEARS LATER

Ihovered over the canvas, watching as tiny hands swirled crimson and cerulean into violent waves.Theboy's eyes, pools of past trauma, now danced with a spark that was damn near extinct when he first walked through my doors. "That'sit,Jimmy,"Imurmured my voice a soft hum in the chaos of concentration. "Letthe colors scream when your words can't."

Myfingers itched to guide him, but this wasn't about me.Itwas about them, these fractured souls fighting their demons with paintbrushes and charcoal.

"MissRosalind?"Atimid voice pulled me from the trance.Sarah, her ponytail crooked as her smile, held up a drawing—the image raw, a story told in pencil strokes.Herworld was on paper, yet she stood tall, no longer a hostage to her fears.Inodded, proud. "It'spowerful, love.You'vegot fire in you."

Theroom was alive, buzzing with the energy of healing—art therapy doing its goddamn magic.Thesekids, they'd seen hell, but here they were, shaping nightmares into masterpieces.Andthen there were the others, outside, thumping soccer balls into goals, each kick another fuck-you to the shit life had dealt them.Laughterbubbled from the field like some sweet melody, a soundI'dbleed for to keep safe.Thishad been a dream, andHunterandMarcoworked tirelessly to make it a reality.Asafe haven for kids whose fathers or mothers had died in the streets.Wegave them a home.Food.Afuture.Asmuch asI’dgrown accustomed to life in the mafia, it wasn’t whatIwanted for these kids.Theydeserved a chance.

Ileaned back, arms crossed, a slow grin curling my lips.Hunter'sworld was all shadows and blood oaths, but this, my slice of the empire, was where light fought the darkness—whereIruled with compassion rather than iron fists.

"Goodjob, guys!"Ididn't need to shout; they were always looking for my approval.Theylooked up, faces flushed with the high of simply living, andIsoaked it in—their resilience, their fucking defiance.

Iwatched him,Miguel, his little hands clutching the paintbrush, like it was a lifeline.Monthsago, he'd been a shadow in the corner of my classroom, eyes hollow, voice a ghost.Now?Thekid wasPicassoin pint-size, slapping color on canvas with a grin that could outshine the damn sun.

"MissRosalind," he called, his voice a shy murmur against the chaos of creation around us. "Look."

Isidled up, peering over his shoulder at the burst of blues and yellows swirling together. "Miguel, it's beautiful.You'remaking miracles here, kiddo."

Hischeeks flamed pride, and he ducked his head, hair flopping over his brow. "Youhelped me find the colors again," he said, so lowIalmost missed it.

Myheart thrummed asIran my fingers through his hair.He’dbeen a nervous wreck when he got here.Halfhis hair is missing, a nervous tick we’d worked on.Itmade me proud to know that he was using other outlets to express himself, my fingers massaging the slow-growing hair.

"Keeppainting,Miggy.Oneday, you’ll be in an art show.”

Hesmiled, sticking his tongue out in concentration and furrowing his brow as he kept going, one stroke at a time.

Dinnerclattered around us, silverware and laughter mingling in a symphony of domestic bliss—if you could call anythingCinderCrew'domestic.'Pastasteamed, rich with garlic and tomatoes, the scent wrapping around us.Mystomach growled loudly.I’dforgotten to eat with all the excitement of the third-grader's graduation today.

"Passthe damn cheese, will ya?"Hunter'svoice growled across the table, pulling a snort fromMarco.

"Sayplease, asshole,"Marcoshot back but tossed theParmesanhis way.

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