Page 44 of Breeding Justice

“I can’t,” I murmured, shaking my head. “Not with Vito still out there. Not with—”

“Justice.” His voice was sharper now, cutting through my protest. He placed a hand on my shoulder, his grip firm but grounding. “You need to rest.”

The weight of his hand was warm, steady. For a moment, I let myself lean into it, closing my eyes against the flood of emotions threatening to overwhelm me.

“We’ll figure something out,” he said, softer this time. “We always do.”

I opened my eyes and looked at him. He was standing close, his expression gentler than I’d seen in days. There was something in his gaze—something unspoken, heavy with history and trust.

“I’m scared,” I admitted, the words slipping out before I could stop them.

“I know,” he said, and in that simple acknowledgment, I felt the slightest easing of the knot in my chest.

Zane moved to sit on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. He stayed quiet, his presence steady as my thoughts raced. My body ached, my mind reeled, but his calm felt like a tether keeping me from unraveling completely.

I reached out and took his hand, my fingers curling around his. His calloused palm was warm against mine, grounding me in the here and now.

“Stay,” I said. “Stay with me tonight.”

Zane hesitated, and for a moment, I feared he would say no. But then he gave a small nod, almost imperceptible, and squeezed my hand.

"I'll stay," he said, his voice a whisper that seemed to soothe the raw edges of my fear.

I stood and moved to the door, turning the lock with a soft click.

“They’re always invited,” I said. “But right now, I just want to enjoy you. Zane, I thought I lost you…”

Zane's eyes searched mine, as if trying to gauge how deep my words cut, how true they rang. In the silence, the hum of cicadas grew louder, a natural chorus that contrasted sharply with the turmoil inside me.

He stood slowly, every movement deliberate, and took a step toward me. "Justice," he started, but I didn't let him finish. I closed the distance between us, our bodies just inches apart. The heat from his skin was almost enough to make me forget the pain in my side, the fear gnawing at my insides.

"I need you," I said, my voice barely more than a breath.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said. “The bullet grazed you, but…”

His concern was real, but so was my need for something tangible, something that could ground me in a moment of sanity amidst the chaos. I leaned in, my lips brushing his with a tentative softness. He didn’t pull away, but he didn’t press forward either, caught in the balance between wanting and holding back.

“I can take the pain,” I whispered, tracing the line of his jaw with my fingers. “It’s nothing compared to losing you.”

He kissed me then, slowly, as if testing the waters of a familiar yet uncertain territory. It was a kiss layered with history, with the unspoken words of two people who had been through too much together to ever truly be apart.

He knotted his fingers in my hair and pulled me closer, and I winced as the pressure tugged on my wounded side. But I didn’t stop him. The pain was a reminder that we were still alive, that we still had time—however fleeting—to make things right.

The kiss deepened, a slow-burning fuse that ignited something fierce and desperate within me. I clung to him, not just for the comfort of his touch, but for the hope he represented. Zane had always been the steady one, the rock I could lean on when everything else crumbled.

He slowly slid his hand down the front of my body, toward my underwear, his fingertips sliding down under the waistband. “Are you already wet for me?” he asked.

I could feel the heat of his breath, the roughness of his voice sending shivers down my spine. My body was betraying every rational thought, every worry and fear I had been holding onto. He was right; I was already aching for him, a desperate need to feel something other than the emotional wreckage that had consumed me.

“Zane.”

“You’re so fucking hot,” he said. “My perfect little slut.”

He tugged my hair back and kissed down the length of my neck.

His fingers moved with a deliberate slowness, teasing and torturous. "You need this," he said, his lips brushing against my ear. "You need to remember what it feels like to be alive. And that’s what you need my cock for, right, you pretty little whore?”

His words sent a shiver down my spine. He didn’t let me form a response before he stuck his finger inside of me, his thumb playing with my clit. “God, you’re already soaked,” he said.

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