Page 38 of Brotan

"I needed to talk to you." My voice sounds small in this darkened room that smells of leather, motor oil, and his unique musk.

"It couldn't wait?" His jaw tightens, the tendons in his neck straining beneath olive skin.

"It can now," I admit, shame flooding through me at the recklessness of barging in here.

He turns fully, and I see what he's trying to hide—fear tangled with the anger in his eyes. Not fear of me. Fear of himself.

"I could have hurt you," he says, voice dropping to something barely audible. His fingers flex, then curl into fists, knuckles whitening against green. "I almost did."

"But you didn't."

"That's not the fucking point, Maya." The words burst from him, edged with desperation. "I'm not like you. I wasn't built for..." He gestures between us, unable to name whatever this is. "People get hurt around me. They always have."

"That's not true." I move closer, refusing to let him retreat. "You were disoriented. But you stopped. You recognized me."

"That's just luck," he snarls, but the anger isn't directed at me. It's turned inward, a self-hatred so deep it makes my chest ache. "You don't know what I've done. What I'm capable of when—" He cuts himself off, unwilling to finish.

"I know exactly who you are," I say, the certainty in my voice surprising even me.

Before he can pull away, I cross the space between us and place my hands on either side of his face, forcing him to meet my gaze. His warmth radiates through my palms, his stubble rough under my fingers. This close, I can see every detail—the golden flecks in his amber eyes, the subtle variations in his skin tone, the scar bisecting his left eyebrow. Lines of pain etched by years of carrying burdens no one should bear alone.

"You're not just a weapon," I tell him, my voice soft but unyielding. "You're a protector. For Gus. For that stray dog. For this town. For me. You've been trying to keep me safe even when I fought you every step." My thumbs trace the hard line of his jaw. "I'm not afraid of you. You need me to be. But I never could be."

Something in his expression shatters—the iron control slipping to reveal raw need beneath. His eyes drop to my mouth, then back to my eyes, a question in them that sends electricity racing down my spine.

"You should leave," he says, but his hands move to my waist, contradicting his words.

"Is that what you want?" I ask, knowing the answer but needing him to say it.

His grip tightens, drawing me between his knees until our bodies press together. His scent—leather and soap and something uniquely his—fills my lungs.

"What I want," he growls, voice dropping to a register that vibrates through my core, "isn't what's good for you."

"Let me decide what's good for me." My fingers slide into his hair, feeling its unexpected softness. "Just once, stop fighting this. Stop fighting us."

He leans in, hesitates a breath away from my lips, giving me one last chance to retreat, to come to my senses. To save myself from him.

Instead, I close the last inch between us. My heart stutters at his confession, at the pained honesty in his words. I've always sensed a darkness in him, a coiled tension held tightly leashed, but in this moment, he lets me see beneath the surface. Beneath the fierce warrior's exterior beats a heart bruised by a lifetime of violence and exile.

My body molds to his as I press closer. His large hands span my back, drawing me nearer until I feel the warmth of his skin through my thin shirt.

"Show me," I whisper, tilting my face up in blatant invitation. "Show me what I do to you, Crow. Let go."

The first touch of his mouth surprises me. It's tentative, almost reverent—at odds with everything his size and strength suggest. His lips are unexpectedly soft against mine, his breath warm while his tusks press cool against my cheeks. Then something breaks loose in both of us, like a dam crumbling under too much pressure. The kiss deepens, turning hungry and desperate, consuming. His tusks graze my skin, the slight sting only heightening the pleasure coursing through me.

He pulls back abruptly, and my world halts. "Maya," he whispers, lowering his forehead to mine. I recognize the pattern—he's about to retreat, to build walls between us as he's done before.

I refuse to lose him now that he's come this far, now that we're this close to the truth. So I play the only card I have—I whisper the name that echoes who he is beneath the armor he wears: "Brotan."

The sound transforms him. It's the permission he needed all along. He captures my mouth again, kissing me like a drowning man, and I'm his only air. There's new depth to it now, each slide of his tongue against mine suggesting more than desire. It feels deeper, more consequential—a claiming.

My hands explore his body, tracing the laddered lines of his scars, marveling at the strength coiled in his powerful muscles. He's so solid, so real beneath my palms that my head spins with the reality of him.

His hands move to my waist before tugging at my shirt. Our kiss breaks just long enough for him to pull the fabric over my head and toss it aside. My bra follows, his surprisingly deft fingers finding the clasp between my breasts. The lacy cups fall away, baring me fully to his gaze. Cool air brushes over my sensitive nipples, making them tighten. The sensation sends an intoxicating shiver through my body.

"Perfect," Crow breathes reverently, his large hands cupping my breasts. "So fucking perfect."

I lose myself in sensation, in the slide of his calloused palms over my skin. He lifts me effortlessly, my legs winding around his hips, and carries me to the bed. The comforter feels cool on my back, a delicious contrast to the furnace of his body covering mine.

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