Page 71 of Ruthless

He collapsed on top of me, both of us panting. After a moment, he carefully pulled out, both of us hissing at the loss.

"Fuck," I said eloquently.

"Yeah," he agreed, pressing kisses to the marks he'd left. "Was that... okay?"

I laughed, slightly hysterical. "Okay? Luka, that was... I don't even have words."

"I didn't hurt you?" He seemed genuinely concerned now.

"You were perfect," I assured him. "The way you held back even when I gave you permission not to... Fuck, that was hotter than anything I've ever experienced."

"I think you broke my brain."

"In a good way?"

"In the best way," he said, kissing me softly. "No one's ever trusted me like that. Given me that kind of power and been turned on by it instead of afraid."

"Well, get used to it," I said. "Because I plan on doing it again. Frequently."

"Fuck," he groaned. "You're going to kill me."

"But what a way to go," I replied cheerfully. "Death by orgasm. They'll write epic poetry about your cock at my funeral."

He laughed and kissed me again before reluctantly moving. "Come on. Let's get cleaned up. You're going to be sore enough as it is."

In the bathroom, he insisted on cleaning me himself, applying the warm washcloth gently against sensitive skin. The marks he'd left already darkened.

"I really marked you up," he said, sounding partly proud and partly worried.

"Good," I said simply. "I want to feel them tomorrow. Want to remember how you chose to care for me when you could have hurt me."

Back in bed, he pulled me against him, my back to his chest. But after a few minutes, I felt him tense slightly, pulling back just enough to create space between us.

"Hey," I said softly, not pursuing, just acknowledging. "It's okay."

"I don't—" he started, then stopped, frustrated. "I don't know how to be after... all that."

"You don't have to know," I told him. "We'll figure it out as we go."

He was quiet for a long moment. Then: "What if I can't do this? What if tomorrow I'm back to being..."

"Then we'll work with whoever shows up tomorrow," I said. "That's what this is, Luka. Not a magical fix. Just... showing up for each other."

"The dream," he said after a little while. "It was about Ana. The night they took her while I hid in the crawl space like a fucking coward.”

I wanted to tell him it wasn't his fault, that no child could have done anything against armed soldiers. But I knew the guilt had rooted too deep for rational arguments. Instead, I just listened.

"She was my other half," he continued, his eyes distant, seeing something far beyond our darkened room. "We created our own language. Words, signals, everything. Two taps meant danger. Threemeant 'I love you.' We could communicate across a crowded room without anyone knowing."

I pictured two dark-haired children with identical ice-blue eyes, signaling secret messages while adults remained oblivious. Two halves of a whole, suddenly, violently separated.

"She was a caretaker, like you," he continued, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "She always had candy to share. These bright red cherry ones. When the other kids were scared during the bombings, she'd pass them around."

His voice held a tenderness I'd never heard before, a glimpse of the child he might have been, had the world not broken him.

"In the dream, she's in a mass grave." His voice fractured, each word scraping out painfully. "I always know which one is her. She's holding that red candy wrapper."

His body convulsed against mine, a tremor that started in his chest and radiated outward. A sound escaped him—not quite a sob, but something more primal, as if his grief had physical form and was clawing its way out through his throat.

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