Page 87 of Lost in Fire

I struggle against his grip on my wrists, not to escape but to test the restraint. He holds firm, understanding what I need without being told—the surrender of control, the permission to feel without thinking.

“Please,” I gasp, not caring how desperate I sound. “I need to feel you.”

He releases my wrists only to spin me around, facing the wall. The position should make me feel vulnerable, but with him, it feels like sanctuary. His chest presses against my back, one arm wrapping around my waist to hold me steady while the other works at the fastenings of his pants.

“Every night,” he murmurs against my ear, his breath hot on my skin. “Every fucking night I thought about this.”

When he enters me from behind, it’s in one powerful thrust that steals what little breath I have left. The stretch and burn is exquisite—painful in all the right ways, a physical reminder of how long we’ve been apart. I brace against the wall, pushing back to take him deeper, and his groan vibrates through both our bodies.

“You’re still mine,” he says, half question, half declaration as he begins to move. “Tell me you’re still mine.”

“Yours,” I confirm, the word breaking on a gasp as he hits that perfect spot inside me. “Always. Even when I couldn’t be.”

His rhythm speeds up, each thrust driving me against the wall with controlled force. One hand slides up to cover my mouth again, muffling the sounds I can’t contain. The other reaches between my legs, circling my clit until my vision blurs at the edges.

“I need to see you,” he pants, suddenly withdrawing. Before I can protest the loss, he turns me around, lifting me against the wall. “Wrap your legs around me.”

The chains limit my movement, but I manage, locking my ankles at the small of his back as he enters me again. In this position, I can see his face—the intensity of his focus, the raw emotion he no longer bothers to hide. Our breath mingles as he drives into me with renewed purpose.

“Look at me,” he commands when my eyes start to flutter closed with pleasure.

I obey, holding his gaze as the pressure builds to breaking point. When it finally shatters, it’s with his name on my lips and tears on my cheeks—pleasure so intense it borders on pain, release so complete it feels like absolution.

He follows moments later, burying his face against my neck to muffle his groan as his cock tenses and throbs inside mine. For long moments, we stay locked together, trembling, neither willing to break the connection that cost us so much to regain.

Finally, he lowers me gently to my feet, steadying me when my legs threaten to give way. With careful hands, he readjusts my clothing, covering the marks his passion has left on my skin. I do the same for him, our movements almost reverent in their tenderness.

“That wasn’t goodbye,” he says firmly, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “That wasn’t our last time. They’ll get here.”

I want to believe him. More than anything, I want to believe we have a future beyond these walls. That there will be quiet mornings and lazy evenings, time to relearn each other properly.

I lean against him, my head on his chest, where I can hear the steady beat of his heart. His arms wrap around me, creating a fortress of flesh and bone against the cold reality of our cell.

“Whatever happens,” I whisper into the darkness, “whatever they do to us, they’ll never break us. Not anymore.”

“Not anymore,” he agrees, pressing a kiss to my temple. “We’ve already survived the worst they could do—losing each other. Everything else is just details.”

His hand finds mine, fingers lacing together. We wrap our arms around each other, not in resignation or defeat, but in defiance—a silent promise that this reunion, however brief, has given us something the Syndicate can never take away again.

Chapter 29

Hargen

The cold concrete doesn’t bother me anymore. Vanya’s head rests on my chest, her hair spread across my ribs like spun silver. The single bulb overhead casts harsh shadows, but they can’t touch this moment. Can’t diminish what just happened between us.

I don’t recall when we sank to the floor. Her breathing has steadied. Not sleep—just contentment. A fleeting peace that feels stolen from a timeline where we were never separated, never broken.

I trace the curve of her shoulder. The mark there is new to me—a scar I don’t recognize running three inches across the pale surface. “When did this happen?”

She follows my touch with her eyes. “Assassination attempt. Six years ago. Syndicate traditionalist who thought the Shadowhand was going soft.”

Another reminder of everything I’ve missed. Everything stolen from us.

“We have a lot to catch up on,” I say, the understatement almost making me laugh.

Her chuckle vibrates against my sternum, warm and alive. “Where would we even start? With how you’ve spent your years? Or how I’ve spent mine?”

The guard’s boots echo down the corridor outside, a grim reminder of our borrowed time. Morning will bring either rescue or execution. The space between feels impossibly fragile.

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