Page 71 of Cage the Storm
Her hair tickles my nose as I move, careful not to wake her. I’ve memorized every scar on her body. But it’s the ones I can’t see that haunt me. Proof of all the times I failed her. She’d roll her eyes if I said that. “You don’t get to martyr yourself, Nico. I’m yours now.”
The baby kicks again, harder. I trace the outline of a foot, or maybe a fist, pressed against her skin. Strange, loving someone you’ve never met. Stranger still, knowing they’ll inherit this mess we’ve made.
“I’ll fix it,” I whisper to the dark. She stirs, her back arching slightly.
“It’s hot.” I lift my hand from her stomach.
“Better?” No answer. Just her fingers threading through mine, dragging my arm back around her.Stay.
I bury my face in her neck, breathing her in. The conflict will come at dawn—threats, plans, blood on the doorstep. But for now, we’re together. And for tonight, that’s enough.
Sleep doesn’t come. So, I stare at the ceiling, already plotting and planning. Enzo. My informant is buried deep in her father’s territory. It took six months to turn him—cash, promises, a carefully staged “rescue” from a rival crew’s hit. Now he’s my shadow in the old man’s empire, feeding me everything: schedules, inventory, weaknesses.
I’ll start with the ports. Luna’s father gets sloppy with his cocaine shipments, too busy funneling cash into his mistress’s offshore accounts. Enzo’s already planted the idea to route the next load through a dockworker with a gambling debt. All it’ll take is one anonymous tip to the Coast Guard, and the old man’s Nicaraguan supply becomes a public spectacle. Let him explain that to his Colombian partners.
Then the trucks. Enzo’s been nudging the mechanics to “cut costs” on maintenance. A few snapped axles, a rig flipped on I-80 with a full cargo of laundered cash. The old man’s distribution network crumbles by Halloween.
But the real prize is the warehouse off I-95. The one with the witheredFisherman’s Unionsign and enough heroin in its walls to kill a city. Enzo’s been grooming the night guards: free tickets to fights, bottles of bourbon, “gifts” that come with strings. By November, they’ll look the other way when the DEA’s “random inspection” kicks in.
One spark. That’s all it’ll take.
The baby kicks again, a tiny rebellion.
“Soon,” I murmur, hand splayed over Luna’s stomach. “I’ll make it safe.I’ll burn it all down.” And I’ll never force you into a loveless marriage for the sake of traditions. Big changes bring about new fucking rules.
She mumbles something, barely awake, and presses closer. She trusts me completely, even after everything I’ve done. I don’t deserve it, and I sure as hell don’t deserve her forgiveness.
Dawn bleeds through the curtains, and I count her breaths until she moans. Then her fingers curl around my hard cock, knuckles pressing into my abs like a plea. When I glance down, Luna’s staring back at me. Not sleepy. Hungry.
“You’re thinking too loud,” she rasps.
“And you’re supposed to be sleeping. It’s still early.” She winces as she rolls onto her back, but her grip doesn’t loosen.
“Sleeping is overrated.” Her thumb brushes the scar against my left ribcage, the one that almost stole me away from her. From my child.
Her father’s empire still burns at the edge of my thoughts. Until her palm slides up my chest, and all I smell is her.
“Luna,” I warn.
“Don’t.” Her leg hooks over mine. “Just, don’t think for once.”
It’s the rawness in her tone that undoes me. She’s trembling again, that fine tremor she’ll never admit to, and when her hips tilt upward, seeking friction, I groan.
“You’re exhausted.”
“And you’re stalling.” Her nails scrape my scalp, dragging my mouth to hers. The kiss is far from gentle. It’s all tongue and desperation, a language we’ve always spoken best. She tastes like sleep and everything I crave.Il mio Sirena.My siren.
My cock’s already hard in her hand as she guides me to her entrance; she’s so fucking slick against my tip. That I hiss, fighting for control.
“Look at me,” I demand.
She does, and her pupils are blown, lips swollen from my teeth. Her chest heaving with lust. The sight alone threatens to undo me. I push in slowly, savoring her gasp and the way her cunt clenches like a vise. Christ. She’s tighter now, the pregnancy making every inch a sweet, brutal friction.
“More,” she snarls, nails raking down my back.
I oblige by seating myself fully, balls-deep, her heat strangling me. Her legs lock around my waist, heels digging into my ass, and when I pull out to thrust back in, she arches off the mattress with a cry. “Fuck, Nico!”
I swallow her curses with a kiss, stealing her breath as I set a punishing pace. Her tits bounce with each snap of my hips, nipples pebbled against my chest. I bite one, sucking hard, andher thighs shake. “Touch me,” she pleads, clawing at my hair. “Please, I’m so close. . .”
