Page 23 of Vows & Violence
She kisses me like she’s drowning. I kiss her like I’m the breath that might save her.
When I slide inside her, it’s not just heat, it’s home. Her body pulls me in like it knows mine. Like we’ve done this for a thousand lifetimes and forgotten every time, only to find our way back again.
Her forehead presses to mine.
“You scare me,” she whispers. “I didn’t think I could care like this.”
“You’re not the only one.”
She pulls me in harder, hips rolling up to meet me. “Then don’t let me go.”
“Never.”
We move slowly. Then rough. Then slow again. Not chasing a finish but chasing a feeling. If we hold on long enough, maybe the spiral won’t swallow us. Maybe the world outside that door will wait.
When she comes, her eyes locked on mine, her body is shaking like she’s unraveling in my arms. I follow right after, breathing her name like it’s the only thing that’s ever made sense.
After, she lies against my chest, her fingers tracing the new bruises along my ribs. “Next time,” she says, voice raw, “you don’t get thrown across the goddamn room.”
“Next time,” I murmur, “you don’t run into the mouth of hell without backup.”
She doesn’t promise, and neither do I.
But we stay tangled. Skin to skin. Heart to heart. One night, one breath, before the storm takes everything.
Chapter Eleven
Phoenix
The first thing I register is his breathing. Slow, even, steady. The second is the ache in my body. The echo of last night sinking into my bones. The burn in my chest from a mark that isn’t visible.
Ghost is still asleep with his arm draped loosely around my naked waist. His pace is peaceful, for once. No worry lines, no tension. Just the man, wrapped in sheets and whatever fragile calm we earned in the wreckage.
I watch him for one breath, then two.
Last night, I chose him. Not for survival, not for strategy, just for me. And now, I’m already halfway gone. The cold edge of the world has crept back in.
I carefully shift, sliding out from under Ghost’s arm. Out of habit and survival, my feet hit the floor silently. My jeans from yesterday are stiff with dried blood. Some of it mine, most not. I don’t flinch from the sight. Instead, I find a clean pair and tug them on. My boots follow, laced tight. I slip a clean t-shirt on and sheath my blade, followed by my Glock, loaded and ready to use. I throw my leather cut over my shoulders like armor, because that’s what it is.
Ghost barely stirs. A twitch of his hand in the sheets, like he’s seeking me out. I pause and watch him.
I almost reach out. I almost brush my fingers over his chest. I want to let my lips touch his forehead, like he did to me. But I don’t. Instead, I slip out of the room without a sound. I don’t look back.
The hallway is quiet, save for the low murmur of voices from some of my sisters downstairs. Poison’s voice cuts through the haze. Orders are being formed, plans breathing in the walls. The world waits for no one.
I pass a mirror near the stairwell and catch my reflection. My dark hair is a mess, bruises paint my collarbone, and the bags under my eyes are darker than usual. Something glints on my neck, then I notice a piece of it missing.
Shit. One of my dog tags. It must have fallen off somewhere because I never take them off. Since the first day of boot camp, these tags have never left my neck.
One must have come off last night in the heat of the moment. It’s still in the room, still with him. I can’t take a chance and go look for it, so I leave it with him. Let Ghost find it and wonder why it mattered enough to wear in the first place. Let him feel the weight of it. Give him something of mine, in case I don’t come back. I head downstairs, armor up, and head back into danger.
The safehouse kitchen smells like black coffee and blood. The metallic tang still clings to my skin, even after I scrubbed my hands raw. Everyone’s gathered, except for Ghost, he’s still upstairs sleeping. There are scattered chairs, mugs, taped ribs, and tension thick enough to cut through.
Poison is at the head of the table with her arms crossed and her voice cold as steel. “Vale’s not dead.” She doesn’t pause for gasps or questions. She just keeps going. “That chapel was a ritual site. The spiral’s not just a symbol, it’s a trigger. Possibly amap or a doorway. I don’t care what it is right now, what I care about is who’s helping him.”
Viper taps the edge of the tablet. “We intercepted three comms lines since last night. All of them are burners, but they all lead to one of Vale’s known caches, and two connect to MC’s out of Texas and Georgia.”
“Could be alliances forming,” Gypsy adds, her leg bouncing and her eyes are sharp. “Or black market shit. Weapons, personnel. Could be military-grade, too. Someone’s helping him move bigger pieces.”
