Page 73 of Echo: Burn
"Does it hurt?" she asks.
"Not enough to stop." I capture her mouth again, backing her against the workbench. Weapons and gear clatter aside as I lift her onto the metal surface, stepping between her thighs.
"Here?" she asks, breathless. "Someone could walk in."
"I don't care." My hands work the button of her pants. "Let them. Let everyone know you're mine."
"Possessive."
"Always." I slide her pants down, taking her underwear with them. She's already wet, ready, and my hands are shaking with need. "Willa...”
"No second thoughts." Her fingers work my belt. "Not tonight."
I free myself from my own pants, and there's no finesse to this, no careful preparation. Just need. Just the desperate urge to be as close as possible to the only person who's made me feel human in years.
I push inside her and the sensation overwhelms everything else—tight heat that makes my vision white out, her body yielding and accepting me in one slow, perfect slide. She cries out, the sound raw and unguarded, her spine arching as her head falls back. Her hands scramble for purchase on the cold metal bench, nails scraping against steel, and I catch her before she can fall. My arms wrap around her back, pulling her flush against my chest as I start to move.
The rhythm is rough, unpolished, driven by desperation rather than skill. Each thrust rocks her against me, the metal bench groaning beneath us. Her legs lock around my waist, heels digging into my back, urging me deeper. I can feel every breath she takes, every small sound caught in her throat, every flutter of muscle as her body responds to mine.
"Look at me," I order. "I love you." The words tear out of me, raw and unplanned. "I love you, Willa. I love you and I'm terrified I'm going to get you killed."
Her hands frame my face, thumbs tracing my scars. "I love you too. And you're not getting me killed. We're going to survive this. Both of us."
"You can't promise that."
"Watch me." She kisses me hard, then pulls back just enough to meet my eyes. "I love you, Kane. Whatever happens tomorrow, I want you to know that. I love you and I'm not afraid of dying beside you. I'm only afraid of dying without having said it."
The words are out now, true and terrifying, and there's no taking them back.
I make love to her with everything I have. My hands memorizing the curve of her waist, the taste of her skin, the way she gasps my name. If this is our last night, I want to burn every detail into memory.
When she comes apart in my arms, gasping my name, I follow seconds later, emptying myself inside her like I can leave something permanent, something that proves this moment existed.
We stay locked together for a long moment, neither of us willing to break the connection. My forehead rests against hers, our breathing harsh and uneven in the armory's silence. The cold metal bench digs into my knees but I don't move. Don't want to move. This is real—her warmth, her heartbeat againstmy chest, the way her fingers trace gentle patterns on my shoulders. The armory is cold but I'm burning, skin slick with sweat, heart hammering.
"Come back to me," she whispers against my neck. "Promise me you'll come back."
"I promise." The words are easy. Keeping them will be the hardest thing I've ever done. "We both walk out of that facility alive."
"Damn right we do," she says, echoing my own words from days ago.
We clean up in silence, getting dressed, trying to look like we didn't just declare love and have desperate sex on an armory workbench. But when we're fully clothed and armed again, she catches my hand.
"I meant it," she says. "I love you."
"I meant it too." I pull her close one more time, breathing her in. "And when this is over, when we've stopped the Committee and saved those people, I'm going to spend every day proving it."
"I'll hold you to that."
We walk back to quarters hand in hand, pretending tomorrow isn't coming.
But we get four hours. Four hours where I hold her, where her breathing evens out into sleep, where I can pretend this is normal and we're normal and tomorrow won't come with bullets and blood.
Four hours isn't enough. But it's what we get.
The briefing at 2200 is quiet. Everyone knows the stakes. Everyone knows this could be the last time we're all in the same room.
"Rules of engagement are simple," I say. "We get in, we document everything, we get out. No unnecessary risks. No heroics. We're not trying to win the war today—just gather proof it exists."
