Page 71 of Cyber Revenge

This is the calmbeforethe storm.

And I want to drown in it.

I shift in the seat, trying to ease the pressure between my legs, but it only makes it worse. The jacket rubs against my clit, and my breath hitches again.

Jesus, I’m soaked.

Slick with need, raw with blood, soaked in him.

I bite my lip hard enough to taste copper. A moan almost escapes. But I swallow it down.

Trip doesn’t need to know. Not yet. Not until he gets us home. Then, maybe I’ll tell him. Or maybe I’ll show him. That I’m not just his because he saved me. I’m his because I want to be.

I’ll let him ruin me again. And again. And again.

I don’t care if it makes me twisted. Don’t care if Patrick has planted that seed of doubt about Trip, about the other women, about what this really is.

Patrick can rot in that basement. Because Trip came forme. He always will. And I know something now that I haven’t known before–I’m not afraid of becoming his. I’m afraid I already am.

And I like it. The headlights light up the road ahead, slicing through the dark. Trip’s hand twitches once on the wheel, like he wants to reach for me.

He doesn’t, though. Not yet.

But I know when we get home, he’ll touch me like I’m the only thing left in the world that makes sense.

And I’ll let him. Every inch. Every bruise. Every fucking drop. Because I’m not broken anymore. I’m claimed. And I never want to be clean again.

TWENTY-EIGHT

TRIP

Lydia is too quiet.

Her body limp against mine, her arms wrapped loosely around my neck, her face buried in the crook of my shoulder. I can feel her breath, soft and uneven, warm against my skin. But she isn’t crying. She isn’t shaking.

She’sdrained.

I tighten my grip on her, holding her closer, feeling the way her body molds against mine. The weight of her is familiar. Mine. But the silence–the fuckingstillness, is wrong.

My boots echo off the cold concrete as I carry her out of that fucking hellhole. The scent of blood clings to the air, thick and metallic, mixing with the distant trace of smoke from theexplosion I’d set off to get inside. My jacket is draped over her, wrapping her in my scent, but it isn’t enough.

I need her back.

“Stay with me, killstreak,” I murmur, my lips brushing against her temple, barely loud enough for her to hear.

Her body tenses just slightly, a whisper of awareness. But she doesn’t speak.

Fuck.

Patrick’s screams echo behind us, but I don’t look back. I don’t give that piece of shit the satisfaction of one more second of my attention. He’s nothing now. Less than nothing. He will bleed. He willsuffer. But not yet.

Not until I’m sure Lydia is safe.

I keep moving, my body on autopilot. Each step is measured, calculated. My truck is parked a block away, hidden in the shadows where no one would see. I move toward it with purpose, keeping Lydia pressed to me like she’s a part of me. And maybe she is.

Because without her, I’m nothing.

The moment I reach the truck, I open the door and ease her into the passenger seat. Her body sags slightly as I pull back, and for a second, panic grips me so fucking hard I can’t breathe.

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