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With one powerful, yet slow thrust, he enters me completely, filling me to the point of discomfort. I cry out, my body stretching to accommodate his size. He remains still for a moment, allowing me to adjust, his eyes never leaving mine in our reflection.
“Rule six,” he growls. “You are mine to protect. Mine to pleasure. Mine to mark.”
Then he begins to move. Setting an inexorable pace that leaves no room for thought, for doubts. Each thrust drives me forward against the counter, the cool marble a counterpoint to the heat building within me.
One hand leaves my hip to circle my throat, applying firm pressure that restricts my breathing just enough to make my pulse race. His fingers squeeze lightly, a gesture of possession that should terrify me but instead sends a fresh wave of pleasure through me. In the mirror, the image is mesmerising, his massive frame engulfing mine, his hand restricting my breath, his expression one of focused intensity as he claims me.
“You’re going to come again,” he says, not a question but a fact. “This time, while I’m inside you.”
His hand drops from my throat to find my clit, teasing with ruthless precision. Stars flash in my vision with the suddenchange in blood flow to my head. The dual stimulation, his cock stretching me from behind, his fingers working me from the front, quickly rebuilds the pressure that had barely subsided from my earlier release. Cole’s other hand still wrapped in my hair, pulls me more, making my back arch, deepening the angle.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, feeling my internal muscles tighten around him. “Let go.”
I come with stunning force, tearing a moan from my throat as my body convulses around him. Cole’s pace accelerates, his thrusts becoming harder, deeper, chasing his own release. With a guttural groan, he pulls out at the last second, his come hot against my back, a primitive marking that feels oddly right in this new, blazing relationship, or whatever this is.
For several moments, we remain frozen in position, me bent over the counter, him behind me, both of us breathing hard. In the reflection, I catch his expression as he looks down at me. Possessive, satisfied, and something else that looks like concern.
Gently, he turns me to face him, his hands cupping my face with surprising tenderness. “You okay?”
His question seems almost absurd after what we’ve just done, yet I understand its importance. “Yes,” I say, surprised to find it’s true. Despite the intensity, despite the boundaries crossed, I feel strangely alive, present in a way I haven’t been since witnessing the executions.
Cole reaches for a towel, wetting it with warm water before carefully cleaning the strings of come from my skin. The tenderness of this act, coming after such intensity, creates a confusing jumble of emotions in my chest.
“Aftercare is part of the rules too,” he says, as if reading my thoughts. “I push, but I also take care of what’s mine.”
What’s his. The possessive language should bother me. Instead, it feels like a lifeline in a world twisted upside down. A certainty when everything else is in chaos.
As he wraps a towel around me, then another around his waist, reality begins to filter back in. Borsellini, my case, my life, all remain in danger.
Exhaustion finally catches up with Cole. Despite his superhuman stamina, he’s been awake for nearly forty-eight hours straight.
“You need sleep,” I tell him as we return to the living area, both dressed in the casual clothes he’d provided. “I don’t care how trained you are; no one functions well after two days without rest.”
He looks ready to argue, but a poorly concealed yawn undermines his protest. “Fine. Two hours. Wake me if anything changes on the monitors.”
I nod, oddly touched by this minor concession to human frailty. It humanizes him in a way our intimate encounter somehow didn’t. He stretches out on the sofa where I’d slept earlier, hardly fitting the length. Within minutes, his breathing deepens and evens out, though I notice his hand remains close to the weapon holstered at his side even in sleep.
I take his place at the monitoring station, watching the screens that display the cabin’s perimeter. The reality of our situation, Borsellini’s hunters, the corrupted agents, my uncertain future, seems momentarily distant as I watch Cole sleep. In repose, the hard lines of his face soften slightly, making him look younger, though no less dangerous.
Here, in this strange cabin with this dangerous man, I’ve found something unexpected. A surrender that feels paradoxically like strength, a loss of control that offers its own kind of freedom. A reality where survival and desire have become inextricably linked.
6
COLE
Something moves on monitor three at 5:14 AM, and my stomach clenches. Not from fear, fear makes you sloppy, but from the kind of instinct that’s kept me alive when better men ended up in the ground.
A shadow slides between the trees, too deliberate, too careful. Most people would miss it. I’ve been trained to see the things that don’t want to be seen, and decide in the same breath whether they walk away or get buried. My blood runs cold. It’s not an animal. Someone’s watching us. I lean closer, adjusting the contrast. The movement doesn’t repeat, but my instincts never lie.
We have company.
I check the other feeds; nothing yet. But if they’ve found us, they won’t be alone. Alessio doesn’t send scouts without backup close behind.
In the bedroom, Molly still sleeps, her breathing steady through the cabin’s audio system. I allow myself five seconds to watch her, five seconds of weakness, before focusing on what matters: keeping her alive.
I pull on a jacket and slip outside, moving silently across the porch and into the tree line. The morning air is crisp, dawn just breaking through the pines. Perfect conditions to spot intruders; their heat signatures will stand out against the cold forest floor.
I walk for only a minute before I find what I’m looking for: a cigarette butt, still warm, ground into the dirt. Careless. The Borsellini’s usually train their men better.
