Page 24 of Unholy Night
"You're still humming," he says, voice rough as gravel.
"Nervous habit." I set down the rifle I've been checking, but don't turn around. Not yet. Let him look. Let him see what his darkness has created. The icy metal of the weapons rack presses against my palm, grounding me. "Though I'm not sure what I'm nervous about anymore."
"You should be nervous." His footsteps are deliberate, measured, predatory. Each one makes my core clench with anticipation. "You just became something else today. Something dangerous."
"Something like you?"
"Something perfect."
The word sends heat flooding through me, makes my knees weak. Perfect. Not despite the killing, but because of it. I finally turn to face him, and what I see makes my breath catch. He looks feral. Blood spray across his shirt, hair wild from combat, eyes black with something that has nothing to do with violence and everything to do with hunger.
The same hunger that's been building in me since I pulled that first trigger.
"Six kills," he says, moving closer, and I can smell him now. Gunpowder and blood and that subtle cologne that makes my mouth water. "Clean shots, no hesitation. You were magnificent."
"I was protecting what's mine." The words come out steadier than I expect, carrying a possessiveness that would have horrified me days ago.
His laugh is dark, appreciative. "Say that again."
"You're mine, Tomas Rosetti." I lift my chin, meeting his predatory gaze, feeling power surge through me at the way his pupils dilate.
He crosses the remaining distance between us in two strides, backing me against the weapons rack. The metal is cool against my spine, a shocking contrast to his furnace-hot body as hecages me in. I can feel his erection pressing against my stomach through our tactical gear, hard and insistent, and it makes me even wetter.
"Careful, prosecutor," he growls, but his eyes burn with approval. "You understand what this means? The family doesn't let people walk away. Once you're blooded in, you're ours forever. Blood oaths, family trials, the marks they give you to show you belong."
"I am the fire now." My hands find his chest, feeling his heart race under my palms, matching the violent tempo we've set. "We both are."
He kisses me like he's trying to devour me whole, teeth and tongue and desperate need. My tactical vest is still on, pressing between us, and he growls in frustration as his hands struggle with the straps. The taste of copper and gunpowder mingles between our mouths. Blood from where I bit my lip during the firefight, residue from weapons we both handled.
"Off," he demands against my mouth, yanking at the vest. "Need to feel you."
But I'm done being passive, done being the one things happen to. I bite his lower lip hard enough to draw blood, feel him jerk in surprise, then groan as I suck the wound. His blood tastes like violence and power, and God help me, it makes me clench around nothing, desperate to be filled.
"Mmm," I murmur against his bleeding mouth, then grab his shirt and spin us, slamming him back against the wall with strength I didn't know I possessed.
"Fuck." His hands tighten on my hips, but he lets me control this moment. "What have I created?"
"Your equal." I tear at his shirt, buttons scattering across the concrete floor, revealing the chest I've mapped with my tongue but never while covered in someone else's blood. "That's what you wanted, isn't it? Someone who could match your darkness?"
"Yes." His admission comes out raw, desperate. "Christ, yes."
My vest finally comes off, the tactical gear hitting the floor with a heavy thud. His hands immediately find skin, rough and demanding as they map my body through the thin shirt underneath. But then something shifts. He captures my bloodied knuckles, brings them to his lips with unexpected gentleness, kissing each one like he's blessing the violence they've done.
"My deadly angel," he murmurs against my skin, and the tenderness breaks something in me.
"Show me," I demand, nails raking down his chest hard enough to leave marks, needing him to understand that gentle isn't what I want right now. "Show me how dark we can go together."
His control snaps completely. He lifts me, wrapping my legs around his waist as he carries me through the cabin. We should check on Leonardo, should listen for vehicles approaching, but all that exists is this desperate need. We crash into walls, knock into doorframes, both of us too lost in each other to care about navigation. I can feel his cock pressing against me through our clothes, and I grind against him shamelessly, chasing friction.
The bathroom door gives way under our combined weight, and we stumble inside. He sets me on the counter, hands already working at my pants, yanking them down. The cold marble against my bare skin makes me gasp, but then his fingers are there, sliding through my wetness, and the sound he makes is pure animal satisfaction.
"So fucking wet," he growls. "From the killing. From becoming what you were meant to be."
"Look," he commands, turning my head toward the mirror.
What I see stops my breath.
We're a violent opera made flesh, all passion and tragedy and devastating beauty. Blood streaks across both our faces,our clothes torn and stained. His chest bears the scratches I just gave him, already beading with blood. My throat shows the perfect imprint of his teeth from earlier. We look like we've been through war, because we have. We look like killers, because we are.
