Page 49 of Knuckles & Knives
“I think you’ll become the woman your father raised you to be—strong, decisive, capable of making the hard choices yourself.” Marcus removes his glasses, and without them, he looks younger, more vulnerable. “I think you’ll outgrow your need for someone who operates in shadows and half-truths.”
“And what do you think I need from you now?”
The question seems to catch him off guard. “Strategic support. Tactical analysis. Intelligence gathering and?—”
“Marcus.” I step closer and press my palm against his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath the expensive fabric of his shirt. “What do you think I need from you personally?”
His control finally cracks completely. “I think you need someone who sees every angle, who can protect you from threats you haven’t even identified yet. Someone who can love you intelligently instead of just passionately.” His hands come up to frame my face, trembling slightly with the effort of admitting vulnerability. “I think you need someone who understands thatkeeping you safe sometimes means making decisions you’ll hate me for.”
“And what do you need from me?”
“Everything.” The admission is barely a whisper. “I need you to see that beneath all the calculations and manipulations, I’m just a man who’s been in love with you since the first time I watched you take down an opponent twice your size and smile like you’d just solved a fascinating puzzle.”
When I kiss him, it’s with the full knowledge that Marcus Quintana has spent months orchestrating our lives like pieces on a chessboard, maneuvering us all toward this moment, but it’s also with the recognition that his feelings for me have been the one variable he couldn’t control, the one element in his grand strategy that was never part of the plan.
He kisses me back with desperate intensity, like a man who’s been holding back for far too long. His hands tangle in my hair, and I can taste the relief on his lips—relief at finally dropping his mask, at being seen and wanted despite his need to manipulate and control.
“I should hate you for orchestrating all of this,” I murmur against his mouth.
“You should,” he agrees, his lips trailing down my throat. “But you won’t. Because you understand that sometimes love means making the hard choices, the ones that hurt in the short term but protect what matters most in the long run.”
“Show me,” I say, echoing words I’ve spoken to the others but with different meaning this time. “Show me what it looks like when the strategist stops calculating and just feels.”
Marcus’s response is to sweep me into his arms, carrying me toward what I assume is his bedroom with the same fluid efficiency he brings to everything else, but there’s something different in the way he holds me—reverent, almost worshipful, like he can’t quite believe I’m real.
His bedroom continues the theme of technological fortress meets luxury apartment. The bed is massive, positioned to offer the same panoramic view of the city as the main living area. But what catches my attention are the screens built into the headboard—monitors that currently show security feeds from around the building.
“Even here?” I ask, gesturing toward the surveillance displays.
“Especially here.” Marcus sets me down beside the bed, his hands resting lightly on my waist. “This is where I’m most vulnerable. Where my control matters least and my need for you matters most.”
The admission sends heat straight through me. Marcus, who keeps contingency plans for his contingency plans, who never enters a room without knowing all the exits, considers emotional vulnerability his greatest weakness. And he’s choosing to be vulnerable with me.
“Then turn them off,” I challenge.
“Raven—”
“Turn off the monitors, Marcus. Stop watching the world for five minutes and just be present with me.”
For a moment, I think he might refuse. His eyes flick toward the screens with the kind of reluctance most people reserve for jumping off cliffs, but then he reaches for a control pad, and one by one, the displays go dark.
The room plunges into shadows, lit only by the city’s pulse beyond the floor-to-ceiling glass. With the monitors powered down, the omnipresent hum of surveillance is gone, and for the first time, Marcus doesn’t feel like a strategist or a tactician.
He just looks like a man teetering on the edge of something raw and real.
“I’ve never done this before,” he murmurs.
I raise an eyebrow, teasing. “Had sex? Marcus, I find that very hard to believe.”
A faint smile touches his lips, but it’s laced with tension. “Turned off the monitors. I never make myself completely blind to potential threats because being present with someone mattered more than maintaining situational awareness. I’ve never let myself be blind before, but tonight, I need to see you and only you.”
The admission guts me.
He’s not just stepping out of control. He’s sacrificing it for me.
“Then see me,” I whisper, “and let me see you.”
When he kisses me, it’s not gentle. It’s exact and calculated. Like he’s planned this for years and is finally executing a long-awaited mission. But beneath the precision is a tension coiled tight, like the act of wanting me is something he’s only barely containing.
