The bathroom was marble, tile, and mirrors—Daddy’s idea of class, though right now it felt like a surgical theater. I sat Shivs down on the closed toilet lid and fumbled through the vanity for the first aid kit. By the time I turned around, he’d stripped off his cut and shirt, both now a sodden mess on the tile. His upper body was a road map of violence: black tribal ink, white scar tissue, old burns, and a fresh, ugly wound above his left pec, an inch below the collarbone.
I knelt in front of him, hands trembling so bad I couldn’t even open the kit on the first try. The blood was everywhere—on my palms, under my nails, speckled up my arm, and even across my cheek. I dabbed at the wound with a towel, hating how little it seemed to help.
“It’s not an artery,” I muttered, trying to remember high school first aid. “But it’s deep.”
“Just needs to come out,” he said, voice tight. “Bullet’s in there. Won’t heal until it’s out.”
I stared at the hole in his shoulder. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Not unless you want to wait three days.”
He was right, in his own fucked-up way. I’d seen the wound close up on its own already, the skin knitting even as I wiped it down. But the flesh bulged around something hard, and I knew if I didn’t do it now, the bullet would stay there until he rotted.
I grabbed the tweezers and braced myself. “This will hurt.”
He grinned, and it was the wolf’s grin. “Do your worst, princess.”
I dug in, and the pain must have been cosmic, but he just bit down on a washcloth and watched me, eyes never leaving my face. I fished around for what felt like forever, the tweezers slick with blood, until I felt the tip click against metal. I pulled, slow and steady, and the slug came free in a hot, wet pop.
I dropped it in the sink, the clink of lead on porcelain deafening. I started to clean the wound, dabbing away the blood, but my hands shook so badly that I smeared more than I mopped up. Shivs just sat there, chest rising and falling, every muscle flexed. The gash was already less angry, skin pink and shiny around the hole.
I tried to say something—anything—but the words got lost in my throat. Instead, I pressed a clean towel to his skin and held it there, feeling his heat pulse through the cloth. Our faces were close, so close I could smell the blood on his breath, the sweat in his hair, the cologne he must have used before the world went to shit.
His hand shot up and caught my wrist. I gasped, and he pulled me in, his lips crashing against mine, teeth grazing my mouth in a kiss that was more battle than seduction.
I kissed him back.
The towel fell to the floor. His hands were everywhere—my back, my neck, threading through my hair, yanking me closer even as his blood slicked our bodies. I felt his tongue in my mouth, tasted the iron, the hunger, the want. He shoved his jeans off and growled.
He tore at my blouse, the silk ripping between his fingers like tissue paper. The buttons scattered across the floor, bouncing off tile and rolling under the tub. My bra went next, the straps snapped in two moves. I straddled him, one knee digging into the seat between his thighs, the other wedged against the tub for leverage.
He ran his hands down my sides, gripping my hips with a force that bruised. My skirt was next, hiked up to my waist, panties shoved aside with the heel of his palm. I felt the head of his cock against me—hot, hard, so thick I almost cried out. I wanted it. I wanted all of him, inside me, marking me, filling me up until I couldn’t think.
I reached down, guided him in, and the stretch was perfect. Every inch of him set my nerves on fire. I rode him slow at first, savoring the fullness, the way he pressed up into me with every thrust. He leaned forward, mouth on my throat, licking the salt from my skin. I clung to his shoulders, digging my nails into the wounded flesh, not caring if it bled.
He lifted me, just a little, and slammed me down onto him, his hands locked around my waist. The pain and pleasure blurred together, and all I could do was gasp his name, over and over, as I fucked him with everything I had.
The world outside faded away. There was no Lincoln, no distillery, no ghosts—just the heat of his body and the need to own each other, completely, for as long as we could.
He bent me back over the marble, cold tile against my thighs, and pounded into me from behind, his grip never faltering. He reached around, pinched my nipple until I screamed, then covered my mouth with his hand and fucked me harder. I came, once, twice, losing count as he drove me past every limit.
When he finished, he held me there, cock buried deep, both of us shaking. He bit my shoulder, just hard enough to leave another mark, then licked the spot, soothing it.
I turned around, straddled him again, and kissed him, soft this time. Our bodies were a mess—blood, sweat, and more, all of it mixing in the heat and air.
He leaned his forehead against mine. “You’re insane,” he said.
“Says the guy who got himself shot to save me.”
He laughed, breathless. “It was worth it.”
We stayed like that, tangled and ruined, for a long time. I traced the tattoos on his chest, the lines of ink and scar, the new hole that was already closing up.
He stroked my back, his hand gentle now. “You’re not what I expected,” he said.
“Neither are you. And that’s a fucking understatement.”
A silence fell, heavy and electric. The air still buzzed with sex and danger. Outside, the world was still hunting us, but for now, we had each other.