by Everly Frost
She slides her hand around the back of my neck, moans against my mouth, and I’m drowning.
I’m fucking drowning.
24. Peyton Price
Striker’s blanket is the only thing keeping me grounded as I huddle beneath the window inside my room, the faint scent of cedarwood and balsam comforting me in a way that the man himself never will.
My only goal right now is to get my breathing under control. Every time Raptor cut me, he told me I was falling. Even though I knew it was a strategy to rekindle my fears, I couldn’t stop the effect it had on me. The cuts themselves I could handle. I’m accustomed to pain and I left him with a few bruises he didn’t expect. I don’t think his crown jewels will function well any time soon.
But the mind games Raptor played with me… the height of the window… the way he was always in control…
I press my face to my knees, reminding myself, “I’m not falling. I’m not… falling…”
The scent of cedarwood grows stronger. I sense movement outside of the mental bubble I’ve created to protect myself. I know the sound of Striker’s footsteps now. Because I sleep on the floor, I hear his footfalls every morning as he strides down the corridor to the shower. I listen to them every night before I go to sleep while he paces his room back and forth. I don’t know why he does it, but I find the soft vibrations of his feet calming.
“Peyton?”
I don’t move, can’t see his face, but he sounds… agitated, angry even. I haven’t seen him since our jog this morning, so I’m struggling to imagine why he’s angry with me. More confusing is his use of my first name. “You only call me ‘Peyton’ when you think I’m dying.”
He says, “I need to know if you’re okay.”
Oh. So maybe he’s worried. I quickly banish that possibility. This is Striker. He doesn’t worry. Certainly not about me. “Don’t pretend to care, Striker.”
It sounds like he’s gritting his teeth. “I know you’re hurt. I need to…” He exhales. It’s a sharp sound, angrier still. “I need to do something about it.”
I smother a sigh. He left me alone for a really long time and I’m grateful for it, but accepting his help puts me in an even more vulnerable position. Not to mention, I can’t bear to be touched right now. Raptor’s focus remained above my waist, but every now and then his palm shifted to my hip. The only time I feared rape was when a guy at school cornered me in the bathroom and shoved his tongue down my throat while he ruffled my skirt. It didn’t go any further because a group of girls came in and told him to mess with me somewhere else. He lost his nerve and ran out.
Technically, that was my first and only kiss, but I decided long ago it didn’t count.
“I don’t want your help, Striker. Just leave me alone.”
The silence beside me suddenly fills with tension. The air warms in a way that makes me tense up. He growls a response and it doesn’t sound like his voice anymore. “No.”
I lift my head, trying to see his face. I catch a glimpse of eyes flickering with flames just as his arms swoop around me. But he can’t see the cuts, and the extra pressure around my back is too much.
I can’t stop my urgent cry. “No, please, don’t touch—”
Pain strikes through me. I thought I was dealing with it. I thought I was blocking it out, but it turns out I was failing the whole time. My back is on fire and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. I arch against the pain, a moan escapes my lips, and I have no choice but to give in to it.
I’m done. I can’t fight the pain and I can’t fight him.
His arms immediately loosen and he lowers me down. I end up curled up on his lap, my face to my knees again, facing him this time. I’m surprised he let me go so quickly. Between the strands of my matted hair, I can finally see his expression. So unexpected is the strain around his eyes, the way his lips press together and his forehead creases.
He looks… broken. Even the fire in his eyes is a faint, distant glimmer. I don’t understand it. Why is he looking at me like that?
I close my eyes as he carefully brushes my hair aside, his fingers sweeping through the sweat that broke out on my forehead, disentangling from my hair without pulling it. He tugs on the blanket, easing it from my frozen fingers, pulling it open at the back first and then finally the front. My buttonless shirt gapes when he nudges my knees. My bra is padded, so it remains in place despite the broken strap across my right shoulder, but it’s hanging on by mere threads at the back.
I’m not sure if Raptor intended to break my bra. He was asking me questions about Striker and all I would tell him, over and over, was:
“Striker Draven is the scariest asshole you will ever meet, so you’d better not make him mad. I don’t care what sort of hotshot assassin you are. Striker will annihilate you.”
Oh, boy. Raptor did not like that. He showed me how much with his knife.
“What the hell?”
My eyes fly open at Striker’s outburst. He’s scanning my legs now. I lift my head, my hair falling over my face again before he raises his eyes to mine. The tension in his face has increased a thousand percent.
He has no right being worried about me.
“Why so shocked, Draven?” I ask him. “Are you angry that Raptor did your work for you?”
Fire roars to life in his eyes again. It’s so sudden that it takes my breath away.
“I’ll kill that sadistic bastard,” he says.
His reaction is much bigger than I was expecting, much more volatile. A promise of violence and he means it. But it can’t be because of me… surely?
Without another word, he draws my shirt over my shoulders and I’m so dumbfounded that I don’t object, but his focus is on my back, which stings when the air hits it. I drop my head to my knees, giving in to the pain again, closing my eyes as I tell him, “Raptor asked me questions and every question earned a cut, no matter how I answered it. He asked me about everyone, even you, but I didn’t tell him anything.”
There’s a moment of silence before Striker asks, “Can you walk?”
I’m confused. “Where to?”
“My room.”
“Why? So you can heal me?” I sigh against my knees. He healed me once, saved my life, but here I am again. It will never stop in this place. “They’ll break me again tomorrow.”
There’s another pause before his breath tickles my forehead and his lips brush my temple, the lightest kiss. “They’ll never break you, Peyton.”
I nearly scream. His voice is soft, his touch is soft, but the impact of both is like ripples of flame through my mind and body, all the way to my toes. I suck in a breath, trying to process the fact that he kissed my forehead, trying to process the fact that… it felt more than good.
For a second, it chased away my pain.
I don’t know if he’s aware that his eyes are so full of power, it’s in full view. When he touched his lips to my face just now, I felt my power burst to life. Just like when we fight, but so much stronger despite how brief and light his kiss was.
I shiver.
Does he have the power, somehow, to heal me?
A muscle in his jaw clenches, but he moves very carefully, as if he’s afraid I’ll break. Or maybe run. He cups the back of my head and I know he’s simply repositioning himself to help me up, but the shiver still running through me is overwhelming. I need more of him.
His eyes widen when I lean closer. “Striker would you… do something for me?”
He freezes as if he doesn’t want to move.
I can’t believe I’m asking him when I say, “Would you… kiss me… properly this time?”
My heart is in my throat. I’ve never asked a guy to kiss me before. Never wanted to kiss a guy before. Never thought I’d ask Striker Draven, of all people.
His forehead puckers. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
He’s right, but I need to know if what I felt was real, if it was the spark that I think it could be. “I know it isn’t but I think y
ou can help me.”
He shakes his head, a firm no. “I can help you by getting you to my room and treating these wounds.”
“Of course.” What the hell was I thinking? He’s probably regretting kissing me to begin with. I rise, not caring that the blanket falls away from me, exposing me and all my wounds. “I’m not worth your time.”
His response is sharp. “That’s not what I said.”
I frown at him, surprised by his instant denial.
He hurries to speak. “I mean… it is what I said. But you can’t… You can’t make decisions like that right now…”
I stare at him. He’s flustered. Really flustered. It’s entirely unexpected unless… he wants to kiss me but doesn’t think he should. I consider how carefully he’s avoided me, the lengths he’s gone to so that he didn’t break his promise.
What if… he actually cares?
It’s a possibility that is shocking, striking, and… may the ancients help me… I want it so badly.
He is fierce, taking control again. “You’re hurt and you’re coming with me.”
He scoops me up in a way that doesn’t hurt me and for the first time, I allow myself to relax into it, taking warmth from the physical connection as I tuck my head to his chest and slide my arms around him.
He carries me to his room and places me on his bed, gently covering me with the blanket before he busies himself with the medical kit, apologizing before he cleans the cuts on my chest and back.
It stings like hell, but I take the pain, watching his every move. Every gentle touch. Especially the way he focuses on the task at hand, as if his life depends on it.
I didn’t lie to Raptor. Raptor is the most sadistic male I’ve ever come across, but Striker is a fury I’ve never beheld. Yet… here he is, fussing over me, trying to figure out how to treat my wounds when he has nothing left in the kit to help me. He sifts through the box as if he’s hoping something will magically appear.
I reach out to stop him, touching his hand. “Striker? There’s nothing more you can do.”
He doesn’t push me away, his fingers flexing around mine as he jostles the kit’s contents with his other hand. His touch on my hand is warm… comforting…
“You’ve done enough,” I whisper, sliding out of the blanket.
There’s only one thing I want, and I have to be brave enough to ask for it. Or maybe I’ll just tell him I’m going to do it.
Before he can react, I lift myself up off the edge of the bed, lean across the short distance where he sits in the chair, and press a kiss to his cheek. Touching him like this makes my heart race, but in a good way. I nearly lose my nerve, but the way his breath catches when my lips brush the corner of his mouth gives me hope.
I whisper, “I’m going to—” Kiss you.
“No.” The flame in his eyes, his power, roars to life. His hand closes around mine. He doesn’t know what I was going to say. The quick look he gives the door tells me he thinks I’m asking to leave. I allow myself to believe that he doesn’t want me to go. He fought so hard to bring me here. But he doesn’t understand what I’m saying.
I pull back a little. “Striker, you don’t—”
“No.” His arm circles my waist, capturing me and pulling me close. Whatever his power is, it’s like fury consuming him, a powerful instinct. Even so, he only pulls my lower half close against his, his arm across the top of my hips avoiding my wounds.
He doesn’t want me to go.
He doesn’t want to hurt me.
But judging from the press of our lower halves, he definitely wants to do something else.
My cheeks flame. “Striker, I—”
“No.”
Oh, dear ancients, I’ve never had sex, don’t even know where to start, but all I can think about is wrapping my legs around him. Searching his fiery amber eyes, I allow myself to recognize the look he’s giving me.
Dear gods of hell, he’s promising me the world.
He has no idea I want to take it all.
I can’t help the smile that breaks across my face. “Will you let me finish?”
His gaze narrows, his chest thrumming as he growls, “Maybe.”
I dare to brush his jaw with my fingertips, testing whether he’ll let me get that close. When his gaze softens, I try again, “I’m going to…”
I glance up at him, wait for him to interrupt me again. When he doesn’t, I take a deep breath. “I’m going to kiss you now, Striker Draven. Is that okay with you?”
The fire in his eyes leaps seconds before he tilts his head to mine, his lips like a brand. I inhale the warmth of his mouth, drown in the shape of his lips, fitting my own to his. The energy coursing from him to me is like a livewire. The pain in my chest eases, the sting in my back soothes, but my wounds are the last thing on my mind right now.
I sense his restraint—the care he’s taking not to overwhelm me—and it drives me mad. I press up against him, wanting more from his kiss and not knowing how to ask, my fingers finding the back of his neck and curling into his hair.
Maybe I make a sound, I don’t know, but he suddenly shifts, his kiss deepening, coaxing my lips apart, his tongue finding mine in a way that makes my legs wobble. A moan thrums in the back of my throat. Energy courses through me, stronger and brighter than any I felt when we fought each other. The fury of his kiss strikes a match inside me and my body responds, heat washing through my arms and legs, my chest, my head. My breathing is rapid, my hands seeking his back, tugging at his workout shirt, finding the bare skin beneath it.
Striker lifts me up against him, his fingers stroking up my spine, his palms a burning brand. I arch into his touch, drawing more from his kiss than I ever dreamed possible. An intense need builds inside me as his fingertips skip up across my shoulders and down again and then—
The back of my bra snaps and we both startle.
Striker draws back as if he’s shocked. “I didn’t do that, I promise you.”
I know he didn’t. The damn thing was cut to pieces at the back, holding on by threads. But the moment he draws his chest away from mine, the only pressure keeping my broken bra cup upright is gone. It slips to the side, completely exposing my breast.
With a flicker of the muscle in his jaw, he fixes his gaze firmly on my face. His voice is husky, barely controlled. “Kissing you is one thing. Going further is… not wise.”
He strokes my back as he speaks, his thumbs grazing my skin. Despite his shift away from me, he hasn’t moved far.
I can barely form coherent thoughts, let alone speech. Carefully pulling my broken bra from my shoulders, I cast it aside without moving from the circle of his arms. Making my movements slow, I slide his shirt from the front of his shorts. His shirt is smeared with my blood now, so I pull it carefully up his chest before pressing my bare chest to his and wrapping my arms around him.
I sigh against his skin, inhaling sweat and cedarwood, an intoxicating mix. The touch of his skin against mine is feeding a deep need inside me.
I need to connect with him.
His heart thuds in my ear. Ba-bam, ba-bam, Ba—
Silence.
And then it resumes.
He folds his arms around me, dropping his chin to the top of my head, but he’s tense and I’m not sure why until he asks, “Why isn’t this hurting you?”
I don’t understand it yet—I want answers too—but all I know is that I’ve healed.
A challenge enters my voice. I tilt my head back to meet his eyes. “Why don’t you take a look and see?”
The crease in his forehead deepens. “You’re inviting me to look at you.”
I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life. “I am.”
He pulls back to cup my face in his hands, our lower halves still plastered against each other’s, his gaze burning mine, but not lowering. “You’re playing with fire, Peyton.”
I can’t help the challenging smile crossing my lips. “I’m aware.”
A slow smile eases the tension in his
eyes. His fingertips graze my chin and then my neck, sliding down to my shoulders, his thumbs extending to play across my collarbones, all the while maintaining eye contact, but his expression becomes perplexed.
His gaze lowers and his focus is not on my naked breasts. In fact, the way he’s holding his hands—out and parallel to my body—is deliberately shielding them from his view. He frowns at my upper chest. “What happened to your wounds?”
The edges of his pinky fingers ease across the top of my breasts, his expression telling me he’s completely baffled. I am too. All I know is that kissing him triggered something powerful inside me.
“You’ve healed,” he says, pulling me close to lean over my shoulder and see my back, his touch shifting to my shoulder blades as he checks me over. “You’re all healed, but how?”
He returns to my front, still searching for the wounds that were there moments ago. When his thumbs graze down the side of my chest, I sigh and close my eyes. “You can check me over as long as you like, Striker. The cuts aren’t coming back.”
He suddenly growls, making my eyes fly open. “Answers can wait.”
I guess he wasn’t as distracted as I thought.
“Peyton,” he says, leveling his gaze with mine, his palms resting resolutely on my waist. “I’m done being a gentleman. You either want more or you don’t, but I need to know which.”
A shiver races through my body, making my toes curl. It’s probably the worst decision of my life, but I do want more. We’re terrible for each other, we make each other mad, but when I’m in danger, he’s there, ready to fight with me when I need him to. Ready to be a despicable jerk when it helps me. Ready to pick me up and take care of me when I’m too proud and stubborn to ask for help.
I didn’t think I’d survive five months at Bloodwing. Now that Raptor’s here, I might not survive another. I don’t want to waste another day pushing away moments of happiness because I’m afraid of making myself vulnerable to someone.