Page 57 of Beautiful Savage
"Now."
My voice comes out rougher than I intend, a snarl stoked by the violence in both of us. I push her leggings down, the fabric snapping at her ankles, and she kicks them free. This is quick, necessary. Her paint-stained t-shirt stays on, the fabric soft under my hands. My jeans open just enough. No time or patience for a full undressing. We need the contact.
I push inside her. She's already wet, already ready. The operational mind finally quiets as her pussy grips my cock. This woman who sees what I miss, who stands with me against monsters. Mine.
My hands find purchase at the backs of her knees, spreading her wider until her heels knock against the cabinet doors. The counter shakes with our motion, glasses chattering in the cupboard above. It's frantic, charged, almost angry—neither of us looking for gentleness, only confirmation that what we're about to do matters. That we matter. That this is real.
Her mouth finds my neck, bites down, teeth sharp enough to hurt.
"Fuck," she says, and the word echoes in the hollow kitchen, louder than the slap of skin or the hiss of our breathing. "Just like that. Don't stop."
Her nails dig into my shoulder, the paint on her fingers leaving smears on my t-shirt. Her other hand splay-fingers the countertop, palm covering the face-down photograph of Camille's bruised wrist.
Three minutes. Eyes open. Watching each other. The photographs whisper against the counter with each thrust. We're fucking over evidence. Over the memory of another woman's pain and the certainty of future violence. It's not arousing in the usual sense. It's a vow. I drive into her harder. I will not let him get away with it.
Her pussy grips me like a vice, already building toward an orgasm. Four days until I end Hallstein. Four days of Daphne in my bed, on this counter, against every surface of our expanding apartment. Four days of her brilliant mind planning beside mine and her perfect body taking everything I give her.
Her head drops back, neck arching, lips parted, a line of sweat at her hairline. "Harder," she orders, and I obey, the edge of the counter digging into my thighs as I snap my hips. I watchher face. I want to see the moment she comes, want to memorize every muscle that tenses, every micro-expression that says yes, this is right, this is us.
I thrust deeper, harder, feeling her start to shake. We're not done. Not even close.
21 - Gunner
The April sun already beats down on Calle Ocho, making the asphalt shimmer with heat that won’t break until October.
My head runs through the list Daphne gave me, her voice still echoing with that morning warmth I'm learning to recognize. Two coffees from Yamila, the usual for me, a dark black brew for her. Definitely nothing with caramel. The bread from the bakery next door, the sourdough Sera wants for tonight. The croissant from the French place two blocks over that Daphne discovered yesterday and lit up about like she'd found gold.
The domestic routine feels wrong. Like wearing clothes that belong to someone else, someone who hasn't spent nine years sleeping with a gun under his pillow. Nine years of the same route to the same coffee shop, and now I'm planning detours for croissants because a woman's eyes went bright when she tasted one.
The strangeness sits wrong in my bones like a coat cut for somebody else. Not quite fitting, but Christ, I want to keep it. This morning she traced the scars on my chest while telling me about the backsplash for the new kitchen. Like my violence and her softness could coexist. Like I could be the kind of man who brings home pastries.
Fifty feet to Café Cuba. The morning crowd will be thick, the regulars who've been watching me not watch them for years. But today I'm thinking about the way Daphne's hand lingered on my chest before I left, the casual intimacy of it, the possessiveassumption that I'll come back with everything she asked for. That I'm hers to send on errands now.
Movement in my peripheral vision. Two men exit a black SUV at the curb. Another behind me, footsteps too deliberate for a civilian. The geometry reads wrong. Convergent angles, professional spacing, ex-military in how they hold their shoulders.
They're coming for me.
The third man's right hand holds something. Syringe, catching sunlight. Snatch, not kill. They want me breathing.
The decision hits me in the gut. If they take me, if Hallstein finds out she exists… In my world, that's a death sentence. For her, and then for them.
I drop the mental list, the warmth of ten minutes ago gone in a blink, and shift into the other gear. Three civilians at the far end of the block. Can't use the Glock. The knife stays in my boot. Hand-to-hand only.
The first one reaches me thinking I haven't clocked them. His mistake. I pivot, use his momentum, drive an elbow into his throat. He drops, choking. The copper smell of blood fills my nose as the second comes from my left, trying for my arms. I catch his wrist, twist until I hear the snap, then drive my knee into his solar plexus. He goes down gasping.
The third with the syringe is smarter, hanging back, waiting for an opening. Professional. When he moves, it's fast. Military training in the footwork. The syringe arcs toward my neck. I deflect with my forearm, but his other hand catches my temple with something hard. Metal, maybe a ring. The skin splits. Blood immediately runs warm down my cheek.
We grapple. He's good, knows how to use his weight. His knee finds my left thigh in a nerve strike that sends lightning down to my foot. I'll limp for hours. But I get inside his guard, drive three quick strikes to his ribs, feel at least one crack.The syringe clatters to the concrete. I put him down with a chokehold, careful not to kill. Need him alive for questions.
My hands are still shaking. Not from the fight, but from knowing I could lose her. She is my weakness, and if they'd found it… when they find it…
Blood drips from my temple onto the sidewalk. My thigh screams with each step. Bruised ribs protest when I breathe deep. But all three attackers are down. Two unconscious, one disabled but breathing.
I pull out my phone. My second-in-command, Peytone, answers on the first ring.
"Three hostiles down. Side street off Calle Ocho near the coffee shop. Take them alive. The one with the syringe goes to the warehouse."
"Cleanup crew?"
