Chapter 20: The Mark Left Behind
The words hung in the air between them, a question so profound it seemed to alter the very chemistry of the room. The scent of their sweat, of sex, suddenly smelled different—like consequence, like potential.
Ace didn’t move. He remained bowed on the edge of the bed, her hands on his back, her whisper ringing in his ears. Would it really be so bad?
His whole body was a live wire of contradiction. The part of him that was feral, possessive, dominant, roared its approval. Yes. Mine. Mark her. Keep her. It was a primal drumbeat in his blood. But the other part, the part forged in the chaos of a broken home, the part that had changed diapers and soothed night terrors for kids that weren’t his own, that part seized with a cold, clinical terror.
He finally turned. The movement was slow, as if fighting against a great pressure. His blue eyes, usually so piercing and sure, were fractured. He looked at her—really looked at her—naked and kneeling on the rumpled sheets, her emerald eyes wide and eerily calm. She wasn’t joking. She wasn’t trying to soothe him. She meant it.
“Lexi,” he said, her name a scraped-raw sound. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I know exactly what I’m saying.”
“No.” He shook his head, a sharp, frustrated motion. “A kid? With me?” A harsh, humorless laugh escaped him. “My life is a fucking junkyard Mustang I’m trying to keep from exploding. I’ve got nothing. This house? It’s drywall and ghosts. I work on shitty cars for cash. My future is the next tank of gas.” He gestured at her, at the room, at the whole sleeping, respectable neighborhood outside. “You have a dad who writes books. You’re going to college. You draw things that look like they have souls. You don’t tie that to me. Not like that.”
She listened, her expression not changing. When he finished, his chest heaving, she simply asked, “Is that what you think you are? A junkyard car?”
“It’s what I know I am.”
She moved then. She slid off the bed and stood in front of him, forcing him to look up at her. In the dim light, with the golden dawn just starting to bleed at the edges of the blinds, she looked like something from a myth. Unafraid.
“You’re the most solid thing I’ve ever known,” she said, her voice low but clear. “You showed up. At the clinic. Here. You stay. My own parents couldn’t manage that.” She reached out and took his wrist. His pulse hammered wildly under her fingers. “You think a college degree or a nice house makes a man? My dad has both. He’s so lonely it’s leaking out of him. Dede’s trying to patch it with lasagna and perfume.”
She guided his hand, pressing his palm flat against her bare stomach. The skin was warm, soft. He flinched, trying to pull back, but she held him there.
“Would it be so terrible,” she whispered, echoing her own devastating question, “to imagine something good coming from us? Something we made? On purpose?”
His breath hitched. He could feel the slight, gentle curve of her under his hand. His mind, usually so sharp, fractured into a thousand images: a tiny fist clutching his finger, crayon drawings on this fridge, teaching a kid to throw a punch so they’d never feel as helpless as he once had. The visions were so vivid, so violently wanted, that they terrified him.
“It’s the most terrible idea I’ve ever heard,” he ground out, but his hand didn’t move. It spread, his fingers splaying possessively over her womb. “And Christ, Lexi, I want it so much it feels like dying.”
The confession broke him. The fight drained from his shoulders. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against her stomach, his breath hot on her skin. His other arm wrapped around her hips, holding her to him as if she were a lifeline in a stormy sea.
She cradled his head, her fingers threading through his dark, messy hair. “Then stop punishing yourself for wanting it. Stop punishing me by pretending I’d be ruined.”
He was silent for a long time, his face buried against her. When he spoke, his voice was muffled, young. “I’m scared.”
“I know. Me too.”
“Not of the same things.” He lifted his head, his eyes glassy. “I’m scared of being my father. I’m scared of the anger. I’m scared I’d look at a crying baby and just… shut down. Walk out.”
“You didn’t walk out on your brother and sister.”
“That was different. I had to.”
“Bullshit.” The word, so blunt from her, startled him. “You loved them. You love deeply, Ace. It’s your superpower and your kryptonite. You wouldn’t walk out. You’d probably build a fortress around us and dare the world to try and get in.”
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. It was gone in a second. “The world’s a shitty place, Lex.”
“So we make a better one. Right here.” She tugged his hand, guiding it lower, past the thatch of dark curls, until his fingers brushed her sensitive, swollen flesh. She was still slick from him, from her own climax. “This is us. Right now. It’s real. It’s messy. It’s not a plan, it’s a feeling. Let’s just… live in it for a minute. Without the panic.”
His control, already in tatters, snapped. A low groan vibrated in his chest. He let her guide his fingers, let her show him the rhythm she wanted, his eyes locked on hers. This was different. Not a frantic claiming, but a slow, deliberate exploration. A conversation without words.
He watched her face as he touched her, saw her eyelids flutter, her lips part. He bent his head, taking a nipple into his mouth, sucking gently as his fingers worked her. He was learning her, mapping the reactions that made her gasp, the pressure that made her hips jerk.
“Tell me,” he murmured against her skin.
“Harder. Just… there. Yes.”
He complied, his touch becoming more confident, more intuitive. When she came again, it was a quieter unraveling, a deep, trembling sigh that melted her against him. He held her through it, his arms strong around her.
Then he stood, lifting her as if she weighed nothing, and laid her back on the bed. He loomed over her, his expression etched with a new kind of intensity. Not just lust, but a fierce, aching tenderness.
“This doesn’t mean we’re trying for a baby,” he said, his voice rough. “It means… we’re not running from the idea of one. Someday. If we’re lucky.”
“Okay,” she breathed.
“You’re mine,” he whispered, but it didn’t sound like a threat this time. It sounded like a vow. “And I’m yours. All the broken parts. All the fucked-up history. All the fear. It’s yours.”
He kissed her then, a deep, searching kiss that tasted like salt and surrender. It was different from before—softer, yet infinitely more devastating. When he broke away, his breathing was ragged. “Turn over,” he murmured, his voice thick.
She complied without hesitation, rolling onto her stomach before shifting onto her side. He moved behind her, his body a wall of heat as he settled close. He pulled her back flush against his chest, the hard planes of his stomach and chest molding to the curve of her spine and ass.
His arm wrapped around her, his hand splaying possessively over the flat plane of her stomach. He held her there for a long moment, his breath stirring her hair. His palm was rough, warm, a brand of ownership that made her shiver. He began to move his hand, slowly gliding his fingers over her skin in a lazy, possessive circle.
His touch was maddeningly light, tracing the faint dip of her navel, the subtle flare of her hipbone. He took his time, as if memorizing the topography of her. Her breath hitched when his fingers finally drifted through the damp curls below, finding her slick, swollen flesh. He didn’t dive in. He traced her outer lips first, a torturous, teasing graze.
“Ace,” she whispered, pushing her hips back against him. She could feel the hard, thick length of his cock pressed against the cleft of her ass, already leaking.
“Shhh,” he breathed into her ear, his voice a low vibration. “My turn.”
His other hand came up, his fingers gently closing around her throat from behind. It wasn’t a choke, but a firm, undeniable hold. He used it to tilt her head back, exposing her throat and turning her face towards his. He covered her mouth with his in a deep, passionate kiss, his tongue sweeping inside.
As he kissed her, his fingers on her clit began to move. He started rubbing gentle, deliberate circles over the sensitive bud. The dual sensation was overwhelming—the claiming pressure of his hand on her throat, the slow, building fire between her legs. She moaned into his mouth, her body arching.
He broke the kiss, resting his forehead against her temple, watching her. His blue eyes were dark with focus, studying every flicker of her eyelids, every catch in her breath. His fingers continued their slow, gentle assault, varying pressure and speed, learning what made her gasp, what made her whimper.
“That’s it,” he growled, his voice rough with restraint. “Let go for me.”
He felt her inner muscles begin to flutter, her hips rocking desperately against his hand. He increased the pace, his circles becoming tighter, more direct. He watched, mesmerized, as her orgasm built, her body tensing like a bowstring. When it broke, it was a silent, shuddering convulsion that rippled through her, her back pressing hard into his chest, a choked cry stifled against his arm.
He gentled his touch, letting her ride the waves, his hand on her throat softening to a caress. He kissed her shoulder. “So fucking beautiful,” he whispered.
Slowly, he shifted behind her. He guided himself, the broad, throbbing head of his cock nudging at her entrance from behind. He pushed in, just an inch, and a ragged groan tore from his throat.
“Christ, Lex. You’re so tight.” He sounded pained, delirious. “Still so fucking tight for me.”
He sank deeper, an excruciatingly slow invasion that stretched her exquisitely. She was still pulsing from her climax, hypersensitive, and every inch of his progress was a vivid, burning fullness. He seated himself to the hilt, burying himself completely, and they both shuddered.
It took all his willpower not to move. He could feel her fluttering around him, a silken, hot fist. He rested there for a moment, panting, his face buried in her hair. Then his hand drifted back down, his fingers finding her clit again, slick with her arousal.
“Mine,” he breathed into her ear, a raw promise. He began to move, withdrawing almost all the way before sliding back in with the same slow, deliberate pace. His thrusts were long and deep, a relentless, unhurried possession. His fingers kept time with his hips, rubbing her clit in slow circles.
He groaned sweet, filthy nothings against her skin. “Feel how deep I am in you.” “You take all of me so perfectly.” “This perfect little pussy is mine alone.” Each word was a hot puff of air, a branding. His movements were a study in control, each slow drag and push designed to stoke the fire higher in them both. She was mewling, helpless sounds escaping her with every deep stroke, her hands gripping the sheets.
His control began to fray. His breath grew choppier, his groans more guttural. The gentle circles on her clit became harder, more urgent. His thrusts lost their measured pace, gaining a demanding intensity.
His hand on her throat tightened fractionally, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind her of his dominance. “Gonna come inside you, Lexi,” he grunted, his voice strained. “Gonna fill this perfect cunt up.”
The change in him was electric. His movements became harder, rougher, driving into her with a force that jolted her whole body forward with each slam. The bed rocked against the wall. His grip on her throat was firm, anchoring her as he pounded into her, each brutal thrust carving away the last of his restraint.
She was coming again, his name a broken scream as the rough, pounding rhythm and the relentless pressure on her clit sent her over another edge. Her inner walls clenched around him in violent, rhythmic pulses.
That was all it took. With a raw, shattered groan, he buckled into her, his hips stuttering as he drove deep and held. He pulsed inside her, a hot, urgent flood that seemed to go on and on, spilling into her depths. He growled through his release, a sound of absolute conquest and surrender.
He held himself there, buried to the root, as the last tremors rocked through them both. He could feel her fluttering, twitching pussy milking him, drawing every last drop from him. He gentled his hold on her throat, bringing his hand around to cradle her jaw instead, turning her face to his.
He kissed her, softly, a stark contrast to the savage fucking of moments before. He stayed inside her, softening, relishing the intimate, wet heat. He nuzzled her ear, his breath a warm, damp caress.
His voice, when it came, was a hoarse whisper, stripped bare and truer than anything he’d ever said. “I love you.”
He felt her body react instantly. Her pussy tightened around him again, a fierce, involuntary clutch at his words, as if her very flesh was claiming the promise in them. A small, choked sob escaped her, and she turned her face further into his neck.
Outside, the first true light of dawn began to filter through the blinds, painting the room in pale gold. The world outside—the sleeping house, her father, Dede, the future with all its complications—felt very far away. Here, in this tangle of limbs and spent passion and three whispered words, there was only this. Them.
He shifted carefully, pulling out of her with a soft, wet sound. He didn’t go far. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her back against him, spooning her tightly. He kissed the nape of her neck.
She didn’t speak. She placed her hand over his where it lay on her stomach, lacing their fingers together. Her grip was tight, an anchor. The silence between them was no longer tense, but deep and settled, like the quiet after a storm.
Down the hall, a door clicked open. The soft pad of footsteps—her father’s, heading to the bathroom—echoed in the quiet house. They both froze, a shared, instinctual tension locking their bodies. The mundane sound was an intrusion, a tug back towards reality.
Ace’s arms tightened around her. Her heart hammered against his forearm. The footsteps passed, a toilet flushed, the faucet ran. Then silence descended again, deeper than before. The spell, however, was fractured. The dawn light now felt exposing, not intimate.
He kissed her shoulder, a silent signal. He slid out of bed, the mattress shifting with his weight. She watched him move in the grey light, a study of lean muscle and shifting shadows. He found his boxers and jeans, pulling them on with quiet efficiency.
“I should go,” he said, his voice low. “Before the neighborhood wakes up.”
She sat up, the sheet pooling around her waist. “Okay.”
He finished dressing, shoved his feet into his boots without tying them. He came back to the bed, crouching down so they were eye level. He cupped her face, his thumb stroking her cheekbone. “What I said…”
“I know,” she whispered, cutting him off. She placed her hand over his. “It’s yours, too. All of it."
He kissed her, a soft press of lips that tasted like a promise he still didn't believe he deserved. He stood, the floorboards creaking under his weight, and grabbed his t-shirt from the floor. He pulled it over his head, the cotton doing nothing to hide the possessive set of his shoulders as he looked down at her. The room smelled of them, of sweat and sex and something softer, something like settled dust in sunlight.
“Text me when you’re up,” he said, his voice still rough. He leaned down to retrieve his leather jacket.
A sudden, firm knock cracked the morning quiet. It wasn’t on the front door downstairs. It was on Lexi’s bedroom door.
They both froze. Ace was half-crouched, jacket in hand, his torso bare. Lexi was upright in bed, the comforter pulled to her chin, her skin suddenly icy. The knock was authoritative, impatient. It came again, louder.
Before either could speak, the door swung open.David Thompson filled the doorway. He was dressed in a robe, his salt-and-pepper hair disheveled from sleep, but his eyes were wide awake and burning. They swept the scene in one devastating arc: the rumpled sheets, the clothes strewn like evidence on the floor, his daughter’s flushed face and tangled hair, the tall, shirtless boy rising from beside her bed.
His expression shifted from morning grogginess to comprehension, then to a thunderous, cold fury. The air left the room.
“Both of you,” he said, the words low and vibrating with rage.“Downstairs. Now.”
He didn’t wait for a reply. He turned on his heel and left, leaving the door gaping wide open, a yawning mouth onto the hostile hallway.
The silence he left behind was deafening. Lexi’s stomach dropped, a freefall into pure dread. She met Ace’s eyes. His face had shut down, the tender vulnerability from moments ago sealed behind a mask of grim defiance. He straightened slowly, pulling his jacket on with deliberate, unhurried movements. The leather sighed as it settled on his shoulders, armor against what was coming.
“Get dressed,” he said, his voice flat. He turned his back, giving her a semblance of privacy, and stared at the open door as if it were an enemy.
Her hands trembled as she scrambled from the bed. The pleasant ache between her legs now felt like a brand, a secret stupidly exposed. She yanked on sweatpants and a hoodie, her fingers fumbling with the strings. She could hear movement downstairs, the heavy tread of her father’s footsteps, the clatter of a coffee cup being placed too hard on the counter.
Ace finished tying his boots. He looked at her, and for a split second, the mask slipped. She saw it—the fear, not for himself, but for her. The fear of being the thing that shattered her world. He reached out, his thumb brushing a tear from her cheek she hadn’t even felt fall.
“Stay behind me,” he murmured.
“No,” she whispered, finding her voice. It was steadier than she felt. “We walk down together.”
They descended the stairs side-by-side. The house felt alien, the familiar framed photos on the wall seeming to judge them. The scent of Dede’s vanilla candle from last night now smelled cloying, sickly sweet.
David stood in the center of the living room, his arms crossed. Dede was perched on the edge of the armchair, wrapped in a silk kimono, her face pale and her eyes huge. She looked from David’s rigid back to Lexi and Ace, her expression a complicated mix of shock and a strange, sad understanding.
David didn’t shout. His voice was a controlled, seething wire. “Explain this.”
Ace stepped forward slightly, placing his body partially in front of Lexi’s. “Sir.”
“Don’t you ‘sir’ me,” David spat, his gaze cutting to Ace like a blade. “You were in my daughter’s bedroom. At dawn. Half-dressed.” His eyes swung to Lexi, and the pain in them was worse than the anger.“Lexi. What is this?”
She lifted her chin. “You saw what it is.”
“I saw a violation of my trust under my own roof!”
“Your roof?” The words were out before she could stop them, sharp and cold. “Funny, you seemed pretty quick to change the locks on that trust when you let Dede move in.”
Dede flinched. David’s face flushed a dark red. “That is not the same thing, and you know it.”
“How?” Lexi’s voice rose. “How is it different? You brought someone into our home. Into our family. Without asking me. I’m just… living my life.”
“Living your life?” David took a step forward, and Ace moved to meet him, a silent, solid barrier. David’s eyes blazed at the younger man. “Get out of my way.”
“No.” Ace’s voice was quiet, final.
“You think because you have some… some reputation in this town, because you live alone and drive a fast car, that gives you the right to sneak into my house and defile my—”
“Don’t.” Ace’s single word was a crack of ice. He didn’t raise his voice, but the command in it froze the air. “Don’t finish that sentence about her. You can talk to me like that. You don’t talk about her like that. Ever.”
David looked stunned into silence, momentarily thrown by the ferocity of the protection. He regrouped, shifting his focus back to Lexi. “How long has this been going on?The clinic? Was that for… for this?”
The accusation hung in the air, ugly and reductive.
Lexi felt Ace tense beside her, a live spring about to uncoil. She put a hand on his arm, felt the muscle rock-hard beneath her fingers. “The clinic was for me,” she said, each word deliberate. “It was my choice. He was there for me. Which is more than I can say for you lately.”
David recoiled as if struck. The anger in his eyes flickered, diluted by a dawning hurt. Dede stood up, placing a gentle hand on his arm. “David, maybe we should all sit—”
“Stay out of this, Dede,” he said, but the fire was guttering. He looked old suddenly, the lines on his face deepening. He stared at his daughter, at the defiant, young woman who was no longer his little girl. He saw the boy beside her, a shield of leather and lethal calm.
“I want you out,” he said to Ace, the command lacking its earlier force. “I want you to leave my house and not come back.”
Ace didn’t move. He looked at Lexi, a question in his eyes. The decision was hers.
She shook her head, her grip tightening on his arm. “If he goes, I go.”
The words settled in the room like a death sentence. David’s shoulders slumped. The fight drained out of him, leaving behind a weary, defeated man. “Lexi, you can’t be serious.”
“I am.” She took a half-step closer to Ace, their bodies aligning. “He’s not some guy sneaking in. He’s my…” She hesitated, the word ‘boyfriend’ feeling too small, too childish for the raw, anchored thing between them. “He’s mine. And I’m his. You don’t have to like it. But you don’t get to call him names and throw him out.”
David’s gaze traveled between them, taking in their united front. He saw the way Ace’s shoulder leaned imperceptibly toward Lexi, the way her knuckles were white where she held him. He saw what he had missed in his own preoccupation.
“You’re eighteen,” he said, his voice hollow. “I can’t stop you.”
“No,” she agreed softly. “You can’t.”
Silence stretched, thick and unyielding. Dede’s eyes were bright with unshed tears. She looked at David’s stricken face, then at the two young people standing together against the world they’d just made.
“David,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Honey, maybe…” She stopped, swallowing hard. Her hand went to her stomach, a fleeting, unconscious gesture.
David didn’t notice. He was still staring at his daughter. “I just wanted to protect you,” he said, the admission a ragged whisper.
“I know,” Lexi said. Her own anger was cooling, leaving a sad, ashy residue. “But I don’t need protection from him.”
Ace finally spoke, his voice directed at David, but lower now, stripped of its combat edge. “I would die before I hurt her.” He said it simply, a statement of fact more powerful than any vow.
David heard the truth in it. He let out a long, shaky breath, running a hand over his beard. He looked at the floor, then at Dede, seeking an anchor in her worried face. He found none he could readily grasp.
“Downstairs,” he repeated, but the command was gone. It was just a weary echo. “Just… just go downstairs. Both of you. Sit. We’re not done talking.” He turned and walked slowly toward the kitchen, his posture defeated.
Dede gave them a last, fraught look before following him, closing the kitchen door behind her with a soft click.
Lexi and Ace were left alone in the living room. The dawn had fully broken now, spilling weak, morning light across the carpet. From behind the kitchen door, the low murmur of urgent, tense conversation began.
Ace turned to her. He cupped her face, his thumb stroking her cheekbone where the tear track had dried. “You okay?”
She leaned into his touch, her eyes closed for a second. “No.” She opened them. “But I will be.”
He pulled her into him, wrapping his arms around her. She buried her face in the familiar, safe scent of leather and him. The rumble of his voice vibrated through his chest into hers. “We’re in it now, Thompson. For real.”
She held him tighter, listening to the worried whispers beyond the door, feeling the solid, undeniable beat of his heart against hers. “Yeah,” she whispered back. “We are.”