Chapter 2: What the Safe Held
The shower had been a revelation. Scalding water, real soap that smelled like eucalyptus, a towel that was actually soft against her skin. Mira stood under the spray for fifteen minutes, watching pink-tinged water swirl down the drain, and tried not to think about how long it had been since she'd felt anything but cold.
Now she sat on the edge of the bed in the room that was supposed to be hers, staring at the clothes Vera had left folded on the dresser. Black tank top. Black leggings. Both fit like they'd been bought for her, which meant someone had been paying attention to her size, and that thought was either comforting or terrifying depending on how she looked at it.
She pulled the tank over her head, worked the leggings up her still-tender feet, and stood in front of the mirror mounted on the closet door. Her reflection looked like a stranger. The bruises on her face had faded to a sickly yellow-green at the edges, but the split in her lip was still visible, a red line that cracked open every time she smiled. The phoenix tattoo on her shoulders rippled as she moved, wings spread wide, flames licking up toward her neck.
Her phone was on the nightstand. The gun was in the drawer beside it. Both had been left there for her, and she wasn't stupid enough to think it was an accident. Dominic was testing her. Everything was a test with him.
She pocketed both, then headed downstairs.
Vera was in the kitchen, kneading dough on a flour-dusted counter. She didn't look up when Mira walked in.
"Driver's waiting out front."
"I know."
"He'll take you wherever you need to go."
"I know that too."
Vera's hands stilled for just a moment. Then she went back to kneading. "Be careful. He doesn't give second chances."
Mira paused at the door. "Neither do I."
The car was the same black sedan from the night before, but the driver was different—a younger guy with a face like a hatchet and eyes that never stopped moving. He didn't introduce himself. Just nodded when she slid into the backseat and asked where to.
She gave him the address. He pulled out without a word.
The city slid past the windows, all gray concrete and early morning traffic. Mira watched it go by and tried to remember the last time she'd felt anything but numb. Nothing came to her. Just the usual hum of survival, the constant calculation of threats and exits and angles.
Forty minutes later, they pulled up in front of a squat brick building on the south side. It was the kind of place that had been built in the seventies and never updated—chipped paint, rusted gutters, a parking lot full of weeds cracking through the asphalt. Apartment 3B. Her father's safe house, the one place he thought nobody knew about.
She'd known about it since she was sixteen.
The driver killed the engine. "Want me to come up?"
"No."
"Suit yourself."
She got out and walked toward the building. Her feet still ached, but the bandages held, and she'd learned a long time ago how to walk through pain. The front door was unlocked—another mistake, another sign that Gerald Vance had never been as careful as he thought. She took the stairs two at a time, her hand resting on the gun in her pocket.
Apartment 3B was at the end of the hall. She stood outside for a moment, listening. No TV. No footsteps. No sound at all. Good.
The lock was a joke—a cheap deadbolt that yielded to the tension wrench and pick she'd taught herself to use when she was fourteen. She slipped inside and closed the door behind her.
The place smelled like stale cigarettes and unwashed dishes. Clothes were piled on the couch, empty takeout containers on the coffee table, a half-eaten pizza on the kitchen counter that had started to grow things. Her father had never been good at living. Just at surviving.
She found the locker in the bedroom closet, a heavy steel box bolted to the floor. The combination was her mother's birthday—Gerald had never been creative. Inside, she found everything. Documents. Photographs. A ledger with names and numbers and dates, written in her father's cramped handwriting.
The Okadas were on every page.
She emptied it all into the duffel bag she'd brought, then moved to the safe hidden behind the loose baseboard in the bathroom. Another combination she knew—her own birthday, which would have been touching if he hadn't offered her up like a piece of meat twenty-four hours later. Inside, more of the same. Files. Bank statements. A burner phone with a cracked screen.
She took it all.
When she was done, she stood in the middle of the apartment and looked around one last time. This was where her father had planned to hide. This was where he'd run when everything went to shit. This was the last place he'd ever expect her to find.
She didn't feel anything. She wanted to. Wanted to feel something—anger, sadness, loss. Anything but this hollow, cold emptiness. But there was nothing. Just the steady thrum of her own heartbeat and the weight of the bag in her hand.
She left the way she came, locking the door behind her, and walked back to the car.
The driver didn't ask any questions. Just started the engine and pulled away.
Mira sat in the backseat and watched the building shrink in the rearview mirror. She thought about her father—about the way he'd looked at her in Dominic's back room, the way he'd offered her up without hesitation, the way he'd never once looked back. She thought about the photograph she'd seen in the locker, one of her as a child, maybe six or seven, sitting on his shoulders at a carnival, both of them laughing.
She'd taken that photograph too.
She didn't know why.
---
Dominic's house was quiet when she walked in. Vera was gone, probably running errands or doing whatever it was Vera did when she wasn't kneading dough. The hallway was empty. The kitchen was empty. But she could hear something from down the hall—the low murmur of voices, the shuffle of movement.
She followed the sound to a door she hadn't noticed before. It was closed, but light bled through the cracks around the frame. She knocked once, sharp and quick.
"Come in."
Dominic's office was a fortress of polished mahogany and cold marble. The late morning sun sliced through slatted blinds in jagged gold, casting long shadows over a desk littered with ledgers and half-empty glasses and a single, unlit cigar. The air smelled like expensive leather and old smoke and something underneath—something metallic that she didn't want to think about.
He was sitting behind the desk, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened. His dark hair was disheveled in a way that made her think he'd been running his hands through it, and there was a crease between his brows that hadn't been there the night before. When he looked up, his expression shifted—just for a beat, just enough for her to see it—before settling back into that unreadable mask.
"You're back."
"You asked. I delivered."
She walked to the desk and dropped the duffel bag on top of it. The sound was heavy, solid, the weight of everything she'd stolen from the man who'd given her life and then tried to sell it.
Dominic didn't move. Just looked at the bag, then at her. His eyes tracked over her face, the bruises, the set of her jaw. Something flickered in his expression again, there and gone before she could name it.
"You did it."
"I said I would."
"You didn't have to."
"I know."
He reached for the bag and unzipped it in one slow, deliberate motion. The contents spilled across the desk—documents, folders, photographs, the ledger, the burner phone. He spread them out like a man dealing cards, his fingers moving with a precision that felt almost surgical.
Mira watched him work. She didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stood there with her hands at her sides and her heart beating a steady rhythm in her chest.
Dominic picked up the photograph first. The one of her as a child. He studied it for a long moment, and when he looked up at her, his expression had changed again. Softer somehow. More human.
"You kept this?"
"It was in his locker."
"Why did you bring it?"
She didn't answer. Because she didn't have an answer. Because she didn't know why she'd taken it, why she'd shoved it into the bag along with everything else, why she'd held onto it when she could have left it behind.
Dominic set the photograph down and picked up the ledger. He flipped through it, his eyes moving fast, and she saw the moment he found what he was looking for—the Okadas, their names and numbers and dates, everything her father had been doing behind Dominic's back.
"Son of a bitch," he said softly.
"He's been working with them for three years."
"You knew?"
"I suspected." She crossed her arms over her chest. "He's not smart enough to hide it well. But I never had proof. Now I do."
Dominic closed the ledger and set it down. He leaned back in his chair, and for a long moment he just looked at her. Not the way he'd looked at her the night before—assessing, calculating, weighing her worth. This was different. Warmer. More dangerous.
"What do you want?" he asked.
"I want what you promised."
"A place. A purpose. A life that doesn't involve being someone's collateral."
"I want my father dead."
The words hung in the air between them, heavy and sharp. Dominic didn't flinch. Didn't look away. Just watched her with those dark, patient eyes, and something in his expression shifted again.
"You want to be the one to do it?"
"Does it matter?"
"It might."
She uncrossed her arms and walked around the desk. Slow. Deliberate. She stopped in front of him, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body, close enough to smell the cedar and something sharper underneath.
"I spent twenty-two years being his daughter," she said. "I spent twenty-two years waiting for him to see me. To care. To be something other than a goddamn disappointment. And then he sold me to you like I was a piece of furniture he didn't need anymore."
Dominic didn't move. Didn't speak. Just watched her with those dark, steady eyes.
"I don't want to be his daughter anymore," she said. "I don't want to be anyone's daughter. I want to be the person who puts a bullet in his brain and walks away without looking back."
The office was quiet. So quiet she could hear her own breathing, her own heartbeat, the faint hum of the lights overhead. Dominic stared at her for a long moment. Then he stood up—slow, deliberate—and she had to tilt her chin up to keep his gaze.
"So we work together," he said.
"Until we don't."
"You're awfully sure of yourself."
"I'm not sure of anything." She held his gaze. "Except that I'm never letting anyone own me again."
Dominic's jaw tightened. His hands were at his sides, fingers flexing like he wanted to reach for her and wasn't sure he should. She saw the hesitation in his eyes, the calculation. And then something else. Something that made her breath catch in her throat.
"I'm going to kiss you," he said.
It wasn't a request. It wasn't a question. Just a simple statement of fact, delivered in that same calm, measured voice he used for everything else.
Mira's heart stuttered. Her palms went damp. Every nerve in her body sparked to life like a wire stripped bare.
"Why?"
"Because I want to."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I've got."
She could feel the heat of him, the weight of his presence pressing against her like a physical force. She should say no. She should walk away. She should remember who he was, what he was, what he'd done—not to her, but to others. To men like her father. To anyone who crossed him.
But she didn't want to say no.
She wanted to feel something.
"Do it," she said.
He moved fast. One hand fisted in her hair, tilting her head back, and his mouth was on hers—hot and demanding and tasting of whiskey and coffee. She gasped into the kiss, and he took advantage, his tongue sliding against hers in a way that made her knees buckle.
She grabbed his shoulders to steady herself. His muscles were hard under her palms, warm through the thin cotton of his shirt. He smelled like smoke and cedar and something deeper—something raw and masculine that made her head swim.
He pulled back just far enough to look at her. His eyes were dark, blown wide, and his breathing was ragged.
"Is this what you want?"
"I don't know." Her voice came out breathless. "But I'm not stopping."
He didn't hesitate. His hands went to her hips, fingers digging into the fabric of her leggings, and he lifted her onto the edge of the desk. Papers scattered. A glass tipped over and spilled whiskey across the mahogany. Neither of them cared.
His mouth found her neck, teeth scraping against her pulse point, and she moaned—actually moaned—as heat pooled low in her belly. She arched into him, one hand threading through his hair, the other gripping the edge of the desk for balance.
"Fuck," she whispered.
"That's the idea."
He pulled the tank top over her head in one rough motion, then ducked his head to take one nipple in his mouth, tongue flicking against the sensitive peak. She cried out, back bowing, and he suckled her like he had all the time in the world.
His hands worked her leggings down her hips. She kicked them off, impatient, and then she was naked on his desk, spread out like an offering, and he was devouring her with his eyes.
He yanked his shirt over his head, and she got her first real look at him. Lean muscle. Broad shoulders. The Cyrillic tattoo curling down his forearm, and another one over his ribs, and a scar on his left shoulder that looked like it had come from a knife. Fine dark hair trailing down his stomach.
Her eyes dropped lower, to the bulge pressing against his slacks, and her mouth went dry.
"Like what you see?"
"Shut up and come here."
He laughed—actually laughed—and unbuckled his belt. The sound of it clinking made her whole body clench. He stepped out of his slacks and boxers, and she got her first look at his cock: thick and hard and already leaking precum at the tip.
Impressive. Sure of itself. Much like the man.
"You going to stare at it or do something?"
"Bossy."
"Fuck you."
"That's the plan."
He hooked his hands under her knees and spread her wide. Then he lowered his head and ran his tongue up the center of her, and she screamed.
Her hands flew to his head, fingers tangling in his hair. He ate her like a man starved, tongue circling her clit, stubble scraping against her inner thighs. She trembled, writhed, tried to close her legs, but he held her open with his hands and his mouth and an intensity that bordered on cruel.
"Dom—Dominic—"
"Say my name again."
"Dominic."
He thrust two fingers inside her, and she shattered.
Her orgasm tore through her like lightning, white-hot and blinding. She bucked off the desk, and he held her down, working her through it until she lay limp and shaking beneath him.
When he pulled back, his mouth was slick and his eyes were wild.
"Now," he said. "Now I'm going to fuck you."
He positioned himself at her entrance, the tip of his cock pressing against her wet cunt.
"Tell me you want it."
"I want it."
"Say it again."
"Fuck me, Dominic. Fuck me until I can't remember his name."
He slammed into her.
She screamed again. Not in pain. In release. In fury. In everything she'd been holding back for twenty-two years. He pounded into her, each thrust harder than the last, and she met him stroke for stroke, nails raking down his back, teeth sinking into his shoulder.
"Christ," he groaned. "You're tight."
"You're—" She gasped. "Big."
"Flattery."
"Truth."
He reached down and thumbed her clit, and she clenched around him, and he swore under his breath and fucked her harder. The desk creaked. Documents scattered. The spilled whiskey spread across the mahogany like a stain.
She didn't care. She didn't care about any of it. There was nothing but this—his body on hers, inside hers, the hard press of his chest against her breasts, the good ache of muscles stretched and used.
He kissed her again, and she tasted herself on his tongue. Filthy. Intimate. Her hips rocked up to meet him, and he drove deeper, hitting something inside her that made sparks burst behind her eyes.
"Don't stop," she whispered.
"I'm not stopping."
His rhythm faltered. His breathing went ragged. She felt him swell inside her, felt his control start to slip, and she wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled him closer.
"Come inside me."
"Mira—"
"Come inside me. Fill me up."
That did it. He buried himself to the hilt and came with a sound like a wounded animal—raw and low and utterly undone. She felt the heat of him flood her, felt his body shudder against hers, and held him there, where she could feel his pounding heart against her ribs, where the proof of what they'd done ran down her thighs and onto the desk.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
Then Dominic pulled back—not far, just enough to look at her. His face was flushed. His hair was a mess. He looked wrecked in a way that made something in her chest twist.
"You—" His voice was hoarse. "You are nothing like I expected."
"Good."
He pulled out slowly, and she winced at the loss. But he didn't step away. Just looked at her, naked and spread on his desk, and something passed between them—something wordless and heavy.
"You're staying," he said.
It wasn't a question.
"I'm staying."
"Good."
He stepped back and picked up his slacks, and she sat up on the desk, reaching for her own clothes. Her sex felt swollen and used. There would be marks on her hips in the morning, the imprint of his fingers painted onto her skin. Her legs shook when she stood. She didn't care.
He watched her dress with the same intensity he watched everything—careful and absolute. When she was done, she walked to the door and stopped with her hand on the knob.
"Gerald Vance," she said, without turning around. "He's working with your enemies. He owes you money he can't pay. He traded his own daughter for his skin."
"I know."
"So what do you do with him?"
The silence behind her was long and heavy. Then she heard the shift of leather as he sat back down in his chair.
"I kill him," Dominic said. "I make it hurt. And then I move on."
Mira turned then, so she could see his face. He was putting his shirt back on, eyes fixed on her, unreadable. She felt the exact moment the air between them changed shape.
"You said you wanted a purpose," he said. "This is it."
She held his gaze. Her body still thrummed with every place he'd been inside her. Her father's photograph lay on the desk where Dominic had dropped it, a little girl laughing on a man's shoulders. It looked like a different life. Someone else's story.
She didn't know who that girl was anymore.
"Okay," she said. "When?"
Dominic's expression didn't move except for a small, sharp tilt at the corner of his mouth.
"Tomorrow night."
She nodded once and walked out.
In the hallway, she leaned against the wall and let out a breath that shook all the way through her. Her hands were steady. Her heart wasn't.
But she was still alive.
And tomorrow, her father would not be.
Her feet had scabbed over by morning, and the bandages Vera left on the nightstand were damp with something that wasn't quite blood and wasn't quite pus. Mira peeled them off, studied the raw pink lines crossing her soles, and decided she could live with them. Pain was just information. Fear was the enemy.
She spent the day in the room Dominic had given her, which was small and clean and smelled like lemon soap. The bed was too soft. The pillows were too many. She slept in fits—twenty minutes here, forty there—and every time she woke, she checked the door.
It never moved.
At six, Vera brought food. Rice, grilled fish, something green that Mira didn't recognize. She ate without tasting, watching the light change outside the window, and tried not to think about what she had agreed to.
At eight, she stood in front of the dresser.
Black jeans. Black tank top. Black sweatshirt, oversized, hood down. She looked like a shadow. She felt like one too—like she could slip through walls if she tried hard enough.
The gun went into her waistband. The phone into her pocket. She tied her hair back with a rubber band and checked her reflection one last time.
The woman in the mirror had green eyes that didn't blink. Good enough.
---
The car came at nine.
Mira sat in the backseat and watched the city slide past—neon signs, wet streets, people walking dogs, people walking nowhere. The driver didn't speak. She didn't ask him to.
They stopped outside a building she didn't recognize, a warehouse on the north side with rusted doors and windows covered in plywood. The kind of place where things happened that never got reported.
She got out. The air tasted like rain and diesel.
Dominic was waiting by the entrance.
He wore a black peacoat over a charcoal suit, no tie, collar open at the throat. His hair was pushed back from his face, and the streetlight caught the sharp lines of his jaw, the hollow under his cheekbone.
She hated how handsome he was. Hated the way her stomach tightened when he looked at her. Hated the heat that crawled up her neck and settled in her cheeks like she was some teenager with a crush instead of a woman who'd been sold like livestock two days ago.
"You're early," he said.
"I'm always early."
He almost smiled. Almost. "Let's go."
The warehouse was empty except for a single chair in the center of the floor, a bare bulb overhead, and a man tied to the chair with his arms behind his back and his head slumped forward.
Gerald Vance.
Mira stopped ten feet away. Her heart hammered. Her hands went cold. But her face stayed blank—she'd practiced that for years, the art of showing nothing when everything inside screamed.
Her father lifted his head.
His face was a mess. Someone had worked him over before they got here—split lip, swollen eye, dried blood crusted under his nose. But he was awake. He was alive. And the moment he saw her, something flickered in his eyes that she couldn't name.
"Mira." His voice cracked. "Baby girl, you gotta help me. You gotta—"
"Don't."
The single word cut through the air like glass.
Gerald blinked. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. "What?"
"Don't call me that. Don't pretend you give a shit." She walked closer, each step deliberate, each step a victory over the trembling in her knees. "You sold me. You put me on the table like a poker chip and let them decide what to do with me."
"I had no choice—"
"There's always a choice."
She stopped in front of him. Her father looked up at her with the face she had known since she was a child, the face that had tucked her in at night and taught her how to pick a lock and left her standing in the rain outside a police station when she was thirteen because he didn't want to get caught.
"You look well," he said. "That's—that's good. I was worried about you."
"Were you?"
"I was. I swear, I—"
"Did you worry about me when you gave me to Dominic Kessler to pay off your debt?" Her voice didn't rise. Didn't crack. Just stayed level, quiet, cold. "Did you worry about me when you ran and left me to bleed on his floor?"
Gerald's face crumpled. Tears slid down his cheeks, cutting tracks through the dried blood. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't know what else to do."
"You could have died."
The words hung in the air between them.
"You could have let them kill you," Mira said. "You could have taken the bullet like a man. Instead, you made me collateral. You made me a thing."
"Mira—"
"Did you ever love me?"
The question caught her off guard. She hadn't planned it. Didn't know it was there until the words left her mouth. But once they were out, she couldn't take them back.
Gerald stared at her. His good eye was wet. His broken one was swollen shut.
"I loved you," he said. "I still love you."
"So you gave me away."
"I had no choice."
"Stop saying that."
"It's the truth."
She slapped him.
The sound cracked through the warehouse like a gunshot. Gerald's head snapped sideways. A fresh line of blood trickled from his lip.
"He's right, you know."
Dominic's voice came from behind her, calm and measured. She turned to find him standing a few feet away, hands in his pockets, watching the scene with an expression she couldn't read.
"About what?" she asked.
"There's always a choice." Dominic walked to her side, looked up at the man in the chair, then back at her. "You could have killed your father when he knocked on my door to beg. You came to me a free woman. You could have walked away."
"I could have."
"You didn't."
"No."
"Why?"
She looked back at her father—the broken, pathetic heap of a man who had given her thirty years of nothing and then tried to take the rest. She didn't feel anger. Didn't feel love. Just a deep, tired emptiness.
"Because I wanted to see him get what he deserved."
"And what does he deserve?"
She reached into her waistband and pulled out the gun.
Gerald made a sound—something small and pitiful, animal and weak. His body trembled in the chair.
"Mira, please. Please. I'm your father—"
"You stopped being my father when you offered me to settle your debts."
She cocked the hammer.
"Mira." Dominic's voice was quiet. "Look at me."
She didn't want to. But she did.
His eyes were dark, steady, unblinking. He didn't look away as he spoke.
"This isn't a movie. This isn't about what he deserves. This is about what you need." He stepped closer, until she could feel the heat of him against her shoulder. "You're about to take a life. That changes you. It doesn't matter if the man is a piece of shit. It's still a line."
She laughed. Harsh and sharp and entirely without humor. "You're telling me you've never crossed it."
"I've crossed it more times than I can count." His jaw tightened. "And every time, it cost me something I couldn't afford. So I'm asking you one thing, and I need you to answer honestly."
"What?"
"Do you want to be the one who pulls the trigger? Or do you want me to do it for you?"
The warehouse creaked. The wind howled. Gerald sobbed in his chair.
Mira stood there with the gun in her hand and everything she'd ever been pressing down on her shoulders—every time her father had let her down, every time he'd chosen himself, every time he'd looked at her like she was a tool instead of a person.
She thought about the photograph. The one of her as a kid on his shoulders.
She thought about the moment he'd put her on the table for Dominic.
"I want to do it."
"Then do it."
She raised the gun.
Gerald screamed. Begged. Promised. Said things about love and family and God that meant nothing, nothing at all, just noise from a dying man.
She pulled the trigger.
The sound was deafening. Gerald's body jerked. Blood sprayed. He slumped forward, and the chair tipped, and he hit the floor with a thud that she felt in her bones.
Mira stood there for a long moment. Her ears rang. Her hands shook—she didn't have them bound anymore, but they shook anyway, trembling around the smoking gun. She looked at the body. The man. Her father. A pool of blood already spreading across the concrete floor.
Dominic took the gun from her.
She didn't resist.
"Let's go," he said.
---
They drove back to his house in silence. The streets were quiet now, late and dark and empty. Mira sat in the backseat and watched the streetlights blur past and tried to feel something—relief, grief, anger, anything.
Just the hollow ache. The cold hum.
When they arrived, Dominic led her inside without a word. Vera was gone, the kitchen dark, the house sleeping. He walked her upstairs to her room and stopped at the door.
"Mira."
She turned.
He looked at her for a long moment. His face was unreadable, but something in his eyes softened at the edges.
"You did what you had to do."
"I know."
"Doesn't make it easier."
"I know that too."
He reached up and brushed a strand of hair from her face. His fingers lingered on her cheek, warm and steady.
"You're shaking."
"I'm fine."
"No, you're not." He stepped closer. His hand dropped to her shoulder, then slid down her arm. "You don't have to be fine with me."
She didn't move. Didn't pull away. Just stood there with her heart pounding and her skin prickling and something hot and tight coiling in her stomach.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"I don't know." His voice was low, rough. "I don't know."
She looked at him. Really looked at him. The sharp lines of his face. The way his shirt stretched across his chest. The way his hands were steady even when his voice wasn't.
She thought about the desk. The taste of his mouth. The weight of him inside her.
And she realized she wanted more.
Not because she was drunk. Not because she was high. Not because she was trying to forget. But because she wanted to feel something, anything, and he was here and he was warm and he was looking at her like she was the only thing in the world.
"I want you to touch me," she said.
Dominic's eyes went dark.
"Are you sure?"
"I'm not sure of anything. But I know I don't want to be alone."
He kissed her.
It was different this time. Slower. Deeper. His mouth moved against hers like he was learning her, tasting her, memorizing the shape of her lips. She opened for him, and he slid his tongue inside, and she moaned into the kiss and tangled her fingers in his shirt.
He backed her into the room, kicked the door shut, and pressed her against the wall. His hands were everywhere—her waist, her hips, her ass, sliding up under her sweatshirt, under her tank.
"I've been thinking about you," he whispered against her mouth.
"Since when?"
"Since you walked into my office with that bag of shit." He nipped at her bottom lip. "Since you looked at me like you wanted to kill me."
She pulled his coat off his shoulders. It hit the floor in a dark heap. She went for his belt next, unbuckling it with fingers that still shook from the gun.
"You okay?" he asked.
"I'm fine. Just—"
"Just what?"
"Just shut up and take your clothes off."
He laughed—that same low, surprised laugh from the desk—and stepped back to strip off his suit. Jacket. Shirt. Undershirt. He was naked from the waist up, all lean muscle and dark ink, and she couldn't stop staring.
"Like what you see?"
"Don't fish for compliments."
He grabbed her by the waist and tossed her onto the bed. She bounced, breath leaving her lungs, and then he was on top of her, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand.
"Tell me what you want."
"I already told you."
"Tell me again."
She looked up at him. The bare bulb from the hallway cast his face in half-light and shadow. His eyes were black, his jaw tight, his chest rising and falling with every breath.
"I want you inside me," she said. "I want you to fuck me until I can't think. I want—"
He kissed her again, cutting off the rest. His free hand pulled her tank top down, freeing her breasts, and his thumb found one nipple and circled it until she arched off the mattress.
"Fuck," she gasped. "Dominic."
He moved down her body. He kissed her collarbone. Her sternum. The curve of one breast. He took her nipple in his mouth and sucked, and she cried out, hands fisting in the sheets.
He didn't stop. He moved lower—down the flat plane of her stomach, down to the waistband of her jeans. He unbuttoned them slowly, deliberately, and pulled them down her hips.
"Lift."
She lifted. The jeans came off with her underwear, and then she was bare from the waist down, spread out under him, and he was looking at her like he wanted to devour her.
"You're wet," he said.
"Gee, I wonder why."
"Smartass."
He lowered his head and licked her.
Mira bucked. Her hands flew to his head, fingers twisting in his dark hair. He used his tongue and his lips and his teeth, eating her out with a focus that bordered on devotion, and she writhed under him, hips rolling, breath coming in short sharp gasps.
"Don't stop," she begged. "Please don't stop."
He didn't. He pushed two fingers inside her and crooked them, finding the spot that made stars burst behind her eyes, and she came with a cry that echoed off the walls.
He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and crawled up her body.
"You're beautiful when you come."
"I'm beautiful all the time."
"Yeah." He kissed her jaw. "You are."
She reached for his pants. Unbuckled them. Pushed them down along with his boxers. His cock sprang free—thick and hard and already slick at the tip—and she wrapped her fingers around it and squeezed.
"Fuck," he breathed.
"What do you want?"
"Same thing you want."
She guided him to her entrance. The tip pressed against her, and she was so wet, so ready, that he slid in with one smooth thrust that made them both groan.
He was thick. Hot. Filling her completely. She wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled him deeper, and he started to move—slow at first, then faster, harder, each stroke hitting something inside her that made her whole body tighten.
"Harder," she said.
He gave her harder.
"Faster."
He gave her faster.
The bed slammed against the wall. The headboard cracked. Sweat slicked their skin. She clawed at his back, nails dragging down muscle, and he buried his face in her neck and bit down.
"I'm close," he grunted.
"Come inside me."
"Mira—"
"I said come inside me."
He did. One final thrust, then he stilled, buried to the hilt, and she felt the hot rush of him filling her. He groaned—a sound that was almost a growl—and collapsed on top of her, chest heaving.
She held him there. Felt his heart pound against hers. Felt the weight of him, the heat, the solidity.
Something had changed tonight. She didn't know what. But she knew it was true.
They lay there for a long time, tangled in the sheets and each other. Eventually, Dominic rolled off her and pulled her against his side.
"You're staying," he said. Not a question.
"I'm staying."
"For good?"
She thought about it. Thought about the hollow ache. The cold hum. The photograph of the little girl on her father's shoulders.
"I don't know," she said. "I don't know what I'm doing."
"Neither do I."
He kissed the top of her head. She closed her eyes. And for the first time in days, she slept without dreaming.
Tomorrow, they would bury a man. Tonight, she was alive.