Chapter 13: Kinn kneels between Porsche's spread legs, tenderly cleaning his swollen, leaking hole as another contraction hits - 'Breathe, baby, just breathe through it,' he murmurs before pressing reverent kisses to Porsche's stretch-marked belly where their child kicks violently.
Light bled through the cracks in the hut’s corrugated tin roof, long, dirty shafts of dawn cutting through the gloom. The air was a soup of mildew, rotting wood, and the iron-tinged scent of blood. Porsche lay on a nest of discarded burlap sacks, his breath coming in ragged, frayed gasps. Another contraction was building, a tide of pure pressure that made the world narrow to the vise-grip around his spine and the impossible weight between his legs.
“Fuck,” he whimpered, his fingers clawing at the rough fabric beneath him. “Kinn…”
Kinn was across the hut, methodically checking the pistol he’d retrieved from the duffel bag. At the sound of his name, uttered in that broken tone, he went utterly still. He set the gun down with a soft click and crossed the cramped space in two strides, sinking to his knees between Porsche’s splayed thighs.
The sight there was a punch to the gut.
Dried blood and grime from the sewer trek coated Porsche’s inner thighs, an ugly brownish-red smear against his pale skin. The bulge of his belly was taut and low, shifting with a life of its own. Porsche’s body was a battleground, and he was losing.
Wordlessly, Kinn grabbed the canteen and a strip of torn, relatively clean cloth from his own shirt. He soaked the cloth, his hands, for once, not steady. The clinical detachment he could command in a boardroom or during an execution shattered completely.
“This will be cold,” he muttered, his voice stripped bare of its usual arrogance.
The first touch of the wet cloth to Porsche’s heated skin made him jolt. Kinn worked gently, with a focused tenderness that was alien to him, washing away the evidence of their frantic flight. The water turned pink, then rust-colored in the dim light. He cleaned the crease of his thigh, the tender skin of his groin, and finally, with a hesitancy that felt like fear, he dabbed at the evidence of his own seed, which had seeped out and mixed with everything else. A possessiveness, fierce and primal, warred with a gut-deep shame.
Porsche wept quietly, tears carving clean tracks through the dirt on his face. The pain receded briefly, leaving him hollow and shivering. “I can’t… I don’t know how to do this,” he confessed, the words a mere breath.
Kinn looked up from his task, their eyes meeting. In Porsche’s gaze, Kinn saw the annihilation of every simple promise—the mountain village, the quiet life, the destined love. All of it had been reduced to this: a bloodied boy in a stinking hut, waiting to be torn apart by a miracle he never asked for.
Something in Kinn’s chest, something frozen and fortified over twenty-four years, cracked open.
He dropped the cloth. His clean hand came up to cradle Porsche’s jaw, his thumb rubbing over a tear-stained cheekbone. The gesture was unbearably soft.
“Listen to me,” Kinn said, the command still there but woven through with a raw thread of something else. “You are the strongest person I have ever known. You took everything my world could throw at you. You took me.” He leaned closer, his forehead nearly touching Porsche’s. “This is just one more thing. And after this, it’s ours. No one else’s.”
Porsche searched his face, finding no lie, only a terrifying, absolute conviction. “Your father…”
“My father is a ghost,” Kinn cut in, his voice dropping to a low, venomous register. “He is a relic. If he walks through that door, I will put a bullet in his brain. If his men come, I will paint these walls with their insides.” His thumb brushed Porsche’s lower lip. “I will burn the whole fucking world to the ground if it tries to touch you again. I swear it.”
It wasn’t a romantic vow. It was a declaration of war, a blueprint for genocide offered as a comfort. And for Porsche, trapped in the helpless, animal terror of his body, it was the only thing that could possibly matter.
He surged up, capturing Kinn’s mouth in a desperate, salty kiss. It was all teeth and tears and shared breath, a frantic sealing of the promise. Kinn met it with equal desperation, kissing him back like a man pulling oxygen from a failing air pocket. He crawled forward, his body slotting over Porsche’s, careful of the swollen belly between them.
The kiss broke, but their faces stayed close, sharing the same air.
“Make me forget for a minute,” Porsche begged, his hands fumbling at Kinn’s belt. “Just one minute. Make me feel you, not this.”
Kinn didn’t hesitate. He never did with Porsche, not when it mattered. He shoved his own pants down just enough, freed his cock, which hardened swiftly under Porsche’s desperate touches. He was already wet from the washing, slick with water and remnants. Kinn spat into his palm, slicked himself further, and positioned himself.
“Look at me,” Kinn ordered, pushing slowly inside.
The stretch was different this time—deeper, more profound, as if his body was already making space for another passage. Porsche gasped, his eyes flying open, locking onto Kinn’s. As Kinn slid home, a deep, full connection, the world did narrow. The pain receded, blurring into a secondary background hum behind the overwhelming sensation of being filled, claimed, anchored.
“That’s it,” Kinn growled, beginning to move with long, penetrating drives. “Feel me. Only me.” He set a relentless, deep rhythm, each thrust a brutal reminder of presence, of ownership, of a choice made. The hut filled with the slick, rhythmic sound of their joining, the creak of old wood, and their choked-off gasps.
Porsche clutched at Kinn’s back, his nails digging in, anchoring himself to the pain he was choosing. “Harder,” he rasped. “I don’t want to feel anything else.”
Kinn obliged, snapping his hips with a brutal force that jolted Porsche up the sacks. He fucked him with a single-minded intensity, a physical manifesto of his vow. It was raw, unredeemed by tenderness, a carnal overwriting of terror.
“You’re mine,” Kinn chanted against his throat, his breath hot. “This body is mine. This life is mine. I’ll kill for it. I’ll die for it.”
Porsche came with a shattered cry, his climax wrenched from him by the sheer overwhelming force of sensation and emotion, his spend striping hot between their pressed bellies. The convulsion of his inner muscles dragged Kinn over the edge seconds later. Kinn buried a roar in the curve of Porsche’s neck, pumping his release deep inside, a hot, claiming flood that felt like a brand.
For a long moment, they stayed locked, panting, sweat-slick, and trembling.
Then, a new contraction began, stronger than all the others. It built like a tsunami, stealing Porsche’s breath. His back arched off the sacks, a strangled scream caught in his throat.
Kinn pulled out, moved swiftly, his hands returning not with a gun, but with the clean cloths. He pushed Porsche’s knees wider, his eyes fixed between his legs. His face, moments ago slack with pleasure, was a mask of stark, awe-struck fear.
“I see it,” Kinn whispered, his voice trembling. “Porsche… I see the head.”
The world outside the hut ceased to exist. There was only this convergence of blood, promise, and staggering vulnerability. Kinn’s hands, which had just been instruments of carnal distraction, now hovered, ready to catch their future.
Porsche sobbed, nodding, bearing down as the wave of pain crashed over him. On the gritty floor of a forgotten hut, drenched in the smells of sex and birth, the heir to a mafia empire prepared to deliver the only thing that had ever been truly his.