Chapter 10: The Hummingbird's Truth
The stickiness between her thighs was a tangible record. Freya lay still, feeling the slow seep of him inside her, a stark contrast to the sterile cleanliness of an hour before. She’d never allowed that before, not without a calculated purpose. This was different. This was aftermath.
“Tell me about the scar,” she said, her voice rough. Her finger had been tracing the raised, pale line on his ribcage for minutes.
Aidan’s chest rose and fell under her hand. “Afghanistan. Not a glorious story. A piece of shrapnel from a wall three meters away. Wrong place, wrong time.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Only when I breathe.”
She pinched him, gently. “Don’t be clever. You know what I mean.”
He was quiet for a moment. “Sometimes. A deep ache when it’s cold. Or when I’m tired. It’s a reminder to pay attention to the quiet moments. The explosive ones aren’t the real threat.”
Freya absorbed that. She rolled onto her side to face him, propping her head on her hand. The sunlight cut across his torso, highlighting the topography of muscle and old damage. “What’s the real threat?”
He looked at her, his brown eyes catching the light. “Complacency. Forgetting to watch the door. Assuming you know what’s coming next.”
A challenge, quietly issued. She accepted it with a nod. Then she swung her legs out of bed. The cool air kissed her skin, raising goosebumps. “I’m starving. And I want champagne.”
“It’s eleven in the morning.”
“And your point is?” She tossed the words over her shoulder as she walked, naked, toward the ensuite bathroom. She didn’t look back to see him watching her, but she felt it—a tactile heat between her shoulder blades.
When she emerged, damp from a quick shower and wrapped in a silk robe the color of cigarette smoke, he was in the kitchen. Not the main kitchen downstairs, but the small penthouse galley. He’d found eggs, spinach, a block of feta. The scene was domestic, surreal. He moved with an economical precision she found mesmerizing.
“You cook,” she stated, leaning against the doorway.
“I survive,” he corrected, cracking an egg one-handed into a bowl. “This is a byproduct.”
She watched his hands. Strong, capable, scarred across the knuckles. Hands that could dismantle a weapon or trace the curve of her spine with equal focus. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I’m hungry too.” He glanced at her. “And you’ve probably not eaten anything that wasn’t photographed or sprinkled with gold leaf in a week.”
She smirked. “You’re judging my diet.”
“I’m assessing your nutrient deficiency. It’s a tactical concern.”
The omelet he slid onto a plate was simple, perfect. They ate at the kitchen island, on stools, her robe gaping, him wearing just his boxers. The champagne was crisp and cold. For a few minutes, there was only the clink of forks, the sound of chewing. It was the most ordinary intimacy she could remember.
“I have a shoot this afternoon,” she said, finally. “Bastian Thorne. Lingerie. On a roof downtown.”
Aidan’s fork paused. He took a sip of water. “Okay.”
“He’s a prick. He’ll want me half-frozen, contorted into something ‘edgy’. He’ll touch me to ‘adjust the strap’ and his fingers will linger two seconds too long.”
“Do you want me to come?”
The question was neutral. But the undercurrent was a riptide.
Did she? The old Freya would have said no. The old Freya used those moments as a power play, a cold exercise in enduring the male gaze to prove she controlled it. But the walls were supposed to be coming down. “Yes,” she said. “But not as my assistant. As my… thing. My person. Watching him. Watching me.”
“I can do that.”
“I know.” She finished her champagne. “That’s why it’s dangerous.”
The shoot was exactly as she’d predicted. A wind machine howled, biting through the scraps of black lace she wore. Bastian, a wiry man with a manic energy, circled her like a vulture. “More anguish, Freya! Think trapped bird! Think fractured glass!”
She delivered, her body arching, her face a mask of haunted seduction. Her skin pricked with cold. And there, just outside the ring of lights, leaning against a ventilation duct with his arms crossed, was Aidan. He wasn’t looking at her with lust or awe. He was watching Bastian. Tracking every movement, every unnecessary touch. His expression was calm, utterly closed, but his eyes were like chips of flint.
When Bastian’s hand came up to “reposition” her chin, his thumb brushing her lower lip, Aidan didn’t move a muscle. But Freya felt the shift in the air, a sudden pressure drop. She held Aidan’s gaze over Bastian’s shoulder and gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of her head. Stand down.
Bastian finally stepped back, pleased. “We have magic! Let’s reset for the seated series.”
Freya wrapped herself in a robe and walked to the makeshift heaters. Aidan materialized beside her, handing her a thermos of hot tea she hadn’t asked for.
“He’s a talentless parasite who gets off on this,” Aidan said, his voice low, for her alone.
“I know.”
“Then why?”
“Because the check clears. And because it’s a game I’ve always won.” She sipped the tea. It was exactly right. “But it feels different now. With you watching.”
“Good,” he said, simply. “It should.”
The final shot required her to lie back on the cold tar paper, legs bent, head tilted toward the sky. Bastian was fussing with the lace at her hips, his fingers straying. “Just need to flatten this seam, darling, it’s creating a shadow—”
Aidan’s voice cut through the chatter, calm, polite, and utterly inflexible. “Mr. Thorne. The shadow is from the key light being three degrees off axis. If you adjust the fill, the problem resolves. Let me.”
He didn’t wait for permission. He stepped into the light, his body blocking Bastian’s view of her. He leaned down, his hands swift and professional, adjusting the fabric without his skin touching hers once. His face was close to hers. His whisper was a breath. “You’re freezing. Thirty more seconds. Then we’re done.”
He stepped back. Bastian spluttered, but the crew, seeing the corrected lighting, nodded in agreement. The shot was taken.
In the car back to the penthouse, she was silent, vibrating with a cold that had nothing to do with the weather. The controlled exposure of the shoot had scraped her raw. Aidan drove, his eyes on the road.
Once inside the private elevator, she turned on him. The robe was still over her shoulders. “Don’t ever do that again.”
“Do what?”
“Interfere. It’s my battlefield. You don’t get to fight my fights.”
The elevator dinged, opening into the penthouse. He followed her in. “I wasn’t fighting. I was correcting a technical error.”
“Bullshit.” She threw the robe off. The lingerie was still on, cruel and delicate against her skin. “You were marking territory. In front of everyone.”
He didn’t deny it. He stepped closer, his energy filling the vast space. “Maybe I was. You asked me to watch. I watched. I didn’t like what I saw.”
“It’s my job to be looked at! To be touched!”
“By creeps like that?” His voice remained level, but it had an edge now, a blade being unsheathed. “That’s not a job. That’s a tax you pay for the privilege of being Freya Vance. And you’re so used to paying it you don’t even feel it anymore.”
The truth of it was a slap. Her hand came up, but he caught her wrist, not hard, just stopping her. The contact was electric. She was panting, furious, aroused, exposed.
“I feel it,” she hissed. “I feel everything. That’s the fucking problem.”
His grip softened. He brought her captured wrist to his lips, pressed a kiss to the frantic pulse point there. The gentleness undid her more than any force could. “Then stop paying,” he murmured against her skin.
He led her to the bedroom, not to the bed, but to the full-length mirror that occupied one wall. He stood behind her, his hands on her shoulders, forcing her to look. “See this? This is what he wanted. This image. This product.” His hands slid down, over the lace, cupping her breasts, his touch possessive and real. “This is what’s mine.”
He turned her, pushed her against the cool glass. The city lights were coming on below, a galaxy at their feet. He yanked the delicate lingerie down, not bothering to unhook it, the fabric tearing with a sharp, satisfying sound. There was no tenderness now. This was reclamation.
He took her from behind, her palms flat against the mirror, her breath fogging the glass. Each thrust was a punctuation mark on his earlier words. Stop. Paying. She watched their reflection, a blurred tableau of skin and strain and desperate need. He was everywhere, surrounding her, inside her, his rhythm relentless, driving out the memory of every other touch.
When she came, it was with a choked, raw sound, her forehead pressed to the mirror. He followed, spilling into her with a low groan, his teeth grazing her shoulder. They stayed like that, braced against the world, until their breathing slowed.
In the reflection, her eyes found his. “I hate you a little for that,” she whispered, no heat in it.
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. He pulled out, gently, turning her to face him. “Good,” he said, wiping a smudge of her lipstick from his mouth. “Use it. Just don’t waste it on pricks like Bastian.” He kissed her, slow and deep. “Save it for me.”