Page 78 of Theta

"Maybe I'm not done making you come," he says, trailing a single finger up my seam.

My control, what little of it remains, snaps, then. I shove him backward, hard—he staggers backward and hits the edge of the bed, sitting down hard with a squeal of protesting springs. I feel a bolt of unreasoning fear and self-consciousness ripple through me initially, nearly killing the need inside me—a knee-jerk reaction to my natural assertiveness escaping. Which, as I've explained to Killian, has not, historically, gone well for me.

But this is Killian.

My Killy.

And he just grins, a feral, heated curve of his lips, and stays on his back on the bed, feet on the floor. He tucks his hands under his head, fingers laced, waiting.

My heart hammers in my chest as I stare at him—his long, hard body naked for me, chest rising and falling steadily, stomach tensed, cock hard and thick and leaking precum, thighs bunched and powerful.

"You're fucking gorgeous," I whisper, sauntering toward him, trailing my fingers up his thighs as I move to stand between his legs. "You know that?"

He has no answer; his eyes are fixed on my pussy, and then flick up to linger on my breasts. I can see his hands unlace and clench into fists as he resists the urge to reach for me.

That restraint on his part is my undoing.

Sounds filter in from the open window—a peal of cackling, female laughter, an answering male chuckle; a florid string of curses in Italian mostly consisting of "cazzo,” which I'm starting to think means "Fuck"; the roar of an engine and the squeal of brakes.

Car doors slam closed.

A woman screams, and others follow suit.

I see Killian's brows furrow as understanding hits him at the same instant; he springs into motion an eye-blink faster than me, rolling off the bed and past me. He apparates into his jeans, yanking on his tee and strapping on the vest; he's dressed in seconds. I'm only a few heartbeats behind him, clad in the new outfit.

He rummages in the backpack, finds a spare pistol, tosses it to me, and then some magazines. Neither of us is wearing shoes.

There's a distant, muffled shout, and the BANG! of a single shot from an assault rifle. I don't need to be down there to know the innocent proprietor is now dead.

I peek out the window—we're on the second floor, so it's a pretty far drop to the cobblestone street, but both Killy and I have plenty of practice at drops like this. I take a moment to hurry into my shoes, and Killy does the same. I hear distant crashes—doors being kicked open, and shouts of anger that morph to fear.

Killy sees me at the window, peers out, and then meets my gaze. "Better part of valor, I guess, right?" He goes to a knee in the middle of the room, back to the window. "Go, I’ll cover you."

"Killy," I say, but the protest dies on my lips at the look on his face.

"Out the fucking window, Story. Now! I'll cover you." When I hesitate still, he growls. "I'll be right behind you, I promise."

I shrug into the backpack, tighten the vest, tighten the backpack straps. Stick one leg out the window, then duck my torso out, straddling the windowsill, and glance back at Killian.

"Go, goddammit!" he snaps. "I'll be fine."

The door flies open inward, the frame splintering at the latch. A body wearing armor and an olive drab tee fills the doorway; I have a split-second impression of a beard and dark eyes, and then Killian's pistol barks once, and the face rocks backward.

I swing my other leg out and drop in a single, fluid motion, my stomach rising into my throat for a split second. Air rushes past my ear in a loud roar, through which I hear a second bark from Killy's pistol; the ground flies up to meet me and I launch myself into tuck-and-roll to absorb the momentum. The contents of the backpack smash into my back as I roll—it'll be a wonder if something within isn't smashed.

I hear a third bark of gunfire hard on the heels of the second; a matter of seconds has elapsed since I leaped out of the window. A barrage of automatic weapons fire erupts from above, and a window shatters in a tinkling of glass and the plaster on the outside of the wall flakes away in a fluttering shower. My heart surges into my throat again, this time in fear for Killy.

The spray of rounds from what sounded like an MP-5 is punctuated by a single shot, and there’s a deep, snarling, masculine shout of pained rage, and another reckless chainsaw rattle of rounds peppers the window and wall to either side, and then I hear a breathless grunt.

"Hope you can fuckin' fly, bitch," I hear Killian say, and then there's a yell of shocked fear and a body thuds into the cobblestones in front of me. When he hits the ground, it sounds like a watermelon hitting the driveway mixed with someone snapping a handful of dry spaghetti.

The man's eyes flicker and flutter, and then go still as blood spreads in a widening ruby pool.

Silence, then.

A few moments later, Killian swaggers out of the front door of the hostel, pistol in his hand at his thigh, a pair of MP-5s slung over his left shoulder; his face is a mask of blood.

"KILLIAN!" I shout, rushing for him.