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We step out into the winter air, and I stare at the empty spot where my car has always waited for me before and isn’t now.

“Where to?” Orien asks.

I take a deep breath, filling my lungs with the frigid air.

“Home,” I say. “Let’s go home.”

29

The door to Orien’s apartment clicks shut behind us, and I stand with my back to it, my palms flat on the cool surface.

We had ended up running back to where Orien had left his car, a mile from the compound, which was closer than my car. When we passed the spot where the SUV had blocked the road for me, though, my vehicle was nowhere in sight.

Orien had driven us back to Ashford Heights with one eye on the speedometer to stop himself from speeding, and his fingers threaded through mine the entire way.

Now, Orien’s hand settles firmly at my hip while the other plants on the wood beside my head. His head dips, his mouth a warm shock after the cold from outside, and I open to him without hesitation.

His tongue twines around mine, and my knees go weak. I breathe him in, letting his pheromones wrap around me, stronger and more immediate than the lingering traces in the apartment.

Orien’s grip tightens, fingers curling into my hip as his breathing quickens, the steady in-out of it a counterpoint to the beat of my pulse. His free hand cups the back of my neck, thumb brushing the raised edge of the Marks he left there.

I answer by dragging him closer, chest to chest, needing the solid contact of his body after the compound and that gut-punch moment of thinking he’d been shot. He crowds me back to the door, and I surrender to the pressure, the heat, and the simple, overwhelming fact that we’re both still here.

My jacket comes off first, shoved from my shoulders and dropped to the floor with a soft thump. Orien’s jacket follows mine to the floor, black on black.

I work the velcro tabs of the Kevlar vest free at his sides, and he lifts his arms to help me pull it free. It lands with a thud. His thermal comes next, dark fabric dragging up over his head, and my palms flatten over the warm skin of his chest.

He reaches for the hem of my sweater. “Arms up.”

I lift my arms to let him pull it over my head. The cold air raises goose bumps across my skin, but they vanish beneath the heat of Orien’s touch. His hands span my ribs, thumbs brushing my nipples, and my dick hardens in response.

Our shoes hit the floor, kicked aside with no regard for where they land. My jeans unbutton under Orien’s quick fingers, and I push them down my hips, stepping out of them while my mouth finds the junction of his neck and shoulder.

The compound, with its cold corridors, blank-faced security men, and Uncle Mikhail with his blood spreading across the front of his shirt, all feel far away. Here, there’s only the warmth of Orien’s body, the pressure of his hands, and the drugging pleasure of his mouth on mine.

My fingers work at his belt, then the button of his jeans, shoving them down his thighs. He kicks them away with one foot and steps closer, his hard cock nudging my stomach.

The apartment is quiet around us, the only sounds being our breathing and the occasional soft thud as another piece of clothing hits the floor. Late afternoon light filters through the half-drawn blinds, casting long shadows across the floor. The kitchen is visible from here, the breakfast dishes still in the sink from this morning, the half-empty coffee pot on the warmer.

This place is nothing like the compound with its marble floors, silent staff moving through the halls, and security cameras in every corner. It’s small and sparse and completely Orien’s.

It’s where he keeps his weapons cleaned and his coffee mugs organized by size. It’s where the books on the shelf are alphabetized, and the towels in the bathroom are folded into perfect squares.

It’s where, a week ago, I handed him my life and watched him accept it without hesitation.

Orien’s hand slides into my boxers, wrapping around my hard length. I gasp into his mouth, hips pushing forward into his grip. His other hand settles at the small of my back, holding me steady as his fingers work.

“I thought I was going to lose you,” he says, the words rough as they brush my lips. “When I found your car abandoned⁠—”

“I’m here,” I cut him off. “I’m right here.”

My boxers hit the floor with the rest of our clothes, leaving nothing between us but skin and heat and the quick, urgent stroke of Orien’s fist around my dick and his fingers drawing slick from my hold before shoving inside. My head falls back on the door, a moan breaking loose as his fingers curl just right.

“Bed,” I manage to gasp out. “Please.”

Orien’s mouth finds my throat, teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below my jaw. “Yeah.”

He straightens, hands settling on my hips, and in one motion ducks and hauls me up over his shoulder. The blood rushes to my head.