Ch 47

The elevator was out—iced shut at the rail; they took the stairs, two at a time, feeding off the urgency of a day that didn’t let up. Xander pushed open the apartment door with his shoulder, nearly sending it off the hinge. Carolina followed, warmth slapping her face after so much bone-cold public.

Inside, the air was thick with new baby, leftover broth, and the faint metal of repair work. Morgan was with Riss and Briony for the night—Lyra’s idea, so Xander and Carolina could “role-play being alone, like the old days.” The last glass from dinner sat, untouched, on the windowsill; beyond it, shards of city light glimmered in refrozen puddles.

Xander looked at her, the mask of Alpha slipping the second they were alone. For a heartbeat, she wondered if she’d recognize who he really was anymore. But he held her gaze with a hunger so naked and honest she felt it throb in her teeth.

They never made it to the bedroom. Xander pressed her against the kitchen counter, the formica gritty against her hips, and kissed her like he was still starving. His hands mapped her—neck, jaw, the ledge of her collarbone—and she felt the months of wartime abstinence roll off him in waves. He stripped her out of her ratty thermal, then his own, their bodies finding the old geometry. He cupped her breast in his hand, thumb dragging over a nipple gone tight and sensitive. She gasped, arched into him, the mate-bond making every touch feel like a faultline opening under her skin.

She tried to keep her mind clear, to savor the choreography, but a low, wolfish growl rose from his chest as he tasted the curve of her breast with his lips, tongue teasing with flicks—sharp, then gentle, then unbearable. His other hand worked under her waistband, long fingers seeking, then finding, exactly what she needed him to. He slid two fingers inside and drew out a gasp that nearly shattered her knees.

She tore his pants open with less finesse than she’d hoped for, but it made him laugh—a sound so rare she bit his shoulder to savor it, and he retaliated by biting back, lower, between her breasts. Her head fell back against the cabinets as he worked his fingers and thumb together; she was already dripping for him, body tuned to his, mate-bond cranked to burn.

He didn’t lift her so much as haul her onto the counter, clearing a spot with a sweep of one arm. She hooked her ankles behind his back, dragging him against her so their bodies lined up, the heat of him almost painful against her bare skin. He didn’t hesitate, not even a heartbeat—he pushed inside, and the sudden fullness, the stretch, pulled a howl out of her, raw and unselfconscious.

He bit at her jaw, her ear, and every deep thrust sent her back against the cabinets with a musical thud. He held her breast with one hand, still teasing the nipple, keeping her borderline-crazed; with the other, he anchored her hips down, pinning her to the world. She tugged his hair, scraped her nails along his shoulders, and when she came, it was like a blackout—muscles coiled, then shooting stars behind her eyes.

He pulled out for a fraction of a second, grinning at her delirious, boneless state, then entered again, rougher, deeper, spilling warmth inside her with a grunt and a whispered word she couldn’t remember later. He held her tight as they rode out the aftershocks, breathing her in, lips pressed to her temple.

For a long moment, they just stayed like that—interlocked, greedy, a little ruined. At last, he let her down, handed her a towel from the drying rack, and drew her into a lazy spiral toward the bedroom.

Before they crossed the threshold, he caught her hand, kissed the thin white scar along her forearm. “We should do this more,” he said.

Carolina shook her head, but she was smiling. “Only if you promise not to destroy the kitchen every time.”

He laughed—a real laugh, still rare, still her favorite thing. “No promises.”

They fell into the bed, tangled and new, and let the city push on without them for a few hours more.

*

In the blue hour before dawn, Morgan woke and called for them—a bright, birdlike wail from down the hall. Carolina lay very still, Xander’s arm a heavy shield around her ribs. The city was perfectly, impossibly quiet.

For the first time in actual memory, she didn’t dread the day to come. Instead, she whispered a little thanks to whatever old gods might be listening, then slipped from the bed and left Xander snoring softly in the lull.

There was no going back to the old world. But here, in the half-wreckage, they’d found something that survived the endless siege: the ache for joy, the promise of more.

Sometimes, Carolina realized, your rebuilt from the inside out.