Breach - 4

Chapter Four:

You’re Still Mine

23:11 P.M.

Cain’s voice cut sharp through the radio, “Status check—patrol four, respond.”

Static.

Cain’s jaw flexed.

The estate’s east wing should’ve checked in three minutes ago. The cameras in that section had been glitchy since the rain started, but silence wasn’t just a delay—it was a warning.

He didn’t wait.

He ran.

—

23:13 P.M.

The corridor smelled off—like ozone, sweat, and copper.

Cain moved in silence, gun drawn, heart pounding in his throat. As he neared the stairwell, he heard the scuff of boots. A low grunt. Then—Saxon’s voice. Muffled. Strained.

No.

Cain hit the door and shoved through with full force.

Saxon was on the floor.

Kneeling.

Hands gripping a decorative sculpture from the side table, blood at his lip, shirt torn at the collar. And behind him—a man with a blade, black mask, arm already in mid-swing.

Cain didn’t think.

Didn’t aim.

Bang.

The bullet tore through the attacker’s shoulder, sending him flying backward into the wall. Saxon fell forward, gasping.

Cain didn’t pause.

He crossed the room in two seconds flat, kicked the weapon away, and slammed the man’s head into the marble so hard it cracked. Once. Twice. Again.

“Cain—” Saxon croaked behind him.

But Cain didn’t stop. Red mist clouded his vision. His boot found the attacker’s ribs. Over and over.

This wasn’t a kill.

This was a message.

Mine.

“You touch him again,” Cain snarled, voice shaking, “I’ll rip your fucking throat out and make you choke on it.”

A whimper. Blood. Silence.

Cain stood, chest heaving, eyes wild.

And turned.

Saxon was still on the floor, trembling, palms scraped from catching himself.

But those eyes…

They weren’t afraid.

They were dark. Wet. Hungry.

—

23:20 P.M.

Cain dragged the body away, ordered cleanup, and locked the corridor down. Every guard was doubled. Every camera checked. Reinforcements called.

But when he returned to the bedroom—

Saxon was already naked, sitting on the edge of the bed, lip still bleeding, cock half-hard, hands resting on his thighs like he was offering himself up.

Cain froze in the doorway.

“You were going to kill him,” Saxon whispered.

Cain said nothing.

Saxon looked up. “For me.”

Cain stepped inside, locked the door behind him, and walked forward slowly—like approaching a wild animal.

Saxon didn’t move.

“I would’ve done worse,” Cain said finally. “If you’d let me.”

Saxon’s breath hitched. “I wanted you to.”

Cain grabbed him by the throat and shoved him down onto the bed, straddling his hips, cock pressed to his belly, fists gripping the sheets.

“You want to be punished that badly?” Cain rasped.

Saxon’s voice cracked. “I want to be fucked that badly.”

Cain kissed him—hard. Brutal. Deep. Tongue and teeth, no mercy.

He bit Saxon’s lip again, tasted copper, licked it clean.

Then he flipped him—rough, fast—grabbing the lube from the drawer, slicking his fingers, pushing one inside without warning.

Saxon gasped, back arching. “More—don’t stop—”

Cain gave him two, then three—fast, hard, unrelenting, until Saxon was grinding into the bed, panting, moaning like a fucking whore.

“You like watching me lose control?” Cain hissed.

Saxon groaned. “I love it. I love when you break for me—”

Cain lined up his cock, shoved in with one violent thrust that had Saxon choking on his own cry.

He didn’t wait.

He grabbed Saxon’s hips and fucked him like a savage.

No rhythm. No gentleness. Just pure, punishing possession.

“You’re mine,” Cain growled with every thrust. “Say it.”

Saxon gasped, drooling on the sheets, legs trembling. “I’m yours—I’ve always been yours—”

Cain yanked him up by the hair and bit into his shoulder, hard enough to mark.

Saxon came without being touched—screaming, shuddering, whole body twitching.

Cain didn’t stop.

He pounded deeper, hips slapping against the curve of Saxon’s ass, until his own orgasm hit—hot, loud, shaking, with a groan that sounded more like a snarl.

They collapsed in a tangled heap, breathless.

Sweaty, shaking and silent.

—

23:47 P.M.

Cain lay on his back, arm thrown over his eyes, chest rising and falling like he’d just fought a war.

Because he had.

Saxon curled beside him—still marked, still raw, but softer now.

Less armor, more truth.

He traced the scar near Cain’s ribs. “I remember this.”

Cain didn’t move. “You gave it to me.”

“You let me.”

“You were crying,” Cain said flatly. “I didn’t stop you.”

Saxon swallowed. “I thought you were leaving me.”

“I was.”

Silence.

Then Saxon whispered, “But you came back.”

Cain turned his head.

Their eyes met.

Cain reached out, brushing a thumb across Saxon’s cheek.

“I never stopped watching you,” he admitted. “Even when I was gone. Especially then.”

Saxon exhaled. “You still feel like mine.”

Cain leaned in.

Kissed him.

Soft. Slow. Unforgiving.

“I never stopped being yours.”

—

00:15 A.M.

Outside the estate, a shadow moved.

A phone call was made.

A voice answered. Cold. Clean.

“He’s protecting him again.”

“Good. Then it’ll hurt more when we rip him apart.”

——

03:08 A.M.

Cain sat on the edge of the bed, knees apart, a medical kit open on the floor between his boots.

Saxon lay face-down, breath steady now but soft. Quiet. His back was a map of bruises—some old, some fresh, some beautiful in how they bloomed beneath Cain’s fingers. But the cut above his lip and the abrasion on his shoulder needed cleaning.

Cain had already taken care of the worst.

Now came the part that hurt more.

The silence.

“You could’ve let me handle him,” Saxon mumbled into the pillow.

Cain dipped the gauze in antiseptic. “You hesitated.”

“I wasn’t scared.”

“I didn’t say you were,” Cain said, pressing the pad to Saxon’s scraped skin.

Saxon hissed.

Cain paused, softened the pressure, but didn’t apologize. Saxon didn’t want gentle. Not really.

“You think I’m weak,” Saxon said.

Cain’s eyes flicked to his.

“No,” he said quietly. “I think you’re reckless. Impulsive. Addicted to pain. But not weak.”

Saxon turned his head just enough to meet Cain’s gaze.

“Then why’d you leave?”