He should've left an hour ago.

Two, maybe, if he gave a damn about being seen. But Issek never rushed. Not when it came to breaking his own rules.

The amber light slanted through the half-drawn curtains, casting long gold shadows over her skin still marked with his fingerprints. She was tangled in the sheets, breath shallow from what he'd done to her body for hours. He'd worn her out completely - made sure of it. Until her legs trembled and her voice cracked, until she clawed at his back like she might actually try to tear him apart.

Now she was quiet.

Too quiet.

It made something primal stir in his chest - not tenderness, never that. Hunger. A raw, aching need to break the silence with her cries.

Issek dragged a hand through his dark hair, the cool press of his signet ring brushing his throat as he exhaled smoke toward the ceiling. The hotel room smelled like sex and expensive whiskey, her perfume clinging to the air like a challenge he couldn't ignore. He should've walked out after. Should've been clean about it.

But fuck.

He hadn't even put his shirt back on.

He stood beside the bed like a sentry, one ankle crossed over the other, ink trailing down his chest like a map to sin itself. The Glock was on the nightstand beside the ashtray, not hidden - just there, like an extension of his hand. Because it was.

Issek never went anywhere unarmed.

Especially not when he was this exposed.

She shifted in the sheets and his eyes locked onto her like a predator. Instant. Predatory. God, he hated that loss of control.

No - craved that loss of control.

It kept him alive. It kept him sharp.

He didn't trust this. Her. The quiet. The way his thumb kept brushing over the spot on his arm where she'd dug in her nails. He'd fucked enough women to know the difference between lust and obsession - and this... this had all the makings of a fucking problem.

Because Issek didn't linger.

Didn't watch the rise and fall of a woman's chest after he'd finished with her. Didn't care about the way sunlight turned her hair to fire. Didn't stand like a fool memorizing the curve of her waist or the shape of her lips when she was finally silent.

But he was still here. Still watching.

And she was still in that bed.

That was the worst part.

She was becoming his.

The cigarette burned down to his fingers. He dropped it on the expensive carpet without looking and ground it out with his boot.

Issek should leave.

Put on his shirt, slide the gun back into the holster, ghost out before the need to claim her permanently became too strong to resist.

But he didn't.

Instead, he reached out and traced the back of his fingers down her spine, just hard enough to make her shiver. Her skin was still warm from their fucking, soft where he'd left bruises that would bloom purple tomorrow.

And he thought - what the fuck are you doing, Issek?

This isn't who you are.

You don't touch.

You don't feel.

And yet -

And yet.

His phone buzzed angrily on the nightstand. Probably Benny wondering where the hell he was.

He didn't pick it up.

Didn't look.

Didn't move.

Issek's hand moved to her hair, tangling in the strands and giving a sharp, deliberate tug that made her back arch slightly. He felt her breath catch.

Yeah. He knew better than that. He'd always known when someone was faking sleep.

A low, dangerous laugh rumbled in his chest, sharp and hungry. He leaned down, his mouth close enough to her ear that she could feel his breath against her skin, letting the silence stretch until it became a physical thing between them.

"You gonna keep pretending?" His voice was a graveled whisper, the words brushing the shell of her ear.

He watched the way her fingers curled into the sheets, knuckles white.

Yeah. Not asleep. Not anymore.

He fisted her hair tighter, forcing her head to the side so he could trace the curve of her neck with his tongue, nipping at the pulse point until he felt her swallow hard.

A slow smile curved his mouth - the kind that meant pain and pleasure, and sometimes both.

"C'mon, doll. You wanna talk about that stunt you pulled last night?" His hand moved to her throat, fingers wrapping lightly but with the implicit threat of pressure.

He let the question hang there, heavy as a loaded gun pointed directly between her eyes.