Claimed in Shadows
1182 Words
POV: Jane
My back hits the cinderblock wall with a thud that knocks the breath right out of my lungs. The chill of the stone seeps through my hoodie, biting and unforgiving, as Dwight braces his hands on either side of my hips. He is caging me in, and there is nowhere left to retreat.
"His name," Dwight repeats, his voice low and flat. It carries the kind of finality that suggests he’s already decided exactly what he is going to do once he has it.
I press my palm over the torn collar of my shirt, trying to hide the bruise Stephen has left behind. "It doesn't matter."
"It matters to me."
"Well, it’s not your business to fix."
His jaw ticks. "Everything about you is my business now. You make sure of that the second you walk into my bar."
I let out a sharp, hollow laugh. "I walk in to get out of the rain, Dwight. That’s it. That’s the whole story."
"Liar."
I blink, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." He tilts his head, his eyes scanning my face as if I am a puzzle he is only three moves away from solving. "You don't flinch like a woman who gets caught in a storm. You flinch like a woman who’s still running from one."
My mouth opens, but no words come out. He is right, and we both know it, and I hate how easily he’s managed to read me in just two days.
"I need to leave," I say, though even to my own ears, I sound weak.
"You need to stop lying to me."
"I don't owe you the truth."
"No." He leans in closer, until I can count the gray flecks in his eyes and smell the faint scent of coffee and spearmint gum on his breath. "But you’re going to give it to me anyway."
"Or what?"
I don't know why I keep pushing. Maybe it is because I’ve had zero control over anything for the last forty-eight hours, and needling him is the only lever I have left to pull.
Dwight’s eyes darken. "Or nothing. I don't do 'or what,' sweetheart. I do what I want."
"That’s not scary. That’s a red flag."
A short, surprised laugh cracks out of him. "You’ve got a mouth on you."
"You have no idea."
"I’d like to."
The air between us shifts; thick, close, and charged with the heavy tension that precedes a summer storm. My pulse is a frantic rhythm in my throat.
"Dwight…"
"Tell me his name," he growls, his voice rough at the edges. "The suit. The one who leaves that bruise. Same guy?"
I swallow hard. "Yes."
Something moves behind his eyes; something dark and immediate. His knuckles skim my jaw, tilting my face toward the buzzing backroom light as he inspects the damage I’ve tried to hide.
"He’s not going to touch you again," he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Not while you’re standing on my floor."
"It’s not your floor to guard."
"It is now."
"You don't get to decide that."
"Watch me."
"I’m not some patch you get to sew on your…"
He kisses me.
There is no warning. One second I am mid-sentence, indignant and fueled by fury; the next, his mouth is on mine and every thought in my head just short-circuits. It isn't soft, and it certainly isn't asking for permission. One hand slides into my hair, fisting at the roots, while his other hand catches both my wrists and pins them to the cinderblock above my head as if I weigh nothing at all.
I make a sound against his mouth; a soft, broken noise I will absolutely deny later. He tastes like coffee, spearmint, and something darker underneath… the exact flavor of the trouble I’ve already said yes to.
The forensic accountant part of my brain; the part that flags anomalies and never lets a man make her feel stupid; goes completely, blessedly silent. There is only heat: his chest, solid as a wall, pressing me into the cold stone, and his thumb dragging slowly along the inside of my wrist where he holds me pinned.
I stop fighting it. God help me, I just stop. My fingers curl around his, no longer pushing, but holding on.
"Dwight…" I gasp when he finally lets me breathe.
"Shut up," he mutters, not unkindly, before kissing me again before I can decide if I am still furious. His lips trail down my jawline to the sensitive spot just below my ear, and I arch into him without permission. A low, satisfied rumble vibrates through his chest.
"Still going to tell me you’re not mine?" he growls against my skin.
"I…" Words fail me. Everything fails except the heat pooling low in my stomach.
"That’s what I thought."
His free hand slides down my spine, his rough fingers skimming the bare skin where my shirt has torn. I shiver.
"You taste like fear," he murmurs. "And something sweeter."
"Please," I whisper, though I don't even know what I am begging for. For him to stop? For him never to stop?
"Say it again."
"Please…"
Click.
The sound of metal on metal is soft and deliberate, coming from the doorway. Dwight goes rigid against me, his mouth stilling on mine. For one suspended heartbeat, neither of us moves, as if staying still can keep the reality of the interruption at bay.
I open my eyes.
Ryan.
He is leaning against the doorframe, one shoulder to the wood, half-submerged in shadow. His pale eyes track from my pinned wrists to my kiss-swollen mouth, then down to the torn collar and the bruise still blooming there. He doesn't look surprised or angry; he just watches.
"Ryan." My voice is cracked and wrecked, sounding nothing like my own.
Dwight doesn't let go; if anything, his grip on my hip tightens. "Walk away, Ghost."
Ryan doesn't walk away. He takes one slow, measured step into the back room, and the temperature seems to drop ten degrees.
"Don't mean to interrupt," Ryan says, his voice quiet; far too quiet.
"Bull," Dwight snaps. "You don't do anything by accident."
"No," Ryan agrees, his eyes never leaving mine. "I don't."
He closes the distance until he is standing right beside Dwight, the two of them crowding me against the wall. I can feel Dwight’s scorching heat on one side and Ryan’s cold, surgical stillness on the other.
Ryan moves toward the door but pauses at the threshold, turning just enough for me to see his face. He looks at my pinned wrists, at my flushed skin, and at the mouth Dwight has just claimed.
There is no anger, no shock, and no jealousy. There is only a slow, patient hunger; the look of a man who has already decided he is owed a turn and is in no particular hurry to ask for it.
"Ryan," I breathe.
He tilts his head, those pale eyes locked onto mine.
"Don't stop on my account."
And he doesn't leave.
- Writer
