Chapter 8 Heat and History

CHAPTER EIGHT

The air in the estate felt heavier that night.

The fireplace crackled in the library, casting golden flickers across the walls. Anika sat curled on the leather couch, sketchpad in her lap, though her pencil hadn't moved in over ten minutes.

She was waiting.

Elias entered without a word. His jacket was off, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair still damp from the earlier rain. His eyes locked on hers immediately. Dark. Intense. Knowing.

He crossed the room slowly, like a man approaching danger-but willing to be burned.

"You're not sketching," he said, voice low.

"I can't focus," she replied.

He stopped just in front of her, so close she could feel the warmth rolling off his body.

"Why not?"

Her gaze dropped to his mouth.

"I think you know."

That was all it took.

His mouth was on hers in seconds, hands tangling in her hair as he kissed her like the storm hadn't ended. She moaned softly, pulling him closer, her body arching into him as her sketchpad slid to the floor.

He lifted her easily, pressing her back into the cushions, his weight grounding her, overwhelming her senses. Fingers slipped under her shirt, teasing warm skin. His lips trailed down her jaw, her neck, over her collarbone-and she let herself feel all of it.

Every touch, every breath, every piece of him he gave.

And for the first time, he didn't hold back.

His kisses were urgent. Possessive. Tender in the moments between.

But just as her hands reached for the buttons of his shirt, he stopped.

He pressed his forehead to hers, breathing hard.

"I want you," he said. "God, Anika. But there are things you don't know yet. Things you deserve to."

She cupped his face. "Then show me. I'm not afraid of your past."

Elias sat back slowly, his eyes flickering with something raw.

"I used to be someone else," he said quietly. "Before the war. Before the job that cost me everything."

He stood and crossed to the old liquor cabinet, pulling out a dusty photo album.

He handed it to her.

Inside were photos of him in uniform. Of the woman from the old picture-laughing, radiant. And the little girl.

"My wife. Naomi. And that's Lila. My daughter."

Anika turned the pages slowly.

"Six years ago," Elias continued, voice tight, "I was working overseas. Private security. We were being followed. I called in an emergency extraction. They said help was coming."

He took a deep breath. "But someone leaked our location."

Her eyes widened. "Your family..."

"They were killed. Before I could get back. I watched it happen through a camera feed. Couldn't stop it. Couldn't save them."

Silence stretched between them like a wound.

"I left that life," he said. "But I never escaped it. And I swore I'd never let anyone that close again."

Anika reached for his hand. "Until now."

He nodded once.

"I don't want to lose you too."

"You're not going to."

She rose, stepping into him, pressing her lips softly to his.

"Let's stop surviving," she whispered. "And start living."

This time, when they touched, it wasn't rushed.

It was reverent. Slow. Deep.

He undressed her like she was something precious. Worshipped every inch of her body with hands that had once only known destruction. And she gave him everything in return.

No fear. No shame.

Just heat.

Just truth.

Just them.