The ride back to the hotel was suffocating. Silent except for the hum of the engine and my ragged breathing.
Alan drove with white-knuckled precision, jaw locked so tight I could see the muscle pulsing. The rage coming off him was a physical thing—hot and dangerous and barely contained.
I stared out the window at Geneva sliding past. Pristine. Peaceful. Completely oblivious to the fact that we'd just uncovered proof of medical experimentation on a five-year-old.
My five-year-old. Our five-year-old.
The hotel suite was obscene—all marble and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the lake. The kind of luxury that felt like an insult when your daughter was dying in a hospital three hundred miles away.
I walked straight to the window. Pressed my forehead against the cold glass. Tried to breathe.
A sob escaped before I could stop it. Just one. Sharp and broken.
Then I heard it. A violent crack.
I spun around.
Alan had put his fist through the wall. Actual through it—plaster crumbling, his knuckles bleeding, a spiderweb crack spreading across the expensive surface.
"Fuck!" He was pacing now. Breathing hard. All that control completely shattered. "That fucking bastard used her. Used our daughter as a lab rat for his eugenics fantasy."
He dragged both hands through his hair, leaving it wild. His shirt was untucked. Tie gone somewhere between the lab and here.
The Man of Glass was rubble.
"Alan—"
His head snapped up. Eyes black and wild and filled with something feral that should have scared me.
It didn't.
He crossed the room in two strides. His hands came up to frame my face—rough, desperate, his thumbs wiping away tears I hadn't realized were falling.
"He will not take her from us," he said, voice wrecked and raw. "I swear to God, Élise. He will not."
"I know." My hands clutched his wrists. Anchoring. "I know."
He stared down at me. His eyes were still wild, but something shifted. The rage was still there—burning hot—but it changed direction.
Toward protecting instead of destroying.
He kissed me.
Not like the terrace—that was violence and denial. Not like his office—that was claiming and desperation.
This was different. Slower. Tender and searching and careful, like I might break if he wasn't gentle enough.
Like he was memorizing me in case we didn't survive this.
His forehead pressed against mine. "I will burn his entire world to the ground to keep you both safe. I promise."
The words shattered something in me. I grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him back down.
This kiss was different. Deeper. My mouth opened under his and he groaned—low and desperate—his arms wrapping around me and pulling me flush against him.
I could feel him. All of him. Hard already, pressed against my stomach through layers of clothing that suddenly felt like too much.
His hands moved. Down my spine, gripping my hips, pulling me tighter. His mouth left mine, trailing down my jaw to my neck.
I tilted my head back, giving him access. My fingers tangled in his hair, tugging.
He bit down gently on the curve where my neck met my shoulder. Not hard enough to hurt. Hard enough to make me gasp.
"Élise." My name was a prayer. A curse. "I need—"
"I know." My hands were already working on his shirt buttons. Fumbling. Desperate. "I need it too."
He lifted me. Just picked me up like I weighed nothing, my legs wrapping around his waist instinctively. He carried me to the massive bed and laid me down carefully, like I was something precious.
Then he pulled back. Standing over me. Eyes dark and hungry and completely focused.
Slowly—so fucking slowly—he reached for the hem of my blouse. His knuckles brushed my stomach as he lifted it. I raised my arms and he pulled it off, dropping it somewhere behind him.
His hands moved to my skirt. Unzipping. Sliding it down my legs. His palms were hot against my thighs, rough from the earlier violence but gentle now.
I lay there in just my bra and panties—plain black, nothing special—while he stood fully dressed and stared at me like I was art.
"You're so fucking beautiful," he breathed.
"Then stop staring and touch me."
Something snapped. The careful gentleness evaporated.
He shrugged out of his shirt in one violent motion. Belt next, then pants, until he was in just his boxer briefs and I could see exactly how much he wanted this.
Wanted me.
He came down over me, his body covering mine, and the skin-on-skin contact was electric. His mouth found mine again—deeper this time, hotter, his tongue sliding against mine in a rhythm that promised exactly what was coming.
His hand slid behind my back, unclasping my bra with practiced ease. He pulled it off and immediately his mouth was on my breast, tongue circling my nipple before he sucked hard enough to make me arch off the bed.
"Fuck," I gasped, my nails digging into his shoulders.
He moved to the other breast, giving it the same attention while his hand slid down my stomach. His fingers hooked in the waistband of my panties.
"Yes or no," he said against my skin, his breath hot.
"Yes. God, yes."
He pulled them off. Then his boxers. And suddenly we were both naked and pressed together and I could feel him—hard and hot—against my thigh.
His hand slid between my legs. Two fingers finding exactly where I needed them, sliding through wetness that made him groan.
"So wet," he murmured against my neck. "So ready."
"Five years," I managed. "I've been ready for five years."
He positioned himself. The head of him pressing against me, thick and demanding. Our eyes met. His were black, pupils blown wide, but asking a question.
I answered by wrapping my legs around his hips and pulling him down.
He pushed in. Slow. Deliberate. Filling me completely.
We both froze. Just breathing. Adjusting. Feeling.
"Fuck," he breathed against my temple. "You feel—"
"Move." My nails raked down his back. "Please move."
He did. Slow at first. Rolling his hips in a rhythm that built heat low in my belly. His mouth found mine, swallowing the sounds I was making.
Then faster. Harder. His control slipping as mine did.
This wasn't gentle anymore. This was desperate. Two people clawing their way back from the edge of something dark, finding salvation in skin and sweat and the oldest kind of connection there is.
His hand slid under my thigh, changing the angle, and suddenly he was hitting something inside me that made stars explode behind my eyelids.
"There," I gasped. "Right there—"
"I've got you." His voice was wrecked. "I've got you."
The pressure built. Impossible. Overwhelming. His rhythm never faltering, his eyes locked on mine like he was memorizing my face.
"Come for me," he commanded, his thumb finding my clit. "Let go."
I shattered. Completely. His name torn from my throat as waves of pleasure crashed through me, my body clenching around him.
He followed. Three more hard thrusts and then he was groaning against my neck, his entire body going rigid as he came inside me.
We lay there gasping. Tangled together. His weight pressing me into the mattress.
Eventually he shifted, pulling out carefully, but he didn't move away. Just rolled to his side and pulled me against his chest.
My head fit perfectly under his chin. His arms wrapped around me, secure and warm.
"That was—" I started.
"Overdue."
A laugh escaped me. Exhausted. Real. "Five years overdue."
"We're not done." His hand slid down my spine possessively. "Not even close."
"Good." I kissed his chest. "Because I'm not finished with you either."
We stayed like that for maybe ten minutes. Breathing. Recovering. Letting reality hold off just a little longer.
Then his hand started moving again. Exploring. Reigniting.
And we lost ourselves in each other all over again. Because tomorrow we'd have to face Henri. Tomorrow we'd have to save our daughter.
But tonight—tonight we had this. Had each other. Had the passion that started five years ago in a masked gala and finally, finally, got to burn the way it was always meant to.