Chapter 2: Breakfast and Bruises

Sunlight cut across the penthouse like a blade. I woke with my face mashed into silk that smelled like cedar, gun oil, and the sharp edge of last night's standoff. My lip throbbed where I'd bitten it raw in my sleep.

The tanto blade still rested on the nightstand, unsheathed and catching the light. I left it alone. Instead I rolled out of bed, still swallowed by Raphael's oversized jacket, and lined up the few loose items on the dresser. Painkillers left of the water glass. The burner phone tucked under the mattress after I killed its ringer. Pathetic little bids for control, but they steadied my hands.

My stomach growled loud enough to echo. I hadn't eaten since before the raid, and the memory of my father's blood on the tiles still turned everything sour. Still, the body demanded fuel. I padded barefoot to the door, half expecting the lock to hold.

It didn't. The handle gave under my fingers. The hallway stretched ahead, marble cold underfoot, cameras blinking silently. My pulse jumped. Testing him already?

Three steps out and his voice crackled from a hidden speaker, low and rough with that rasp that tightened things low in my belly.

"Kitchen. Now."

No greeting. No please. Just that tone that made my thighs press together even while my jaw locked tight. I flipped off the nearest camera and kept walking, chin up even though I looked like something the cat dragged in.

He waited at the massive island, black button-down rolled to his elbows, forearms roped with muscle and faint scars. Damp hair, still tousled from the shower. A tablet glowed in front of him beside a mug of black coffee. The smell of bacon and mango hit me hard.

"Sit." He didn't glance up.

I stayed on my feet, arms folded across my chest so the jacket sleeves swallowed my hands. "I'm not your dog, Yamamoto."

His gaze lifted then. Those almond-shaped eyes pinned me in place. A flicker crossed his face—amusement, maybe, or irritation—then vanished. He set the tablet down with deliberate care.

"You're whatever I need you to be, princesa. Sit before I put you there."

Heat crawled up my neck. I remembered the way he'd crowded me against the glass last night, the low growl of his voice, the way my hips had tilted without permission. My nipples tightened under the thin fabric. I hated that he noticed the catch in my breath.

I dropped onto the stool like a sack of bricks. The marble chilled my bare thighs. The jacket rode up. Of course he tracked the movement.

A plate slid my way—eggs with herbs, crisp bacon, mango sliced neat. My stomach gave another loud complaint. Raphael's mouth twitched, the closest he came to a smile. He was filing away another weakness.

"Eat. You look like you haven't slept."

"Whose fault is that?" I stabbed a slice of mango. Juice ran down my fingers. I licked it off without thinking, and his stare followed the motion like a hawk. My skin prickled. "You yanked me out of my father's house."

"Your father's house," he corrected, voice even. "And it wasn't burning when we left. That happened after."

I froze, fork halfway to my mouth. "What?"

He took a slow sip of coffee. The quiet stretched until I wanted to scream. When he set the mug down, his shoulders had tightened just a fraction.

"Rules. One: you don't leave this floor without me. Two: the cameras stay on. Tamper with them and I'll cuff you to the bed for a week. Three—"

"I'm not your prisoner," I cut in, voice rising. My fists clenched on the cool stone. Even seated, the height difference made me feel small, but I lifted my chin anyway. "You helped take down my family. You don't get to hand me a rulebook like this is some board meeting."

His expression stayed flat, but the air between us thickened. I caught the sharp edge of his cologne under the breakfast smells. It made my head swim.

"Your father was selling us out," he said, clinical as a surgeon. "Routes. Safehouses. Who was skimming. He thought Kane would protect him. Kane got greedy. We moved first."

It landed like a stone in my gut. I remembered late-night calls, the way conversations died when I walked in, Marco suddenly carrying two guns instead of one. Still. Lies. They had to be.

I shoved the plate away. It skittered across the marble. "And you're the hero who rescued the princess? Bullshit. Elena told me you pulled the trigger on my father."

The name dropped between us like a live grenade. His eyes narrowed. Real anger cracked the ice for the first time.

"Elena Voss." He said it like it tasted bad. "Your cousin's been feeding both sides for months. She's not saving you, Tatiana. She's positioning you as a pawn. Just like your father did."

My heart slammed against my ribs. I stood so fast the stool clattered backward. "Don't talk about my family like you didn't help slaughter them. I saw Marco's body. I saw—"

He rounded the island in two silent strides. One large hand clamped over my mouth. The other gripped my hip and lifted me onto the marble. My ass hit hard. Plates scattered. A glass tipped and shattered on the floor.

"Enough." His face hovered inches from mine, breath hot against my cheek. That rasp had gone rough. "You want truth? Your father put a hit on you two weeks ago. Said you were asking too many questions about the books. Kane wanted you as payment. I stopped it."

I bit down on his palm. Hard. He hissed but held steady. Blood welled against my tongue, mixing with the mango. My legs kicked uselessly. He stepped between them, forcing them apart, and the jacket fell open.

Cool air brushed my bare skin. I hadn't dressed last night—too wrecked, too exhausted. My nipples tightened instantly. Heat pooled low even as my stomach twisted. I turned my face away from his stare, cheeks burning.

"Look at you," he murmured, almost to himself. His callused thumb traced under one breast. My back curved despite myself. "Fighting with your mouth. Leaning in everywhere else."

I tried to snarl at him but it came out muffled. He rocked his hips forward so I could feel how hard he was through his slacks. The rough fabric dragged over my clit and a broken sound slipped out of me.

He released my mouth only to fist my hair, yanking my head back. Teeth scraped down my throat—not a kiss, a brand. Stubble rasped. His tongue followed, hot and deliberate. Slick heat flooded between my legs. My hands clutched his shoulders instead of shoving him off. Nails dug in through his shirt.

"I hate you," I gasped.

"Good." His fingers slipped between us, finding me soaked. Two thick digits pushed in, stretching me. The sudden fullness dragged a cry from my throat. He curled them, thumb stroking my clit in tight circles that made my vision spark.

My thighs trembled around his waist. The marble chilled my skin but everywhere he touched burned. Wet sounds filled the kitchen, obscene against the quiet hum of the city below. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to hold on to the anger, but my hips jerked into his hand anyway.

He bent and took my nipple into his mouth, sucking hard. The sharp pull shot straight to my core. I clenched around his fingers, breath fracturing. The edge rushed up too fast. I didn't want to give it to him. Didn't want to fall apart while he watched.

But my body had other plans. The climax hit like a slap, ripping a sob out of me. My walls pulsed around him. He kept working me through it, steady and merciless, until I shook and my eyes stung with tears I refused to name.

Only then did he ease back. His hair was wrecked, color high on his cheekbones. For half a second something raw flickered across his face—hunger edged with uncertainty—before the mask slammed down again. He yanked his belt open with his bleeding hand.

His cock sprang free, thick and flushed. He notched at my entrance and thrust in, slow enough this time that I felt every inch. The stretch bordered on too much. I gripped the edge of the island, knuckles white, breath sawing in my chest.

He groaned, forehead dropping to my shoulder. "Fuck. So tight." His hips rolled once, testing. Then again, deeper. The pace built in measured strokes that rocked the island and scraped my back against the stone.

I wrapped my legs around him before I could stop myself, heels digging into his ass. Every thrust dragged a gasp out of me. Skin slapped skin. Our reflection glared back from the dark glass—me open and trembling, him still mostly dressed, jaw tight with the effort of control.

He hit that spot inside me again and again. Another wave built, sharper this time. I tried to bite it back, but his thumb returned to my clit, pressing firm circles. His voice dropped to a rasp against my ear.

"Give it to me. Come while you tell me how much you hate this."

"I do hate you," I choked out. The orgasm tore through me anyway, harder than the first. My walls fluttered and squeezed around him. He cursed in Japanese, low and filthy, and followed me over. Hot pulses spilled deep. He ground against me, teeth sunk into the curve of my neck, holding me there until the last shudder passed.

We stayed locked together, breathing ragged. His heart hammered against my chest through his shirt. For a moment his grip on my hip softened, almost careful. Then he pulled out and stepped back, tucking himself away without looking at me.

Wetness slicked my thighs. I felt it drip onto the marble and my stomach clenched. He shrugged out of his inner suit jacket and draped it over my shoulders without a word. The wool carried his warmth, his scent. His eyes stayed on the floor as he did it, jaw working like the gesture annoyed him.

"Clean up," he said, voice wrecked. "We'll talk about your cousin later."

He turned and disappeared down the hall. The office door clicked shut behind him. I sat there a long minute, legs still spread, body aching in ways that made my cheeks flush hotter. The jackets—his—smelled like safety and threat at the same time.

Finally I slid off the counter. My knees wobbled. I grabbed a dish towel, wiped myself as best I could, then used another to mop the mess from the marble. The small, familiar motions helped steady me. I even stacked the scattered plates before my hands started shaking again.

Avoiding my reflection in the glass, I drifted to the window. The city sprawled below, neon veins and crawling traffic. My legs still felt like jelly. Without deciding to, I crossed to the notebook I'd straightened last night, grabbed a pencil, and started sketching.

The jagged skyline. The way light fractured off distant towers. The river curving like an old scar. Ten quiet minutes passed where my mind went blessedly blank. Just lines and shading and the soft scratch of graphite.

When I finished, I stared at the page. It was his view. His prison. I'd made it look almost beautiful. My stomach lurched. I crumpled the edges until the paper tore a little at the corner, but I couldn't bring myself to rip it apart. Instead I slid it between the pages of a book on the shelf, hiding it like evidence.

The burner phone buzzed under the mattress. I fished it out with unsteady fingers. One new message from Elena.

Visiting in twenty. Play along.

I deleted it. Her timing was never an accident. I wondered what fresh pressure she'd bring wrapped in cousinly concern.

Twenty minutes later the elevator chimed. Raphael must have cleared her; two of his men escorted her in, faces blank. Elena looked flawless—auburn hair in a tight bun, pearl necklace resting against her cream blouse, green eyes sharp. She carried a designer bag like we were meeting for brunch.

"Tati." Her voice dripped honey and worry. She crossed the room fast and pulled me into a hug that smelled like expensive perfume and secrets. Her lips brushed my ear. "Everything you think you know about that night is a lie. The burner has a new contact. Use it when he's not watching. But whatever you do, don't fall for him."

Her arms tightened once, almost too hard, then she stepped back with a bright smile that never reached her eyes. "You look like hell, cariña. Has he been feeding you?"

I forced a shaky laugh that sounded wrong in my own ears. "I'm alive. That's something, right?"

Raphael appeared in the office doorway, arms crossed, watching us like a man weighing threats. His hair was smoothed back now. The marks I'd left on his neck were hidden. Only the faint bite on his palm showed what had happened.

"Elena," he said, calm in that dangerous way. "My office. Now."

She didn't flinch. Just squeezed my hand hard enough to leave prints and followed him, head high. The door closed with a soft click that felt final.

I stood in the ruins of breakfast, body still sore and marked, the taste of his blood faint on my tongue. The hidden sketch tugged at me like a guilty secret. My cousin was in there spinning whatever story would get me to slide that tanto blade between his ribs.

I bit my lip until it bled again and wondered how much longer I could keep pretending I wasn't already cracking.