CHAPTER 308

CHAPTER 308
WINTER

Twenty days.

Twenty days since I woke up in that hospital bed with Zion’s hand wrapped around mine like it was the only thing tethering me to the world.

Twenty days of small, stubborn victories: trading the IV pole for pills, the oxygen mask for normal air, the hospital gown for his oversized hoodie that still smells faintly of him even after three washes.

The bruises have faded from angry purple-black to sickly yellow-green, like storm clouds giving way to weak sunlight.

My ribs still catch when I twist wrong or laugh too suddenly (and laughing still feels like a luxury I’m relearning). My side pulls with every reach, every deep breath, every time I forget I’m not invincible yet.

But I’m home.

Our home.

Curled on the small couch in our bedroom—my favorite spot, the one tucked in the corner by the window—propped up like a queen on a throne of pillows and blankets.

Zion’s stolen hoodie swallows me whole, sleeves bunched at my wrists, the hem falling past my thighs.

A half-finished mug of chamomile tea sits cooling on the nightstand beside me—I keep meaning to drink it, but the warmth of the mug cradled in my hands is enough for now.

The TV is off; I tried watching something earlier, but the noise felt too loud, too bright.

I tried reading instead—a paperback thriller Zion brought home last week—but the words blurred after two pages.

My brain still feels like it’s running on low battery.

The bedroom door was cracked open.

Zion appeared in the doorway—jacket still zipped against the February chill, keys dangling from his fingers, hair damp from the light rain outside.

His face was tired—shadows under his eyes, jaw tight with whatever he’d carried home from court—but when his gaze found me, something in him softened.

The hard lines eased.

His shoulders dropped a fraction.

“Hey, baby,” he said quietly, voice rough from cold air and too many hours of talking to lawyers.

He kicked off his boots by the door, hung his jacket, and crossed the room in slow, deliberate steps—

“How was it?”

“They’re not wasting time. The DA’s pushing for maximum—multiple counts of attempted murder, aggravated assault, kidnapping, conspiracy, the works. They’ve got video from the basement security cams, witness statements from me, Harry, Ro, Clark… even some of the staff who saw Damien dragging you. DNA on the knife. Your blood on his clothes. It’s airtight.”

I swallowed.

The mention of the basement still made my stomach twist—phantom cold concrete, the smell of blood and fear—but it didn’t choke me the way it used to.

He leaned in then—slow, deliberate—and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to my forehead.

His lips stayed there for a long second, warm and steady, breathing me in like he needed the reminder that I was still here, still real.

“And your father?” I asked.

“Same charges. Accessory. Conspiracy. He’s trying to spin it—says he was coerced, says Damien acted alone, says he was trying to ‘protect the family legacy.’ Bullshit. The judge didn’t buy it. Bail denied for both of them. They’re staying locked up until trial. And the trial… it’s gonna be ugly. Public. They’ll drag every detail out. But we’re ready. All of us. We’ll testify. Every mark they left on you—we’ll make sure the jury sees it. They won’t walk. Not this time. Not ever.”

I let out a slow breath—

“They’re really not getting out?” I asked quietly, needing to hear it again.

He shook his head once—firm, certain.

“Not on my watch. Not on any of ours. The evidence is ironclad—video, forensics, witness statements. They’re not walking. Not this time. Not ever.”

“Good,” I said quietly.

“I want them gone. I want them to rot. For what they did to me… to you… to all of us.”

“They will,” he promised.

“And when it’s over… when the headlines die down and the courtroom empties… we’re done with them. It'll be just us. Just this.”

He gestured vaguely—me, him, the couch, the quiet bedroom, the life we were slowly clawing back together.

“I hate that they’re still breathing,” I admitted, voice small.

“I hate that they get lawyers and hearings and chances to lie.”

Zion’s arm came around me—slow, careful, settling over my shoulders.

“I know,” he said quietly.

“I hate it too. Every day I think about walking into that courthouse and finishing it myself. But then I look at you—still here, still fighting, still letting me hold you—and I remember why I’m staying out of cuffs. Because you need me here. Because we’ve got a life to build. Because I promised you forever, and I’m not breaking that promise over two dead men who don’t deserve another second of our time.”

I turned my face into his neck—breathed him in, soap and coffee and him.

“You’re too good,” I mumbled against his skin.

He huffed a small laugh.

“Nah. Just in love with you. Makes a man stupid. Makes him patient. Makes him want the long game instead of the quick kill.”

I smiled—

“Stupid in love,” I teased weakly.

“Stupid in love,” he agreed, kissing the top of my head.

“Your stupid in love. Forever.”

I shifted—closer—and pressed my lips to the underside of his jaw.

The stubble there was rough against my mouth, grounding in the best way.

I kissed higher, along the line of his throat, feeling his pulse jump under my lips.

He inhaled sharply, hand tightening on my shoulder.

“Snowflake…” His voice was husky, warning and want all tangled together.

I kissed the corner of his mouth—careful of my split lip—then the center, soft and slow, tasting him.

He groaned low in his throat, a rough, hungry sound that vibrated through me.

His hand slid up to cradle the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair—gentle but possessive, holding me exactly where he wanted me.

The kiss deepened—slow at first, tentative, like we were both afraid to break something fragile—then hungrier. His tongue brushed mine and heat exploded low in my belly, sharp and sudden and so good it ripped a gasp from my throat against his lips.

My hand fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer, needing more, needing to feel him everywhere.

He kissed me back like a man starving—deep, claiming, one hand cupping my jaw to angle me just right, the other sliding down my back to press me tighter against him.

I arched into the touch, ignoring the twinge in my side, chasing the heat, the safety, the reminder that I was alive and wanted and his.

Then he pulled back—abrupt, breathing hard, forehead pressed to mine.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice wrecked and ragged, like he’d been running for miles.

His eyes were dark, pupils blown, chest rising and falling too fast.

“I almost got carried away. You’re still healing.”

I chased his mouth—small, needy kisses along his jaw.

“I’m fine,” I whispered against his skin.

“Better. I want you. I need you. Please, Zion…”

He groaned again—frustrated, torn—

“You’re not fine,” he said, voice strained.

“You’re still recovering from shit that almost killed you."

I cupped his face—and made him look at me.

“I know my body,” I said softly.

“I know what hurts and what doesn’t. And right now… the only thing that hurts is not having you. I need to feel you. Need to feel alive. Need to feel like I’m still me. Please.”

"Fuck..! There’s no way in hell we’re having sex anytime soon. Not while you’re recuperating.”

“Then why is your hand up my hoodie?” I asked, voice still scratchy but teasing, the words slipping out before I could stop them.

His fingers paused where they’d been tracing lazy circles over my stomach—

Zion exhaled sharply through his nose—

His cheeks flushed, just a faint pink creeping up under the stubble, and he ducked his head for half a second like a teenager caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“Shit,” he muttered, voice low and rough, caught somewhere between guilt and sheepish amusement.

“I didn’t even fucking realize I was doing it. Muscle memory, I guess. Or… fuck, I don’t know. You’re home. You’re warm. You’re you. My hand just… went where it belongs.”

He started to pull back—fingers sliding out from under the hem of the hoodie like he was forcing himself to behave.

His ears were pink now too, the flush spreading, and he rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand, looking anywhere but directly at me.

“Jesus,” he said under his breath, half-laughing at himself.

“I’m supposed to be taking care of you, not groping you five minutes after I get home. Ignore me. I’m an idiot.”

“Don’t,” I whispered.

“Don’t stop.”

“Snowflake …” he started, voice strained.

I reached up—and caressed the side of his face, he turned his face fully into my palm and kissed it.

“I want you. Now.” I whispered.

“It’s too soon,” he replied.

“I won’t do something that’s going to hurt you. Not even a little.”

The rejection stung more than I expected.

I turned away from him—crossing my arms over my chest.

“Fine… whatever,”

I stared at the wall instead of him, blinking hard against the stupid prick of tears.

“Fuck… Snowflake…” Zion breathed.

“Don’t be mad,” he murmured, lips brushing the shell of my ear, breath hot and unsteady,

“but I’m not fucking you.”

“Not tonight. Not like that.” His teeth grazed my earlobe—

“I won’t risk hurting you—not even a little. Your body’s still healing, still fragile in all the places I want to be rough with, and I’d rather cut my own hands off than cause you one more second of pain.”

He pulled back just enough to meet my eyes—dark, molten, pupils blown wide with raw need.

“But…” His voice turned darker, silkier, dripping with sin.

“I can satisfy you.”

He leaned in again, lips ghosting along my jaw, down the column of my throat.

“I can worship you with my hands… my mouth…” he whispered against my pulse, tongue flicking out to taste my skin.

“Let me make you come apart slow and filthy-sweet until you forget your own name—until the only thing left in that pretty head is how fucking good I can make you feel. No risk. No pain. Just me… sliding my fingers deep inside you, curling them right where you need, licking you open until you’re dripping down my wrist and begging for more.”

His hand slid higher—possessive, greedy—cupping my breast through the hoodie, thumb circling my nipple until it peaked hard under the fabric.

A low, hungry groan rumbled in his chest when he felt me arch into the touch.

“Let me taste how wet you already are for me,” he continued.

“Let me bury my face between your thighs and drink you down like I’ve been starving for weeks—because I have. I’ve been fucking dying to get my mouth on you again, to feel you clench around my tongue, to hear you moan my name while you come so hard your legs shake. I want to feel you pulse and tremble and soak my chin. I want to lap up every drop until you’re boneless and wrecked and still begging for my fingers, my tongue, anything I’ll give you.”

His fingers slipped lower, teasing the waistband of my panties without pushing inside yet.

“I’ve been starving for you, baby,” he rasped, lips grazing my earlobe again.

“Let me feed on you tonight. Let me remind you exactly how much I crave every sound you make when I touch you right—every gasp, every whimper, every time you say my name like a prayer while I make you come undone.”

Heat surged through me—

My thighs trembled; my breath came in short, needy pants.

I could feel how slick I already was, how desperately my body remembered him, wanted him, needed him.

“Tell me yes, Snowflake,” Zion growled against my ear.

“Do you want me to make you feel good… until you’re shaking and coming and screaming my name like it’s the only word you remember? Until your thighs are trembling around my head and you’re dripping down my chin and begging me not to stop? Tell me, baby. Say it.”

“Yesssss.”