CHAPTER 311

CHAPTER 311
ZION

Thirty-five days later…

Winter stepped into the living room, still drowning in my hoodie, the sleeves flopping past her hands, hair loose and sleep-mussed from her nap on the couch.

She stopped dead when she saw the four of us lined up like idiots in front of the door—me, Clark, Harry, Ro—all grinning like we’d just pulled off the heist of the century.

“What’s going on?” Her eyes narrowed instantly, suspicion sharpening every line of her face as she scanned us.

“Why do you all look like you’re about to kidnap me and sell me to a circus?”

I stepped forward, grin widening.

“Do you trust me, Snowflake?”

“You know I do. Blindly. Stupidly. But why does this feel like a trick question designed to make me regret that fact in about thirty seconds?”

Clark, of course, couldn’t resist.

“Because it is a trick question, trouble,” he said, leaning in with his hands clasped.

“The real question is: do you trust us enough to let Zion blindfold you, tie you up with Christmas lights, and throw you in the trunk for a surprise road trip? Kidding. Mostly. But seriously—trust fall into our evil plan. We promise no actual felonies… this week.”

I shot him a glare that should’ve melted his face off.

“Shut the fuck up, Clark.”

He raised both hands in mock surrender, still grinning like the absolute gremlin he was.

“Just lightening the mood, Z! She looks two seconds from bolting or calling the cops. I’m doing damage control.”

Winter’s lips twitched—barely—despite herself.

“You’re doing something, that’s for sure. Damage is definitely involved.”

Harry snorted from the side, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised.

“He’s doing what he always does: making everything worse while thinking he’s helping.”

Ro lips twitched —

I stepped closer, ignoring Clark’s ongoing commentary entirely, and took her hand—gentle, my thumb brushing slow circles over her knuckles where the rope burns had finally faded to thin silver lines.

The scars were barely visible now, just faint reminders of what she’d survived, what we’d survived.

“No tricks, Snowflake,” I said.

“We’re going on a little trip. Just us and the idiots behind me. Just… a few days where it’s only you and me and whatever quiet we can find. Will you come with us?”

“Always” she said.

A smile tugged at her lips—the first one that reached her eyes in what felt like forever.

“Lead the way.”

“Thank you,” I murmured against her skin.

“You won’t regret it. I promise.”

I squeezed her hand once—reassuring—then lifted it to my lips and pressed a soft kiss to her knuckles, and started toward the door.

We split into two cars.

I needed her alone in the passenger seat, needed the quiet bubble of just us after a month of hospital rooms, police interviews, nightmares, and too many people hovering.

I opened the passenger door for her, helped her ease in slow—still careful of her side, still watching for any wince—then slid behind the wheel.

The others piled into Harry’s SUV behind us. I caught Clark’s smirk in the rearview and flipped him off without looking back.

Winter laughed—small, hoarse, but real—and reached over to lace her fingers through mine on the gearshift.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“You’ll see.”

We drove in comfortable silence for a while—just the hum of the engine, her thumb brushing over my knuckles, the city lights sliding past the windows.

I stole glances at her every few seconds—profile soft in the dashboard glow, hoodie sleeves bunched at her wrists, the faint scar on her temple catching the light. She looked tired but peaceful.

The motorway stretched out ahead of us, dark and quiet under the sodium lights, the kind of empty stretch that usually made me itch to get my foot down and just drive—fast, reckless, anything to burn off the tension that had been coiling in me for thirty five fucking days.

Every few minutes she shifted, the fabric riding up her thigh, and I had to grip the wheel harder to keep my eyes on the road instead of on her.

I was dying.

Not metaphorically.

Literally dying.

My cock had been half-hard since the second I got the green light from Hemming this morning.

Thirty days of restraint—of holding her while she cried through nightmares, kissing her forehead like she might shatter, sleeping with her curled against my chest and pretending my dick wasn’t throbbing every time she sighed in her sleep—had me wound so tight I felt like I might snap.

I could still taste her on my tongue from ten days ago, could still feel the way her walls had clenched around my fingers when she came, could still hear that broken little sob she made when the pleasure finally broke her open.

The first real taste of her again after twenty-five days of hell.

We hadn’t done it again since.

Not because we didn’t want to—fuck, I’d been hard for her every single day since.

Every time she stretched in the morning and my hoodie rode up her thighs, every time she leaned into me on the couch and her breasts pressed against my chest, every time she kissed me slow and deep and let her tongue tease mine—I had to fight not to pin her down and take her right there.

But the doctor’s warning kept ringing in my head. Hemming had been crystal clear when I cornered him, thr day after about sex:

Not yet.

Her abdominal wall is still knitting. One wrong angle, one deep thrust, and she could tear something internally. You want to risk a bleed, infection, another surgery? Wait. At least another week.

So we’d stopped at oral.

Teased each other to the edge and over it with mouths and fingers, but never more.

Every time things got heated—her grinding on my lap, my cock leaking against her thigh, both of us panting and desperate—I’d pull back, kiss her forehead, and whisper, “Not yet, baby. Soon. I’m not risking you.”

She’d whine, pout, sometimes beg in that wrecked little voice that nearly broke me, but she never pushed. She trusted me to keep her safe. And I was fucking terrified of failing her again.

Tonight, though?

Tonight Hemming had cleared her.

This morning in his office, chart in hand, he’d looked me dead in the eye and said: “She’s good. Incision’s closed, no signs of dehiscence, ribs are stable enough for light activity. Intercourse is on the table—And follow-up in ten days.”

I’d nodded—throat so tight I could barely speak—relief and hunger hitting me so hard I almost laughed.

So now we were driving. Alone

And she was here—real, breathing, warm—sitting two feet away in nothing but my hoodie and a pair of soft cotton panties I’d watched her slide up her legs this morning. The hoodie hem barely skimmed mid-thigh, riding up every time she shifted, flashing smooth skin and the edge of black lace that made my mouth water.

The thought of peeling those panties down her legs, spreading her thighs wide on the passenger seat, sinking into her slow and deep until she gasped my name and clawed at my back… fuck. I could already picture it: her head thrown back against the headrest, lips parted on broken moans, hips rocking up to meet every careful thrust while I whispered filthy promises against her throat. I was half a second from yanking the wheel right, pulling onto the hard shoulder, and taking her in the car right here—consequences, traffic, cops, all of it be damned.

I shifted in my seat, trying to ease the pressure behind my zipper. It didn’t help. If anything it made it worse.

My phone rang.

I cursed under my breath and hit the speaker button, shoving every filthy thought to the back of my mind so I could sound semi-human.

William’s voice filled the car.

“Zion. Winter.”

“What’s up, step-daddy?” I answered before I could, voice light and teasing.

William sighed—long-suffering, fond.

“You know how much that name irritates me.”

I could hear the smile underneath the grumble, the same one that always came out when she pushed his buttons.

Winter laughed—small, hoarse, perfect—and I felt my chest loosen just a fraction.

William cleared his throat.

“I won’t keep you long. Just got word from the DA’s office. The jury came back this afternoon. Verdict’s in.”

The air in the car changed instantly. Winter went still beside me, hand tightening around mine on the gearshift.

My pulse kicked up—not from want this time, but from something colder, sharper.

“Damien Black,” William continued, “guilty on all counts. Attempted first-degree murder, aggravated assault, kidnapping, conspiracy to commit murder, false imprisonment. Life without parole. No chance of early release.”

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. Winter’s fingers spasmed in mine—hard, almost painful.

“And my father?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“Same. Accessory before and after the fact, conspiracy, obstruction. Also life. No parole. They’re done, sweetheart. Locked away for good.”

Silence stretched for a second—thick, heavy—then Winter exhaled, shaky and slow.

“They’re gone,” she whispered, more to herself than anyone.

“They’re gone,” William confirmed.

“You did that. Your statement. You put them there. And they’re never getting out. Now I’ll let you two have the moment,” he said.

“Just… be safe. And happy. You’ve earned it.”

The phone disconnected.

Winter’s fingers spasmed again—harder this time.

A single tear slipped free, tracing a slow path down her cheek, catching the dashboard light like a shard of glass.

She didn’t wipe it away.

She just sat there, staring straight ahead, chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths.

I lifted her hand to my lips—pressed a hard, lingering kiss to her knuckles.

“It’s finally over,” she whispered

“Yes,” I said, voice low and certain.

“It’s over. They can’t touch you ever again. Locked in concrete and steel for the rest of their miserable lives. No appeals that matter. No loopholes. No second chances."

And for the first time in thirty-five days… it didn’t feel like we were running from something.

It felt like we were finally driving toward something.

....

After an hour on the road—sixty minutes of stolen glances, her hand resting high on my thigh, my thumb brushing slow circles over her knuckles on the gearshift, the quiet hum of the engine doing nothing to drown out the throb of want that had settled heavy and low in my gut—we finally pulled into the small car park.

I brought the car to a halt right in front of the garage door and beeped once.

The door rolled up slow and smooth, automatic lights flickering on inside. The second the engine cut off, silence rushed in—thick, intimate, electric.

I didn’t wait.

My hand shot to the back of her neck—fingers curling firm but careful around the nape—and I pulled her mouth to mine.

“I love you so fucking much,” I growled against her lips, the words rough and ragged, like they’d been clawing at my throat the whole drive.

She melted instantly—soft, eager—lips sliding against mine as she opened for me.

I kissed her deep, hungry, tongue sweeping in to taste her, to remind myself she was real, she was here, she was mine.

Her fingers twisted in my shirt, pulling me closer, a small, needy sound slipping from her throat that went straight to my cock.

I kissed her harder—claiming, devouring—nipping her bottom lip just enough to make her gasp, then soothing it with my tongue.

When we finally broke apart, both of us breathing hard, foreheads pressed together, I slid my fingers through her hair, pushing it back from her face so I could see every inch of her—flushed cheeks, swollen lips, those storm-grey eyes glazed with the same hunger burning through me.

“You ready?” I asked, voice low and wrecked, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth.

"For what?"

"You'll see.."