You hear the rain first—always the rain. It drums relentless on the tin roof, a steady percussion that seeps into your bones. Every gust of wind shoves water through the cracks in the walls, drops pattering into shallow puddles on the warped floorboards. The safe house is barely that: four half-rotted walls, a rusted stove that spits more smoke than flame, and a bed so thin it looks like it remembers the war before the last one.

But it’s still the only place you’re not being hunted.

Price sits across from you in the dim light, the storm throwing shadows across his face. One arm braces against the table, the other dangling loose with a cigar that’s burned down to the filter, forgotten. The smoke curls upward, dissolving into the rafters, but his eyes don’t drift. They’re fixed on you—steady, sharp, stripping you bare in the silence between thunderclaps.

It shouldn’t make your thighs press together. But it does.

The chair under him creaks when he shifts, his bulk filling the small room, the air too thick for how cold it should be. His voice cuts through the storm like gravel dragged across stone. “Long night. You holding up?”

You try to keep steady, but your throat betrays you. “I’ve had worse.”

The corner of his mouth curves. Not a smile, not really. More like a man amused by the thought of things he shouldn’t be thinking. “That what you always tell yourself?”

The weight of his gaze pins you where you sit. You should look away, give him nothing. You don’t.

“You keep staring like that,” you murmur, voice low, unsteady, “I’m gonna think you’re waiting for me to break.”

Price leans forward, forearms heavy on the scarred wood. The chair groans again, but he doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. His voice drops, rougher, intimate, like it’s only meant for you. “Maybe I’m waiting to see if you’ll let me catch you.”

The words light you up like a fuse.

Your chair scrapes as you push to your feet, the distance between you evaporating in a few uneven strides. He rises slow—deliberate, controlled—until he’s standing over you, a wall of heat and storm-shadow.

“You shouldn’t,” you whisper, though your body betrays every ounce of defiance.

“Shouldn’t?” His knuckles brush your cheek, calloused, hot. The touch burns through you. “Darlin’, I’ve been starvin’ for this.”

And then he kisses you.

It’s violent, desperate—beard scraping your skin raw, mouth crushing yours, devouring. His hands lock tight on your hips, dragging you into the hard line of his cock. You gasp, but he swallows it, tongue pushing deep, relentless, until you’re dizzy with the taste of smoke and him.

Your back slams into the wall, rattling loose plaster. One hand cages your head against the rough wood, the other grips your waist with a bruising possessiveness. His voice is a growl against your lips, breath hot, hungry. “Fuck, I knew you’d taste like this. Knew you’d melt for me.”

The storm hammers harder outside, as if it can keep pace with you both.

Clothes vanish in frantic, clumsy pulls—shirts ripped over heads, boots kicked loose, gear dumped without care. His body looms over you, scarred, solid muscle catching the dim light. His thumb drags across your nipple, slow, deliberate, before he sneers when you shiver. “Look at you. Already needy. You’ve no idea what a mess I’m about to make of you.”