The scream cut through the storm.
Liam's hand was on his door before his mind finished processing the sound — Elena's voice, raw and desperate, coming from down the hall. He was already moving, barefoot on the cold tile, his boxer briefs the only thing he'd pulled on after the third drink had made his skin too hot for sheets.
Another scream echoed through the house as he took the stairs three at a time — higher this time. He rounded the corner, his bare feet slapping against the cold floor, as he arrived at the door to her room.
He covered the remaining distance in three strides, his hand flat against the wood, and pushed. The door swung inward.
The scent hit him first.
Thick. Sweet. Wrong. It clung to the air like humidity, like something floral left too long in heat, and his body recognized it before his mind did — a chemical warmth that settled in his lungs and made his pulse skip.
Then he saw them.
The lamp was still on, casting its yellow circle across the rumpled sheets. Lisa Chen was bent over Elena's hips, her face buried between Elena's thighs, her fingers working herself from behind in quick, wet strokes. Her ass was in the air, her other hand gripping Elena's hip hard enough to leave marks, and she didn't stop when the door swung open. Didn't falter. Didn't care.
Elena was beneath her, head thrown back, mouth open, her body arched and trembling. The sheets were tangled around her legs, her skin flushed pink, and for one frozen second Liam's brain short-circuited on the image — on the wet sound of Lisa's mouth, on the way Elena's fingers were twisted in the sheets, on the wrongness of it and the heat of it and the question that slammed into him before anything else.
Since when did Elena—
He'd done his homework. He knew Lisa swung both ways. He'd factored that into the dinner, into the way he'd let her drink and laugh and fill the space between him and Elena. But Elena. Elena with her naive eyes and her untouched body and her complete lack of knowledge about any of this.
Then Elena's eyes found him.
She looked over Lisa's bent back, over the curve of her spine and the spread of her legs, and her gaze was wrong. Unfocused. Glazed. Her pupils were blown wide, swallowing the green of her irises, and there was a slackness to her face that didn't belong there.
"Mr. Thorn." Her voice was hazy, slurred. "You're here."
She said it like she'd been waiting for him. Like this was normal. Like Lisa wasn't still moving between her legs, her tongue working in steady strokes while Elena's hips rocked against her mouth.
Recognition hit him cold.
Eros.
"Enough!" He crossed the distance in three steps, his hands finding Lisa's shoulders and pulling her back. She was slippery — sweat-slick, hot-skinned — and she made a sound of protest, a low, animal noise that turned into a growl as he dragged her away from Elena's body.
"No—" Elena's voice cracked, her hips lifting, chasing the contact that had been pulled away. "No, please, I was so close—"
"Elena. Look at me."
She didn't. Her hands were reaching for Lisa, her body twisting on the sheets, and Liam saw the flush on her chest, the way her nipples were peaked and dark, the slick shine on her inner thighs. He saw the desperation in her movements, the way she couldn't stop moving, couldn't stop wanting.
He grabbed her chin. Gently. Forced her eyes to his.
"Look at me."
Her pupils were blown. Her skin was too warm. And her gaze — it slid off his like water, like she couldn't hold onto a single thought long enough to make it stick.
"Elena." He said her name more loudly this time. "Do you know where you are?"
"Your house," she breathed. "Your bed. You said I was beautiful." Her hand came up, clumsy, and landed on his chest, gently over the bandaged wound. "You said you'd thank me."
He caught her wrist before she could slide it lower.
Behind him, Lisa was on her knees on the floor, her fingers still moving between her legs. Her head was lolling, her eyes half-closed, and she was murmuring something in a language he didn't recognize.
Eros. Definitely Eros.
His jaw tightened so hard his teeth ached.
"Stay." He said it to both of them, even though neither of them could hear him, and then he was moving into the bathroom, his hands finding the faucet, the drain plug, the shower handle.
We need cold water. Fast. Cold would break the feedback loop, slow the metabolism, and bring them back to themselves before their bodies gave out.
He jammed the plug into the tub drain and twisted the faucet. The water hit the porcelain in a hard, hissing stream, cold enough to turn his own knuckles white when he tested it. Then he stepped into the shower and did the same, the spray hitting the tile and steaming for a moment before the cold settled in.
He was back in the bedroom in seconds.
Lisa was still on the floor, but she'd slumped sideways, her hand finally still, her breathing ragged. He bent, scooped her up — she was lighter than he expected — and carried her to the tub. He lowered her into the water carefully, the way you'd lower a child, and the moment the cold hit her skin, she gasped. Her eyes flew open. Her body seized.
"Stay," he said again, and this time she heard him. Her pupils contracted. Her breath came in short, sharp bursts. She was shivering before he let her go.
Elena was still on the bed.
She'd curled onto her side, her knees drawn up, her hands pressed between her thighs like she was trying to hold onto something she'd lost. Her eyes were closed. Her lips were moving, but no sound came out.
He crossed to her, and when he bent to pick her up, this time the movement pulled at the bandages beneath his shoulder. A dull ache spread through his side where bruises were still fading, but he pushed through it. Elena didn't resist. Her body folded into his, her head dropping against his shoulder, her breath hot and ragged against his neck.
"I've got you," he said, and he didn't know if he meant it for her or for himself.
He carried her into the bathroom, pushed the shower door open with his shoulder, and stepped into the spray.
The cold hit him like a fist.
He'd braced for it, but it still stole his breath, still made his muscles lock and his teeth clench. The water streamed over his shoulders, his chest, his back, soaking the bandages wrapped around his forearm and ribs. The fabric clung to his skin, turning translucent in places, but he barely noticed.
She screamed.
A sharp, short sound that cut off into a gasp, her body arching against his, her fingers digging into his arms hard enough to leave crescents. One hand caught the edge of the bandages wrapped around his forearm, bunching the damp fabric against healing skin. Pain flared through him, sharp and immediate, but he ignored it.
She was shaking, her teeth chattering, and he held her upright because her legs had stopped working and she would have crumpled to the tiles without him.
"I know," he said, his voice rough. "I know. It'll pass."
The water ran over her hair, her face, her breasts, her belly. He watched the flush begin to fade from her skin, watched the tension in her jaw start to loosen, watched her eyes slowly, slowly begin to focus.
She blinked. Looked at him. Looked down at herself. Looked at the water pooling at their feet.
"Liam?"
Her voice was small. Confused. She was shivering so hard the words came out in pieces.
"I'm here," he said. "You're okay. You're going to be okay."
She looked at him again, and this time she saw him. Really saw him. His face. His arms around her. The shower. The cold.
"What—" Her teeth chattered. "What happened?"
He didn't answer. He just held her tighter as the cold water ran over them both, and the storm raged on outside the window, and somewhere in the other room, Lisa Chen began to sob.