His Territory | ✔️

33

The city swallowed us whole.

The cab drive was quiet but tense. Cristian sat in the back with me, a quiet barrier between the world and the tremor still lodged in my chest. I kept my gaze on the neon smear of storefronts rushing past, the sound of sirens and late-night horns a rough lullaby that only barely masked the pounding in my ears.

When Los finally spoke from the front seat, it was more command than explanation. "We're heading uptown. I was able to book a room."

I blinked at the glittering skyline ahead and turn to my savior beside me. "Cristian, that part of the city—those hotels are—"

"Expensive," he finished flatly. "Good. People notice everything there. Cameras, police. Nobody would dare to come near us."

Los caught my glance and gave the faintest shake of his head, a silent plea not to argue. But I still tried. "I don't need—"

"You need it," Cristian cut in, the quiet steel in his voice leaving no room for protest.

The rest of the drive passed in the rhythm of city lights and my own frayed thoughts.

---

The hotel was a vertical slice of glass and steel, its lobby buzzing with the midnight shuffle of travelers and the distant wail of a saxophone from a nearby club. Uniformed doormen and the steady churn of security cameras made Cristian's point without words.

At the front desk, he barely paused long enough to sign the register, sliding his card across the counter with a flick of his wrist. The clerk handed him two keys, eyes flicking to me with a mix of curiosity and something like sympathy.

Cristian led us to the elevator, his jaw set, shoulders squared. Los walked behind, close enough that I felt his presence like a shadow.

The suite was a hushed pocket above the noise—a full kitchen, a sleek living room, and a door leading to a bedroom that gleamed under soft white light. Cristian tossed one key onto the glass table. "Couch pulls out," he said to Los. It wasn't a suggestion.

Before I could react, Cristian's hand found the small of my back, steering me toward the bedroom. He closed the door behind us with a quiet click.

The moment the latch caught, his composure cracked.

He swept me into a desperate hug, arms like a barricade around me. For a heartbeat, I forgot the danger behind us, the man outside the door—forgot everything except the feel of him.

It struck me then: it had been over a week since I'd touched him.

His body trembled, barely perceptible at first, then unmistakable. I pulled back just enough to see his face. His eyes were rimmed in red, the pale half-moons beneath them bruised with fatigue. Lines etched deep at the corners of his mouth, and in the shadowed light he looked both exhausted and somehow relieved—like a man who had been holding his breath for too long.

"Thank you," I whispered, brushing my lips against his cheek.

A silent sob shuddered through him at the touch. His breath hitched once, the sound breaking something fragile in the air between us.

He didn't speak. Instead, with a suddenness that stole mine, he scooped me into his arms.

The bathroom door swung open with a soft thud. He set me gently on the cool marble counter, turned the shower on full, and steam began to rise.

Cristian's movements were purposeful but strangely tender. He peeled my clothes away first, careful, never rushing. Then his own, each motion deliberate, like shedding armor.

For a heartbeat, a flicker of uncertainty passed through me—an old reflex that braced for what might come next. But when I met his eyes, the heat I expected wasn't there. Only an aching kind of sorrow.

He took the washcloth, poured a ribbon of body gel, and began to clean me—slowly, patiently. The warm lather and the soft drag of fabric across my skin blurred the world to nothing but the sound of running water.

He worked as though he were erasing something invisible, his jaw tight, his touch unyieldingly gentle.

I understood, then, what he could never bring himself to say.

He thought I was tainted—stained by the hands that had held me. And in the quiet rush of water and steam, his careful devotion was less about washing away dirt than about reclaiming me from the night.

Cristian's own skin was damp with sweat and shower mist, his breath ragged, but still he kept on—each slow pass of the cloth a vow he couldn't speak aloud. 

I grabbed the washcloth from his hands, mimicking his gentle movements as I washed his skin, remnants of blood and dirt scattered across his arms. He hung his head low, almost ashamed. I placed my other hand gently on his jaw, praying to connect our gazes. 

When he looked into my eyes, I saw a man nearly broken and yet somehow whole enough to keep holding me together.