Chapter 15
Alex sat at his desk, fingers drumming on the keyboard as he skimmed headlines: "Senator Wilson Under Investigation," "Arkham Infrastructure Scandal," "Gotham Demands Truth." The victory over corruption was tangible, but Gotham still pulsed with tension.
The radio crackled, a checkpoint mercenary's voice sharp and clipped:
"Boss, we've got a DoD court officer here. Wants to see Isley. Got an envelope, checked, clean. Orders?"
Alex nodded. "Take the envelope, bring it here."
Minutes later, the mercenary entered the office, calmly placing a sealed envelope with the Department of Defense crest on the desk. Pamela picked it up, her movements deliberate, eyes scanning the document. She read aloud:
Dear Ms. Pamela Isley,
The United States Department of Defense hereby notifies you that the military tribunal scheduled for June 30, 2025, has been canceled indefinitely due to newly discovered circumstances. Further information will be provided as it becomes available.
Sincerely,
Colonel James R. Henderson
Office of Military Justice, Department of Defense
Pamela handed the paper to Alex. He read it, a smirk tugging at his lips.
"They couldn't handle the heat from our moves."
Pamela nodded, her green eyes calm. "After this, we can breathe easier."
Alex shook his head. "Not yet. The government's next move is unclear. We just dodged one bullet."
Two days later, the radio screamed again. Ross's voice cut through the static like steel:
"Checkpoint. Lester Crowe, mayor's aide. Press with him. Demanding an audience with 'Gotham's savior.' Reporters are shoving cameras. Orders?"
Alex and Pamela exchanged a glance, understanding without words. At the base's perimeter, under the gaze of unseen snipers, stood a caricature of a man: expensive but wrinkled suit, bald head gleaming under floodlights like wet stone. In trembling hands, a lacquered box. His badge screamed: Lester Crowe, Mayor's Aide.
"Pamela Isley!" His voice wavered between groveling and fear. "On behalf of a grateful Gotham! In four days—a ceremony at City Hall Plaza! You'll receive the key to the city! For saving lives, dismantling Senate corruption, and… neutralizing the mob threat!" He thrust the box forward like an offering.
Pamela didn't move. Her laugh was shards of ice.
"A key? To what gate? The city sewers or the treasury?" She stepped forward; Crowe flinched. "Or is it a pass to the gallows with applause?"
Crowe coughed, clutching the box like a shield. "A symbol of trust, Ms. Isley! Grants for Floravita, access to city resources, the mayor's loyalty! Gotham… Gotham is with you!"
The room was a den of victors: dim light, thick cigar smoke, clinking glasses. Mercenaries, armor shed but tension intact, filled the space. Pamela's vines, weaving across the walls, seemed to absorb the noise and gunpowder scent mixed with aged whiskey. The air thrummed with hoarse laughter, fragments of firefight tales, and glass clinks. Victory was bitter as smoke, sweet as the whiskey.
Alex raised his glass. Silence fell instantly.
"To Gotham!" His voice cut the haze like a blade. "For ripping it from the jaws of jackals! Wilson's caged. The mob's in hell. The tribunal's history's trash heap! But this isn't the end!" He scanned the faces, fatigue mingling with pride. "We'll build a city where green breathes with concrete! Where power isn't poison but a tool! To Floravita! To the future! To us—who don't wait for mercy!"
A roar of approval shook the walls. Pamela watched, a faint smile curling her lips. As the din faded, she approached Alex.
"Alex, I have a gift. Close your eyes."
He grinned, already guessing, and shut his eyes. Pamela squeezed a dab of ointment from a tube—an experimental salve crafted in Floravita's labs. She applied it to the scar on his cheek. The skin knit together, the scar fading and vanishing like time-lapse healing. Alex opened his eyes, touched his cheek, and said one heartfelt word:
"Thanks."
Pamela's gaze softened. "What's next?"
Alex sipped his whiskey, eyes serious. "First, as planned: we snag the tender for building reconstruction. Make Gotham truly green—parks, farms, clean air. Then, patent your medicines, find markets. Convert factories to farms. No automation—robots are for others. We need jobs for regular people, our focus. But two things bug me. One: the ceremony in four days. It's public, and someone might try to take you out—sniper or metahuman. Two: the masked freaks. Joker, Scarecrow… Silent since the mob war, but they're plotting something, and—"
Pamela pressed her fingers to his lips, silencing him. Her voice was warm, tinged with vulnerability.
"When you first came, I had no hopes. But now I'm winning. The people are with me, the mob's broken, the government that always pissed me off has backed down. For the first time, I trust… a man."
She took his hand and led him to her chambers, where they could rest not just in spirit but in body.
18+
Pamela took his hand, her fingers closing around his wrist with quiet, undeniable strength. Her eyes held not just interest but sparks of possession and a promise of something beyond mere rest. She led him not just to her chambers but to the heart of her domain.
Pamela Isley's quarters were no mere room but a living, breathing grotto. A thick carpet of velvety moss muffled their steps, swallowing the world's sounds. Walls and ceiling vanished under a tapestry of vines—thick, smooth, pulsing with faint emerald light from within. They moved slowly, as if in sync with a sleeping giant's breath. The air was heavy, sweet-spiced with the scent of massive, exotic flowers, their petals shimmering with wet, pearlescent bioluminescence, trembling at their arrival. Each of Alex's breaths filled with the humid warmth of earth and something unmistakably her.
Pamela stopped at the center, where the moss formed a deep, soft bed. She turned to him, her red hair cascading like flame over her shoulders, contrasting her pale skin, faintly glowing with the same green as her plants. Her eyes, usually cold and calculating, burned with focused, almost predatory warmth.
"Trust me," her whisper was no request but a commanding murmur, vibrating in the grotto's silence.
She pushed him gently but firmly onto the mossy bed. Alex sank, the living carpet yielding, molding to his body, enveloping him in warmth. Before he could speak, a soft rustle grew louder. From the darkness above, smooth, cool vines slithered down. They coiled around his wrists with tender strength, not painful but leaving no doubt—movement was hers to allow. More stems gently but insistently wrapped his ankles, pinning them to the moss. He lay spread out, vulnerable, entirely in her power. A wave of arousal, laced with anticipation, surged through him.
Pamela leaned over him, knees pressing into the moss on either side of his hips. Her fingers, cool and deft, found his shirt buttons. Each touch glided over his chest, stomach, leaving trails of goosebumps and rising heat. She unbuttoned slowly, deliberately, savoring his quickening breath, the tension in his muscles under her palms. When the shirt parted, her fingers traced his chest, making him inhale sharply and arch toward her.
"Close your eyes," she ordered again, her voice thick as honey.
He obeyed. Alex felt no diminishment, no brokenness—not even remotely. This wasn't submission as society defined it, no division into strong or weak, leader or led. Those felt contrived, imposed—as if someone decided even pleasure needed order, structure, hierarchy. But he didn't buy it. Sex, to him, was trust, an exchange—not of power but desire. Why dominate or submit when you could just be—in the moment, the body, the reaction to each other? The point was to feel good. Truly. To let breath hitch from impatience, not fear; to let shivers come from anticipation, not pain.
He felt more than her touch. Something smooth and cool, like a petal but firm as a stem, grazed his neck, then slid down his chest to his stomach. Another vine curled tenderly around his thigh. These were her hands, extensions of her will, exploring him alongside her fingers. He groaned as one vine dipped below his navel, barely brushing the skin above his waistband, while her fingers pinched his nipple.
Her breath was hot on his neck. He felt her lips—not a kiss but a teasing, searing nip, leaving a damp coolness. Her tongue traced a line from his collarbone to his ear.
"You're completely mine, Alex," she whispered, her voice trembling with dark, restrained passion. "And I'm going to savor every gasp, every shudder."
Her hand slid lower, to his belt buckle. Unfastening it with a deliberate click, she held his gaze, eyes ablaze. His hips lifted instinctively toward her.
"Strong man… commanding mercenaries, breaking the mob…" Her fingers deftly undid his pants' button, the zipper hissing open. "But tonight…" She leaned so close their breaths mingled, lips nearly touching. "…you're my instrument. My toy."
She stripped his pants and underwear in one fluid motion. The air's chill gave way to the heat of her palm, closing around his already hard, throbbing arousal. He tensed, jerked against the vines, but they only tightened gently, holding him. Her fingers slid along his length with agonizing slowness, tightening and easing, studying every twitch of his body—clenched abs, face contorted with pleasure, ragged moans.
"So responsive," she murmured approvingly, watching him strain against her hand. "So… obedient."
She released him, drawing a groan of loss. Rising above him, she reached for her dress's clasp. The fabric, green and shimmering like dragonfly wings, slipped from her shoulders, revealing curves sculpted of marble and fire. Her breasts were high, firm, with dark pink, desire-swollen nipples. Her waist and hips—flawless. The vines' light played on her skin, casting mysterious shadows. Alex's gaze devoured her, his breath jagged gasps, his core burning.
She knelt beside him, her bare skin brushing his thigh—scorching, silken. A wave of raw, animal desire erased his thoughts. Her hand returned to his arousal, now with insistent, rhythmic strokes. Her other hand roamed his stomach, chest, back to his nipples, pinching and caressing. Her lips found his—a deep, commanding kiss, her tongue invading, demanding response. He met her fiercely, lost in her taste, wild as forest berries.
She pulled back. Her eyes flashed.
"Now," her voice low, hoarse with desire, "I want to feel you inside. Take me. But…" She leaned to his ear again. "…slowly. I want to feel everything."
The vines on his wrists and ankles loosened, freeing his hands. Alex, trembling with urgency, sat up. His hands seized her hips, fingers digging into her firm flesh. He pulled her close. She hovered over him, guiding his hard, ready length to her wet, searingly hot entrance. Their eyes locked—his raw with desire and devotion, hers with absolute control and consuming passion.
He entered her. Slowly, as ordered. Inch by inch, sinking into her tight, gripping, slick heat. They both groaned—him from unbearable bliss, her from deep, fulfilling satisfaction. He filled her completely, feeling her envelop him entirely. For a moment, they froze, merged, feeling each other's pulse.
"Move…" she breathed, her nails digging into his shoulders.
He did. Slowly, deeply. Each thrust pulled him nearly out, each plunge drove back to the hilt, making her shudder and gasp softly. The moss beneath sprang gently. The vines around them moved faster, their light flaring, flowers blooming wider, filling the air with an intoxicating, heady scent. The room itself seemed to join their union, reacting to every moan, every motion.
Pamela threw her head back, red hair spilling over her shoulders and back. Her hips met his next thrust, setting the rhythm. Her body gripped him tighter, waves of pleasure rolling through her. Alex felt control slipping, his thrusts sharper, deeper. One hand clutched her waist, pulling her close; the other found her breast, squeezing, teasing her swollen nipple.
"Yes!" Her cry was wild, free.
Her inner muscles clenched him with incredible force, pushing him to the edge. He saw her face twist in ecstasy, her body arching. Her cry merged with his growl as he drove a final, shattering thrust, losing himself in the pulsing bliss of her orgasm, which triggered his own—powerful, wrenching a roar from his chest, echoing in the grotto's living walls.
They collapsed onto the moss, panting, bodies slick with sweat, still joined. Vines draped over them like a blanket, cocooning them in warmth. Pamela nestled against his chest, her hand on his heart, feeling its wild beat slow. She looked up, her eyes no longer predatory but filled with deep, quiet tenderness and satisfaction.
"You're mine," she whispered, voice hoarse but soft.
He wrapped his arms around her, kissing the crown of her forest-and-flower-scented hair.
"Always," he breathed.
They fell asleep, lulled by the steady breath of the living walls, each other's warmth, and the thick, intoxicating scent of flowers—nature's blessing on their union.