By the time we reach the estate, her face is pale, her shoulders tight with shock. I don’t let her walk in alone. I take her hand, cold and trembling in mine, and lead her upstairs. She clings to me the whole way, and when we finally step into my room, she exhales shakily.
“Thank you,” she whispers, eyes glossing as they meet mine. “For bringing me out of there…in time.”
Before I can answer, my phone buzzes. Demyan. I answer on the first ring.
“The attack went down,” his voice comes clipped, grim. “We hit them hard—took out a lot of Anton’s men. But…” a pause, “Anton slipped away.”
My grip tightens around the phone, a curse burning the back of my tongue. Still, relief crashes through me. She wasn’t there. She wasn’t caught in it.
“Good work,” I tell him, ending the call. My gaze shifts to Noelle—still shaken, still clinging to me as if I’m the only solid thing left in her world.
Anton may have escaped. But she didn’t fall into his hands. And for now, that’s all that matters.
I pull her into my arms, crushing her against me like I need proof she’s still here. Her heartbeat thrums against my chest, her warmth anchoring me while shudders rake through my body. I’ve faced bullets, blades, and betrayals without blinking, but the thought of her in Anton’s grip nearly broke me.
She stiffens slightly, then softens, her hands pressing into my back as if she can feel the raw edge of fear I’m trying to bury. The realization of my fear flickers across her face. It stuns her, moves her in a way words can’t.
I pull back abruptly, searching her eyes. “Noelle…can I mark you?”
Her brows lift, confusion softening her exhaustion. “You mean…like a hickey?”
I shake my head, lips twitching, but my voice is low and serious. “No. Something more permanent.”
Her breath hitches, but she doesn’t pull away. “Permanent?”
I nod once, decisive. “A mark that says you’re mine. Not Anton’s, not anyone’s. Mine.”
For a long moment, she just looks at me, uncertainty flickering in her eyes. Then, quietly, she says, “Okay.”
That one word feels like a vow.
I reach under the bed and pull out a black leather kit. The zipper rasps open, revealing sterilized needles, inks, gloves—the works. She goes still, her pulse skittering beneath her skin.
“You’re…you’re serious.”
“I’m licensed,” I tell her, unfolding the tools with practiced ease. “And I’ve had more practice than you’d believe. Every tattoo on my body?” I glance down at the ink curling along my arm. “My own hand.”
She studies me for a moment, then smiles faintly and nods, like she’s surrendering to whatever this means.
“Where’d you want it?” I ask, my voice low.
Her eyes don’t waver. “You tell me.”
That answer sparks something primal in me. She’s giving me control—choosing me.
I pull her pants down, slow, deliberate, until I reveal the curve of her upper thigh. My hand lingers there, warm against her skin. “Here,” I murmur. “Where no one else will ever see it. Only me.”
She exhales shakily but doesn’t resist, doesn’t flinch. She’s letting me brand her, letting me stake my claim.
The buzz of the needle fills the room, sharp and intimate. Her body tenses at the first sting, but then she relaxes into it, her hand clutching the sheets. I keep my other palm firm on her thigh, steadying her, grounding her, and I work with precision. Stroke after stroke, ink seeping into her skin, a permanent truth being written.
When it’s done, the Rusnak insignia stands stark and proud against her flesh—my family’s mark, my mark.
I meet her gaze, half-expecting regret. But all I see is trust. Willingness. The quiet acceptance that she belongs to me now, in a way words could never capture.
And for the first time in years, something inside me eases.
“Do you like it?” I ask, my voice rougher than I intend.
