The story doesn’t end when the girl runs away. It ends when it’s supposed to.
When I say it does.
TWENTY-FIVE
BRAN
Theoventimergoesoff like a gunshot.
For half a second, my body reacts the way it always does—everything tight, ready, hand twitching toward a weapon that isn’t there. Then the smell hits me. Tomato. Cheese. That stupid lasagna I shoved in earlier because food seemed like a good distraction at the time.
Not my best plan.
I tear myself away from the sight in front of me—Twiggy sprawled on the counter, flushed and dazed, legs parted, hair a wild halo—and cross to the oven. The room feels weirdly quiet without her sounds.
I yank the door open. Heat blasts my face. I grab a mitt, drag the pan out, set it on the stove with more force than necessary.
Focus on something else, Kelly.
Right. Food. Normalcy. All that shit.
I flip off the timer, the buzzing cutting off mid-screech, and stand there, hand braced on the counter, shoulders heaving. My heart’s still pounding, but it’s not from the lasagna.
Behind me, she clears her throat.
“You just gave me the best orgasm of my life and now you’re going to pull a Garfield?” she says, trying for flippant. The words wobble between us.
I close my eyes for a beat.
When I turn around, she’s propped on her elbows, watching me. There’s wariness in her gaze, yeah. Satisfaction, too. Nerves. She’s trying to pretend this is no big deal, like she’s grading me on some pop quiz I didn’t know I was taking.
She has no idea what she just did to me.
No idea what I just did to myself.
Am I sorry it happened?
Hell, no.
Do I want more?
A slow, helpless smile curls my lips.
Fuck, yeah. I want it all.
I cross the kitchen before I’ve fully decided to move. My hands find her waist, warm and soft under my fingers, and I pull her up into a seated position, then closer, until she’s pressed to my chest.
Her legs fall open around me as if they were always meant to fit there. I guide them around my hips, lock my arms under her thighs, and kiss her.
Deep. Open-mouthed. No room for misinterpretation.
I want her to taste herself on my tongue, to understand exactly what I just took and what I’m not planning to give back.
She moans into my mouth, the sound low and needy, her tongue twisting with mine. My brain goes blessedly blank. The constant noise—Kael’s warnings, Henry’s shadow, rules and lines and all the reasons I shouldn’t do this—drops away until there’s only one word left.
Mine.
Tallulah Gentry is mine.
