Her eyes meet mine, and I see it—the fear, the hunger, the thing that’s always been missing.
She pulls me in, hard. “Prove it.”
I do.
I fuck her until she comes, and then again, and again, until her body shakes and her nails draw blood on my back. I don’t stop. I don’t even slow down.
She bites my shoulder, hard enough to break skin, and I come so hard I see stars. My vision whites out. I feel every pulse, every spasm, every drop.
I collapse onto her, careful not to crush her, and we stay like that, tangled and sweating and shaking.
Her heart is hammering under my skin. Her breath is a hurricane.
We twist so we face each other and I run my hand through her hair, over her back, down to her ass.
She sighs, content, and I realize I’ve never heard that sound from her before.
She pulls my arm around her, tucks her face into my neck and closes her eyes, and for the first time, she looks peaceful.
I watch her until she sleeps, then let myself do the same.
If anyone tries to take her from me, they’ll die.
But for tonight, there’s no one left to fight.
Just her, and me, and the knowledge that this is mine.
Ours.
Morning comes way too fucking fast. I can’t tell if it’s two hours or ten since I fucked her into the mattress, but the cold is still deep outside and the window is crusted with ice.
She wakes before I do. I feel her breathing change, the subtle shift of muscle as she tests the edges of pain and finds them softer than before. Her hands are on my chest, fingers splayed, nails bitten and torn but not drawing blood.
She stretches, slow and catlike, and I expect her to bolt—to armor up and make a joke of last night, or push me out of bed and go back to the power games. Instead, she just sighs and rolls into me, her mouth on my neck, arms around my ribs.
I pull her close, half-draped over her. She fits under me like she was made to take the weight. Her thigh is hooked over my hip, her foot pressing against the back of my calf, and I realize she’s grounding herself.
Neither of us says anything. There’s no need.
The cabin is dead quiet, except for the popping of the old heater and the wind rattling the glass. The world outside doesn’t exist.
She traces patterns on my chest, like she’s memorizing the geography of me. Her fingers circle my scars, tap out rhythms along my ribs. She finds a spot that makes me twitch and smiles into my skin.
“You ticklish?” she asks, voice scratchy and sleepy.
I grunt, then trap her hand and squeeze it hard enough to make her knuckles crack.
She laughs, the sound bright, unguarded. “You’re so full of shit.”
I let go, then run my thumb along her jaw. The bruises are darker now, blooming along her cheekbone, but she wears them like medals.
I kiss the worst one, then the next, and the next, until she’s squirming then I notice her feet sticking out from the blanket.
“Stop being annoying,” she says, but she’s smiling.
I slide out of bed, stand naked in the cold air. She watches me, chin on her fist, eyes gold and sharp.
“Going somewhere?” she asks.
