Hayden Herron
Islide my arms beneath her, one under her knees, the other at her back. Her head rests against my chest, her hair clinging to the fabric of my shirt, still damp at the ends.
The dining room is silent now. The storm, the spectacle, all of it behind us. Only she and I remain.
I carry her upstairs, each step measured. My grip is steady, my pace is unhurried, she doesn't stir. Her breathing is soft and shallow, but it’s there, and that’s enough.
In my suite, the lights are low, and the curtains are drawn. The bathroom waits, cold marble, still air. I kneel by the tub and ease her down into it, her limbs folding like silk.
Her beautiful body is streaked with our mix of cum and blood.
She doesn’t resist as I ready her for the bath.
I study her for a moment. Not with lust. With a different kind of gaze closer to ownership.
The water runs as I undress, letting each piece fall where it may. I step into the tub behind her, the heat blooming up around us, wrapping her in it before she even stirs.
Pulling her gently against my chest, her back fits me perfectly, like we were carved for this moment. My hands move across her arms, washing away everything that touched her tonight.
She came apart in that room.
Now she’s mine to put back together.
My fingers move through her wet hair, brushing it behind her ear. I don’t know if I’m soothing her or branding her, making her mine with every pass. Maybe both.
I can’t stop looking at her. Even like this, especially like this, she owns the room without trying. There’s a poise to her that doesn’t fade when the mask slips. She’s stillher. Maybe even more so.
I want to preserve this version of her, the one no one else sees. I want to keep it for myself. No, not keep.Contain.
I trail my hand down her arm, slow, reverent.
She’s beautiful, and I am drowning in it.
The water beads along her skin, catching the dim light as I drag the cloth over the cut between her breasts. My mark. Our mark.
It should have been deeper.
I’m glad I didn’t do this in front of the other Bonesmen. The idea of them laying eyes on her,mywife,myproperty, is laughable. I don’t give a damn what the tradition demands. If the ritual calls for an audience in the mausoleum, it’ll have to learn to do without. She’s not for them.
She belongs to me.
I press the cloth a little harder, watching the water stain pink as it soaks into the fabric. The wound is fresh, a clean line down her sternum, but it will scar.
It better scar.
I want her to have to look at it every time she undresses. Every time she meets her gaze in the mirror. A reminder that she gave herself over to me completely.
I wipe the last of the blood away, but I don’t move my hand. Instead, I let my fingers linger, just at the edge of the cut, feeling the faint rise and fall of her chest beneath my palm.
She doesn’t even know what she’s done. What she’s become. But either way, there’s no going back.
I pull her from the bath once I’m satisfied we’re both clean and towel her dry. I reach for my shirt, pulling it over her limp body, the fabric swallowing her whole. A stark contrast, this woman, who held her own against a man who would crush others without a second thought, reduced to something small and almost fragile in my hands.
But she’s not fragile, and that’s why I chose her. She looks untouchable to everyone else. Polished. Poised. Perfect. But I know the truth.
I know what lies under that mask. I’ve seen the sharp edges, the cold calculations—the steel in her spine.
Now, I’m the only one who gets to break it.
