“I keep thinking,” I whisper, voice cracking before I can stop it, “that it doesn’t matter what you do. He’s already won. He’ll always know.”
Dean’s chair scrapes back sharply. In two strides he’s beside me, bracing his hands on either side of the counter, caging me in with the weight of him. His voice is low, feral.
“Don’t you dare give him that power?”
I look up, startled by the raw fire in his eyes.
But the words are already clawing their way out of me, shaky, broken: “He said… he said I was on borrowed time. That he’d collect me when he wanted. That?—”
Dean’s palm slams flat against the countertop, the sound making me flinch. The plate rattles, silverware bouncing. His other hand grips my chin, forcing my gaze up.
“You belong to me,” he growls, every syllable edged like glass. “Not to him. Not to anyone else. And I’ll burn the fucking bastard before I let him touch you.”
The room feels smaller, hotter. My heart hammers so loudly it drowns out everything else. I want to believe him—God, I do—but beneath the promise, I hear it: the crack in the illusion.
Dean doesn’t get it.
Rafe already has.
Dean’s grip on my chin is bruising, the storm in his eyes spilling into me, drowning every thought I’ve been trying to hold back. The kitchen feels too small for the heat rolling off him, too sharp for the edges of his control snapping one by one.
“You hear me, Brooklyn?” His voice is a snarl now, low and dangerous. “He doesn’t get to fucking claim you. He doesn’t get to whisper in your head. You’re mine.”
The last word tears through me like fire. My lips part on a breathless sound—half protest, half need—but he doesn’t give me the chance to answer.
He crushes his mouth to mine.
It isn’t sweet. It isn’t careful. It’s war. His tongue forcing mine open, his teeth biting down, his hands locking around my face like he’ll fuse me to him if he can’t get deep enough. I gasp against him, but he swallows it, devours it, pushes until I can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t be anything but the girl unravelling in his grip.
My back slams against the counter, plates scattering to the floor, but neither of us cares. His palm slides down, rough, insistent, tugging at the hem of my shirt until it’s bunched under my ribs. He breaks the kiss only long enough to growl, “Say it. Say you’re mine.”
“I—Dean?—”
His hand fists in my hair, yanking my head back so I can’t look anywhere but at him. His stare is wildfire, possession blazing through every line of his body. “Now.”
And God help me, I want to. I want to surrender, to let the fight go, to give him the words he’s demanding.
“I’m yours,” I choke out, voice breaking like glass. “I’m yours.”
The sound that rumbles from his chest is pure victory. His hand drags down my throat, presses flat against my racing heartbeat, as if he’s stamping his claim right into my skin.
Then he’s on me again—mouth, teeth, hands—ripping me open with every touch. His fingers dig into my hips, lifting me onto the counter, spreading my thighs without hesitation. The world falls away: Rafe, danger, fear. All that exists is this man and the ruthless way he takes me apart.
“Look at me,” he demands when I try to hide, when the heat between us turns too much. His hand snaps back to my jaw, holding me in place as his body drives into mine, hard, relentless, devastating. “Every fucking second. Don’t you dare close your eyes. I want you to see who owns you.”
I do. I can’t look away. And when the pleasure rips through me, it’s his name I scream, not Rafe’s, not fear’s—Dean’s. Always Dean’s.
And he doesn’t stop. Not even when I’m shaking, clawing at his back, begging. Not even when tears burn my lashes from the overwhelming wreck of it. He just keeps going, breaking me down until there’s nothing left but the pieces that fit into his hands.
The counter is shaking under us, every thrust rattling through the cabinets, but Dean doesn’t ease up, doesn’t relent. His hand is at the back of my neck, forcing me to arch for him, forcing my eyes to stay locked on his.
“Say it again,” he rasps, voice shredded with hunger. His mouth crashes against mine, swallowing my broken whimper before I can form the words. His teeth scrape over my bottom lip, sharp enough to sting, and he doesn’t pull back until blood blooms. He licks it away, feral, guttural. “Again, Brooklyn. Say who you belong to.”
“I’m—yours,” I whisper, shaking, wrecked. My nails carve down his shoulders, desperate to anchor myself against the storm of him.
“Too quiet.” He drives into me harder, until my back bows against the icy surface, until my gasp tears loose from my throat like a sob. “Louder. Let the walls hear it. Let the whole fucking city know.”
“I’m yours!” The cry rips from me, unguarded, a surrender that leaves me trembling in his hands.
