He kissed me instead of answering. Just grabbed my face and kissed me in front of the entire pack with enough heat that someone wolf-whistled and Nate made a disgusted sound that was probably mandatory for sons witnessing their fathers' romantic moments.
When Michael pulled back, his smile was devastating. “Yes. Obviously yes. But we're working on your proposal skills before you try that again on anyone else.”
“Not planning to propose to anyone else.”
“Good. Because I'd have to fight them, and I'm still recovering from the last time I nearly died.”
The pack erupted with congratulations and teasing, and I let myself have this. Let myself feel joy that wasn't complicated by Alpha responsibility or the weight of protecting everyone. Just this: Michael's hand in mine, pack acceptance settling around us like warmth, and the promise of futures that might actually include happiness.
Evan and Nate caught my eye across the room and nodded once. Approval. Pride. The understanding that I'd just made achoice that was mine instead of the pack's, and he supported it because that's what family did.
Later, when the celebration had died down and pack house had settled into night-quiet, Michael and I retreated to my room. Our room now, I supposed. He'd been sleeping here every night since Moon Clearing, and neither of us had mentioned him going back to the Victorian.
“So,” Michael said, closing the door behind us. “Engaged. That happened.”
“Having second thoughts?”
“About you? Never.” He moved into my space, hands finding my hips with easy familiarity. “About marrying into a pack of werewolves while dealing with newly awakened moon magic and a dark witch who wants to consume the forest? Maybe a few.”
“We can postpone?—”
“Don't you dare.” He kissed me, soft and sure. “I said yes. I meant it. Whatever comes next, we face it together.”
Together. The word settled in my chest like an anchor, grounding me in ways I hadn't realized I'd been drifting.
I kissed him back, slow at first, letting it linger—just lips and warmth and the taste of a promise kept. I felt Michael sigh into me, felt his body relax as if all the tension he’d been carrying for months was melting away under my hands. I wanted to give him that—peace, certainty, a reason to feel safe here, with me. So I took my time, relearning every inch of him, letting my hands drift from his face down to his jaw, thumb tracing the stubble, down his neck, over the flutter of his pulse.
His hands slid under my shirt, palms warm and sure, and when I pressed forward, he didn't yield—he pulled me in. Our hips bumped, hard and eager, but I forced myself to slow, to savor. I wanted this to last. I wanted to remember every sound, every gasp, every time Michael’s breath caught in his throat when my teeth grazed his collarbone.
We moved as one, finding our way to the bed without ever breaking the kiss. His back hit the edge and I paused, watching him, reading the hunger in his eyes, the trust that let me see him raw and open and wanting.
“Clothes off,” I murmured, but even that was soft—an invitation, not a command. He grinned, flushed and happy, and together we tugged shirts over our heads, tossed jeans aside, hands lingering, not rushing. Every patch of skin revealed was another chance to explore, another place to kiss or bite or memorize.
I pushed him back onto the bed, but not roughly—not yet. He sprawled, beautiful and bare, scars and all, looking at me like I was something worth waiting for. I crawled over him, braced on my forearms, noses brushing, breathing the same air.
“You’re staring,” he whispered.
“Can you blame me?” I let my hand drift down his chest, feeling every hitch in his breathing, every tremor. “You’re perfect.”
He huffed, embarrassed, but didn’t look away. I leaned down, kissed the corner of his mouth, then traced a path down his jaw, slow and lazy, letting my tongue and teeth follow, savoring the way his stubble scratched against my lips.
I kissed his throat, his shoulders, every scar I found—some old, some new, each one a story I already knew by heart. I wanted to worship every piece of him, so I did, mouthing at the strong lines of his chest, dragging my tongue over a nipple until he gasped and arched up into me.
“Daniel,” he breathed, hands in my hair, holding me close, not guiding, just needing contact.
“Yeah, love?” My voice was low, already rough with need.
“Don’t stop. Please, just—don’t stop touching me.”
“Not planning to.” I grinned against his skin, then continued my journey, sliding lower, nipping at the soft flesh over his ribs,tracing the hard lines of his stomach. I pressed open-mouthed kisses to every patch of skin, learning him all over again.
I let my hand drift down to his cock, not gripping, just teasing, my fingers tracing the length, feather-light. Michael shivered, thighs parting for me, and I settled between his legs, just holding him, breathing him in, letting the anticipation build.
He reached for me, fingers trembling, and I caught his hand, pressing a kiss to his knuckles, then his palm, then guiding it to my cheek. He stroked my face, gentle and reverent, and something inside me broke wide open—some last piece of armor falling away.
I slid back up, covering his body with mine, our cocks brushing, both of us already leaking. I rocked against him, slow and lazy, letting friction build between our bodies, feeling his heat, his hunger, his need.
We kissed again, deeper now, tongues tangling, teeth clashing, but never rushed. Every movement was slow, deliberate, meant to stoke the fire instead of extinguish it. I rolled us over, letting him straddle me, and ran my hands down his back, squeezing his ass, urging him to grind down onto me.
