I pressed a kiss into her damp hair. “Good Girl. Daddy’s very proud of you.” I swept her off her feet again, one arm under her knees, the other around her back, and carried her out of the bathroom.
I dried her slow. Then I dropped the shirt over her head, easing her hands through the sleeves. Fabric fell around her like it had been cut for her, hanging off one shoulder, brushing mid-thigh.
My shirt. On my girl. Something primal in my chest smoothed out.
A sigh slipped past her lips. “You know you’re not getting this one back, right?”
My mouth curved. “You’ve said that about the last three.”
“Well, whose fault is that?” Her fingers tugged gently at the hem, testing the give. “Stop dressing me in your favorites.”
God, I loved when she claimed things like that—like there was no universe where I’d argue. “I’ll consider it when you stop looking better in them than I ever did.”
A small scoff escaped her. The laugh broke halfway into a wince, hand flying to her side.
Every muscle in me locked. Instinct, training, Crow. Assess. Protect. Eliminate threat.
“Pain?”
“Really fucking bad.” She tried to shake it off like it was nothing, like she wasn’t still sore. That settled it. The decision dropped through me like a stone.
“Then you’re not leaving this bed again.”
“You can’t be smug about that.”
I couldn’t help the small brush of my mouth against her cheek, breathing her in. “Wasn’t planning to be. But I’ll take the win.”
Her head found my shoulder, weight settling there like she belonged in that exact space. She did. The Crow part of me—bred for ownership, oaths, and territorial instinct—gloated at the fit. For a moment, it felt like the day might let us stay in that bubble—her in my shirt, my arms around her, my cock content with the view I had of her breasts and the weight of her on me.
So fucking content I was willing to suffer through whatever chaotic, badly written reality show she put on the television if it meant she stayed pressed there.
Then her phone buzzed on the bedside table.
Of course it did.
She frowned, shifting just enough to reach for it. My first instinct was violence: grab it, throw it, let it learn to swim in the Villain traffic. Tell her to leave it. Let it go to hell. But dynasty daughters didn’t get that luxury, and she’d already swiped to answer before I could open my mouth.
“Hello?”
The voice that answered was male. I couldn’t make out the actual words. I hated that another man’s voice was in our bed In my girl’s ear while she wore my shirt and my marks and still full of my come.
“No, I’m fine. I—what? Today?”
My shoulders tensed. Today meant they’d decided her body was for display. I gently run my knuckles down her side, grounding her.
“I thought that was next week.” Silence from the other end. “Yes, of course. If he’s flying in, then I understand.”
Another pause. Her jaw clenched.
“Uncle, I’m not—” She cut herself off, eyes flicking to me like she pulled away from my side, and stood up. “No. I can make it. Just text me the schedule.”
She ended the call and lowered the phone. I already hated whoever was on the other end more than was rational for a man I hadn’t met.
“Who was that?” My voice came out flat, that thin, controlled edge I got when I was two seconds from putting my fist through a wall.
“My uncle. There’s a contract being negotiated. I’m needed at a gala. And a silent auction. And a ballroom reception.”
Of course. Pageantry. The dynasty’s favorite sport. Parade the bloodline.
