“I know.”
“I mean it, Bonnie. Marcus comes for you, he dies. Anyone who tries to collect that bounty dies. I’ll kill every last Savage Legion fucker I can find if it means keeping you safe. In fact, I hope it does.”
The words should scare me. The violence in his voice, the promise of death delivered so casually.
But they don’t.
Instead, my stomach does that traitorous flutter thing. The one that happens every time one of them makes it clear just how much I matter.
“Titan—”
“No. You need to hear this.” He shifts me in his arms, holding me tighter. “You and that baby are ours. I don’t care whose DNA it has. It’s ours. And I protect what’s mine.”
I relax into his arms for a long moment.
“Feel better?” he asks.
“Yeah. Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For this. For making me feel safe even when everything’s falling apart.”
His expression softens with that rare, genuine smile that transforms his whole face. “Someone’s gotta take care of you. Might as well be me.”
“Ash and Ghost take care of me too.”
“Yeah, but I’m better at it.” He grins, that cocky edge back in his voice as he sets me down gently. “Now let’s get you cleaned up.”
“I’m not dirty.”
“You’re covered in my dirty bathwater. That counts.” He reaches for the body wash. “Turn around.”
“Titan—”
“Turn. Around.”
I roll my eyes, but the second my back meets his chest, he cages me with one arm under my breasts, the other sliding soap down my spine in one slow, filthy glide.
His palms spread the lather, thumbs digging into every knot along my shoulders until I melt against him.
“Fuck, you feel good,” he growls, lips brushing my ear.
He cups my ass, lifts, and spreads me open so the hot water rushes between my cheeks. One big hand slips forward, cups mypussy, thumb settling on my clit in a lazy circle that makes my knees buckle.
“These tits,” he rasps, sliding up to weigh them, rolling my nipples slowly, “are getting heavier every damn day. Love how they spill over my hands.” He pinches, tugs, then soothes with slick palms until I’m panting.
His other hand glides over my belly, tracing the faint silver lines. “These marks are mine,” he says, voice rough with pride. “Proof you’re growing our kid.”
When he’s done, he rinses me off and turns off the water.
We step out together. He grabs a towel and wraps it around his waist. Water drips down his chest, following the lines of his muscles. He looks like something out of an adult magazine.
He grabs another towel and wraps it around me. The fabric covers me from chest to knees, drowning me in terry cloth.
“You look like a burrito,” he says.
“You look like a wet mountain.”
