He pulls me onto the bed, wraps his arms around me, and holds me until I stop shaking. I feel his heartbeat, wild and ragged, pounding through me like a second pulse.
“Don’t leave me,” I whisper, voice trembling.
“Never,” he vows, pressing his lips to my hair.
I believe him—because now I’ve seen what he’s capable of. His obsession isn’t just about having me. It’s about protecting me, destroying anyone who thinks they can take me away.
Tonight, I’m grateful for him.
Chapter Twenty-Four - Simon
The second the door locks behind us, my composure fractures.
The only thing keeping me from ripping the world apart is the trembling weight of Eden in my arms—the feel of her pulse racing beneath my hands, the living proof that she’s still here, still mine.
My mind replays every second of what just happened: the stranger’s hand grabbing for her, the flash of fear in her eyes, the sick snap of bone under my grip. It burns behind my eyes, bright and unforgiving, and I know if I hadn’t gotten there in time, I would have lost myself—lost everything.
I set her down gently, but my grip is fierce as I cup her face, sweeping trembling strands of hair from her cheek.
“Eden—” Her name breaks out of me, half plea, half prayer.
She looks up, eyes glassy and wide, terror still flickering in the dark green. I can barely stand it—the way her lips part, the way her chest rises and falls too fast. I kiss her. Hard. Desperate. My mouth covers hers, hungry for the reassurance of her breath, her heartbeat. I need to feel her alive against me, need to make sure she knows she’s safe, here, claimed.
She gasps into my mouth, hands finding my shoulders, then clutching my shirt in fists. For a heartbeat, her body is stiff, shock still running through her veins. I slow, but I don’t let go. I press my forehead to hers, breathing her in. My voice is raw. “I’ve got you. No one touches you but me. No one.”
“Simon—” It’s all she gets out before I capture her lips again, this time slower—enough to remind her she’s wanted, enough to prove to myself that she’s real, warm, unbroken.
I press her lightly against the mattress, careful not to crowd her, but there’s a wildness in the way she clings to me—a need that matches my own.
Her hands tangle in my hair, tugging me down, drawing a groan from my throat. I taste salt and fear and relief. The kiss grows rougher, deeper, my teeth grazing her lower lip as I try to anchor myself in her, in us.
She’s the one who breaks the kiss first, panting, her fingers trailing down my chest, fumbling with the buttons of my shirt. “Don’t let go. Don’t let go, Simon—please—”
“Never,” I growl. I let my hands roam, splaying wide over her hips, her waist. I feel the heat of her skin, the tension trembling in every muscle. I push her hair aside and kiss the line of her jaw, then her throat, pausing every few inches to check her pulse, her breath, the way her hands cling to my biceps.
The baby forces me to slow down, to check myself every second, but the hunger inside me is savage—a need to possess her, to remind her and myself that she is here, safe, mine.
I ease a hand under her shirt, feeling her skin hot and soft beneath my palm. My mouth moves to her collarbone, teeth scraping, tongue soothing, lips marking her as mine. I tug her shirt up and off, baring her to my gaze, my touch.
Her body is changing—softer curves, the subtle swell of her belly—but she is more beautiful to me than ever. I let my hands roam, reverent, claiming every inch of her.
She pushes at my shirt, urgent, frantic, and I let her strip it off. Her palms flatten against my chest, nails dragging lines down my ribs. I groan, kissing her harder, tasting the panic and the relief mixing in her mouth.
I drop to my knees, kissing a path down her stomach, lingering at the curve where our child grows. I rest my forehead there for a moment, breathing in the scent of her, feeling her fingers tangle in my hair. My hands slide to her thighs, grip firm but gentle, and I press my lips to her skin, worshipping her, worshipping what we made together.
She moans, hips shifting, thighs parting for me. I hook my fingers into her waistband and pull her pants down, trailing kisses over the inside of her thigh, tasting her heat, her want. I take my time, tongue circling, teasing, coaxing desperate little sounds from her lips.
My hands never stop moving—palming her hips, stroking her belly, cradling her as if she could break.
She comes for me with a cry, hands fisted in my hair, legs trembling around my shoulders. I rise and catch her mouth again, drinking in her pleasure, her gratitude, her love.
I scoop her up, careful of her belly, and carry her to the bed. I lay her down with reverence, brushing hair from her flushed cheeks, kissing her temple, her eyelids, her lips.
I undress, never letting my eyes leave hers, letting her see the hunger, the devotion, the fury still simmering in my veins.
I settle between her thighs, slow, deliberate. I push inside her, inch by inch, watching her face for any sign of pain. She arches for me, legs wrapping around my hips, breath hot in my ear. We move together—slow, deep, every thrust a promise, every touch an anchor against the chaos outside these walls.
Her nails dig into my back, pulling me closer. “Simon, please…”
