Grace is in the shower, and I'm pacing the bedroom, unable to sit still.
When she emerges—hair damp, skin flushed, wearing one of my t-shirts—I cross to her immediately.
"Shadow—"
I kiss her. Hard. Desperate. Claiming.
Tomorrow I might die.
Tomorrow she might be in danger again.
Tomorrow everything could go to shit.
But tonight, she's mine.
I back her toward the bed, my hands in her hair, on her body, needing to touch every inch of her.
"I need you," I growl against her mouth.
"Then take me."
I strip the t-shirt off her, and there it is—my name tattooed on her ribs in cattle brand letters.
Still healing, still bandaged, but visible.
I trace the letters carefully, reverently. "You're really mine."
"I'm really yours."
I kiss down her neck, her collarbone, between her breasts.
Worshiping her body, claiming every inch.
When I reach her ribs, I press my lips to the bandage covering my name. "Mine to protect. Mine to keep safe. Mine to love."
"Yours," she whispers. "Always yours."
I strip off my own shirt, and Grace's hands immediately go to my ribs where her name is tattooed.
"Mine too," she says, tracing the letters. "You're mine, Shadow. Don't you forget it."
"Never."
I lay her back on the bed, settle between her legs, and take my time.
Kissing every inch of her. Tasting her. Making her gasp and moan and beg.
When I finally slide inside her, we both groan.
Perfect. Home. Where I belong.
I move slow at first, savoring her, the way she feels wrapped around me.
But Grace digs her nails into my back, urging me faster, harder.
"Don't hold back," she gasps. "I need all of you."
So, I give her everything.
