Claimed.
Set right where he wants me.
I end up straddling his lap, blanket slipping, knees bracketing his thighs. My palms land on his shoulders to steady myself.
My heart trips.
“This isn’t me pretending it’s easy,” he says, voice steady as stone. He rests his forehead against mine, our breaths tangling. “It’s me saying I’m here for all of it.”
His hands settle on my hips, heavy and sure, thumbs digging just above bone like he’s bracing a storm.
“Then I’ll run beside you,” he murmurs.
The words vibrate through him into me.
“As long as you come home to me.”
Home.
The word shatters something inside my chest.
Not a place.
Not a house.
Him.
For a heartbeat, a future flickers—dangerous and bright and terrifying as hell. This room full of laughter. Dante pretendingnot to guard every door. Romeo alive. Guido safe. Zina with a glass of wine and a blade within reach.
Me on this man’s lap again and again.
Not because I have to be.
Because I choose to be.
He’s offering a life.
Not a fantasy.
Better.
Real.
“I want that,” I whisper.
The truth tears its way out of me, raw and too big for the words trying to carry it.
His eyes slide shut as the confession hits him in the chest.
“I know,” he breathes.
His fingers tense on my hips.
“And I want you.”
There’s hunger there.
Not just for my body.
