“This was never about being perfect, Kinsley,” he murmurs, his thumb tracing my jawline. “It was about being mine.”
I lean into his touch, a silent, willing surrender that is more powerful than any act of defiance. The war isn’t over, it has simply transformed. This isn’t a battle of wills anymore.
It’s a love story, and we are both the heroes and the villains.
Thirty Six
Kinsley
Iwake slowly, drawn from a deep, dreamless sleep I haven’t experienced in months. The first thing I register is warmth—a solid, living heat pressed against my back. An arm is draped possessively over my waist, holding me in place.
West.
My eyes flutter open. The morning light is filtering through the vast windows, painting the room in soft shades of grey. He’s still asleep, his breathing a low, even rumble against my ear. This isdifferent. Before, he was a ghost who slipped away before dawn. Now, he’s a tangible presence, holding me as if he’s afraid I might evaporate overnight.
A strange sense of calm settles over me. There is no panic, no frantic urge to escape. My decision last night, that terrifying moment of clarity and surrender has settled deep in my bones. I am here. This is where I belong.
I don’t move. I just lie there, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest, the weight of his arm a comforting anchor rather than a chain. For the first time, the storm inside my head is quiet.
After a while, I feel him stir. His grip tightens for a moment, as if confirming I’m still there.
“Morning,” he murmurs, his voice thick with sleep.
“Morning,” I whisper back, not turning to face him yet.
He presses a soft kiss to my shoulder, a gesture of casual intimacy that sends a shiver through me—not of fear but of a quiet, startling pleasure. “Sleep well?”
“Yes,” I admit, the word a simple truth.
He hums in satisfaction. “Good. You needed it.”
His other arm slides under me, turning me gently but firmly to face him. His eyes are heavy-lidded, still clouded with sleep but the possessive fire in them is already banked, a steady, controlled burn. He brushes a stray strand of hair from my face, his touch lingering, proprietary. He looks at me for a long moment, not with the hungry, predatory gaze I’m used to but with a softer, more contemplative expression.
“You look different,” he says, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw.
“I feel different,” I confess.
A slow, genuine smile spreads across his face. It changes everything, softening the hard lines of his face, making him look almost boyish. “Good.”
He leans in, capturing my lips in a slow, deep kiss. There is no urgency, no demand. It's a kiss of exploration, of rediscovery, a silent confirmation of the new truce between us. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, a slow, deliberate dance with mine. I meet him, a tentative response that quickly deepens, my hands coming up to rest on the warm, bare skin of his chest.
The kiss goes on, a languid, endless exploration. His hands begin to move, tracing the curve of my spine, the dip of my waist, the swell of my hip. He’s learning the landscape of my body in this new light, mapping it with a gentle, possessive touch that makes me arch into him in a silent plea for more. The fear is gone, replaced by a burgeoning, aching need.
His lips leave mine, trailing a path of fire down my neck, my collarbone. He nips at the sensitive skin where my shoulder meets my neck, a sharp, possessive bite that makes me gasp, my fingers digging into the hard muscle of his shoulders. He soothes the sting with his tongue, a slow, deliberate lick that sends a jolt straight to my core.
“You’re so beautiful like this,” he murmurs against my skin, his voice a low, rough vibration. “All mine. Willing. Eager.”
He moves over me, settling between my thighs, the hard, heavy weight of him a familiar, welcome pressure. He doesn’t enter me yet. He just rests there, his hands framing my face, his eyes burning into mine. The morning light casts his features in a soft glow, highlighting the raw, intense desire in his gaze.
“Look at me,” he whispers, the command a gentle, intimate request this time. “Don’t close your eyes. I want to see you.”
My breath hitches. This is different. Before, it was a command to witness my surrender. Now, it feels like a request for connection. To let him in. To let him see not just my body but the quiet, fragile peace that has settled over me.
I keep my eyes locked on his as he slowly, deliberately pushes inside me.
The stretch is exquisite. A slow, intense burn that melts into a deep, overwhelming pleasure. My breath catches in my throat, a choked, pleasured sound. He pauses, buried to the hilt, giving me a moment to adjust, his gaze never wavering.
“Okay?” he asks, his voice rough with a need that mirrors my own.
