I follow right after, growling her name like a curse as I slam deep and empty inside her again. Pulse after thick pulse, filling her until it spills out, dripping onto the rug beneath us.
We stay locked together, me draped over her back, both of us panting. The fire pops and hisses as the storm outside begins to quiet.
I press a slow, possessive kiss to the nape of her neck. “Mine,” I murmur against her skin. “All fucking mine.”
She turns her head just enough to meet my eyes, wrecked, sated, still hungry. “Yours,” she whispers.
Chapter Eleven
WREN
The fire has shrunkto glowing coals, soft orange light licking the walls like it’s tired too. The storm outside is down to a low whine, the kind that makes the house feel wrapped around us instead of pressing in. I’m tucked against Calder’s chest, legs tangled with his on the couch, my head under his chin where I can hear his heartbeat—steady, slow, nothing like the frantic thud mine used to make when I came home at night.
I don’t move. Moving might break whatever this is.
His arm is heavy around my waist, not trapping, just… there. Like he’s decided I belong right here and he’s not asking permission anymore. His other hand moves in long, lazy strokes down my spine—fingertips barely touching, tracing the faint red marks his grip left earlier on my hips, the bite on my shoulder that still stings sweetly when I shift. Every pass feels like he’s checking I’m still whole. Like he’s sorry and not sorry at the same time.
I close my eyes and breathe him in: clean sweat, woodsmoke from the fire, something warmer underneath that’s just him. My body aches in places I didn’t know could ache—thighs trembling, a dull throb between my legs where he was so deep, so manytimes—but it’s not bad. It’s proof. Proof I let go. Proof someone wanted me enough to lose control and still stayed to hold the pieces after.
“You okay, sweetheart?” His voice is quieter now, rough edges sanded down. Not the growl from before. Just Calder, asking like the answer actually matters.
I nod against his throat. Words feel too big, too loud. “Yeah.”
He hums, the sound rumbling through his chest into mine. “Need water? Something to eat? I can get up.”
I shake my head fast. If he moves, the warmth might leave with him. “Stay.”
His lips brush my temple—soft, lingering. “Okay. Not going anywhere.”
He reaches behind us without letting go, drags the throw blanket over my shoulders, tucks it around me like I’m something breakable. His hand settles on the small of my back again, palm flat, warm. Possessive even when he’s gentle.
I count his breaths for a minute because counting still calms me. In. Out. In. Out. Steady. Nothing like the way I used to count tips in the car, twice, three times, like if I got the number wrong the whole plan would collapse.
After a while he speaks again, softer. “Did I hurt you? Anywhere that wasn’t… good?”
The question lands careful, like he’s afraid of the answer. I tilt my head back just enough to see his face—blue-gray eyes searching mine, brow creased. He looks almost worried. It twists something in my chest.
“No,” I whisper. “Not bad hurt.” My voice is small, honest. “I liked it. Even the parts that were a lot.”
His thumb strokes my cheekbone. “You’d tell me? If it was too much?”
I nod. “I’d tell you.”
He exhales like he’s been holding the breath since we stopped. Then he leans down and kisses my forehead, slow. My eyelids. The tip of my nose. Small, careful presses like he’s mapping me again, but different this time. Not claiming. Comforting.
“Stay put,” he murmurs. “Gonna grab you water and something light. Two minutes.”
I make a small sound—half protest—but he hushes me with another kiss, this one on my mouth, tender enough to make my throat tighten.
He eases out from under me carefully, tucking the blanket tighter before he stands. I watch him walk to the kitchen: broad back, the faint red scratches my nails left down his skin, the easy way he moves like he’s not carrying anything heavy anymore.
He comes back with a glass of water and a small plate—apple slices, a couple crackers, a square of dark chocolate. Simple. Thoughtful. Things that won’t make my stomach rebel after everything.
He sits again, pulls me right back into his lap so I’m curled sideways, legs over his thighs. He holds the glass to my lips first.
“Slow.”
I sip. Cool water soothes the rawness in my throat. When I’m done, he sets it aside and picks up an apple slice, holds it to my mouth.
