Christ.
I suck in a breath through my teeth. My grip tightens—not on the blade, but on her. On the reality of her standing here, offering herself not as a victim, not as a bride sold for peace, but as a woman choosing the edge.
“You don’t get to dare me like that,” I growl.
She laughs—wet, sharp, unhinged. “I just did.”
The knife never leaves her skin, but it doesn’t bite either. It becomes something else entirely. A line, a promise, a claim she’saskingfor.
“I won’t hurt you,” I say, low and furious with myself for how much it matters. “Not like that.”
Her eyes burn into mine. “You already have.”
Silence crashes between us. Heavy and holy. I lower the blade at last—press it into her palm instead, closing her fingers around the hilt.
“If you want blood,” I murmur, forehead resting against hers, breath mingling, “you choose where it’s drawn.”
Her hand trembles, not with fear, but with want. And when she lifts the knife again—this time by her own will—I know thefight is over. Not because we’re healed, but because we’ve finally stopped lying.
She doesn’t pull the knife away. Neither do I. The space between us snaps instead. I surge forward and take her mouth like a declaration of war.
It’s not gentle. It’s not asking. It’s heat and teeth and fury pressed into flesh — my hand tangling in her hair, fist closing hard enough to tilt her head back, forcing her to take me the way she once did in the chapel when we were young and reckless and thought love was enough.
She gasps into my mouth, a broken sound, and I swallow it whole.
“This,” I murmur against her lips, breath ragged, violent with it, “is mine.”
She makes a sound — half sob, half challenge — and bites back.Good. I kiss her harder for it. Claiming. Punishing. Worshipping in the same breath. My thumb digs into her jaw, holding her there, making her feel exactly how little room there is left to run.
Her knife presses between us, forgotten, useless now — because she’s shaking, clinging, kissing me back like the world might end if she doesn’t. “You don’t get to disappear again,” I growl into her mouth. “Not after this.”
Her forehead drops to mine, breath shuddering, wrecked. “Then don’t let me,” she whispers.
My teeth graze her lower lip. Not breaking skin, but a promise that I could.
“Aye,” I say, voice dark and final. “That’s the idea.”
I kiss her once more — slower this time, deeper, sealing it — and then I pull back just enough to look at her. Mascara ruined, tears everywhere, blood on lace.My wife.
I watch her there, ruined in my hands, and something primal claws its way up my throat. This is what I've wanted—what I've needed. Her. Broken open. Mine. I slide the knife from her grip, flipping it so the blade rests flat against her throat. Her pulse jumps beneath the silver edge.
"You know what happens next," I say, voice rough as gravel. My free hand travels down her body, possessive, claiming every inch. "You always have."
Her eyes never leave mine as I tear at her dress, fabric giving way beneath my hands. I don't care about the expense or the noise or anything beyond marking what's mine.
"Everyone will see," she whispers, half-warning, half-plea.
I drag the flat of the blade down her sternum, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. "That's the fucking point."
When I reach between her legs, she's already soaked through, body betraying what her pride won't admit. I circle her clit withmy thumb, watching her face contort with pleasure she doesn't want to give me.
"Look at you," I growl, pressing the knife just hard enough to leave a thin white line against her flesh. The sight makes my cock throb painfully against my zipper. I drag the knife up to her throat again, watching her pupils dilate as I press just enough to command her attention.
"This knife is nothing compared to what I'll do to you," I warn, voice dropping to something inhuman. My fingers slide inside her, two at once, no gentleness to be found. "I'll mark every inch of you so there's no question who you belong to."
She's writhing against my hand, fighting and surrendering in the same breath. I curl my fingers inside her, finding that spot that makes her back arch.
"Tell me who you belong to," I demand, pressing the knife flat against her jugular.
