She's quiet for a long moment, her fingers worrying the fringe on the throw pillow in a nervous gesture that takes me back to nights when we'd sit on this same couch, talking through whatever was bothering her.
"Logan," she says softly, and I can see her pulse jumping in her throat. "I need to ask you something."
"Anything."
"The bite mark on my neck." Her hand moves unconsciously to the spot where my teeth left their permanent mark three days ago. "You claimed me..."
My stomach drops. The guilt I've been carrying since that night crashes over me like a tidal wave. "Savannah..."
"I'm not angry," she says quickly. "I wanted it. God, I wanted it so much. But I need to know why you didn't talk to Griff and Xavier first."
"Because I was terrified they'd say no. Because I was selfish and desperate and couldn't bear the thought of waiting another second to make you mine."
Her eyes soften. "Logan..."
"I'm sorry." The words tear out of my chest. "I should have talked to them, and made sure we were all on the same pagebefore I marked you permanently. I fucked up, and I've been hating myself for it ever since."
"Do you regret it?"
"Never." The answer comes immediately, fierce and certain. "I regret how I did it, but I'll never regret claiming you. You're mine, Savannah. You've always been mine."
She sets the pillow aside and moves closer, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from her soft body. "Do you remember how we used to deal with stress?"
My mouth goes dry. "Savannah..."
"We'd put on music and dance until everything else faded away." Her voice is barely above a whisper, but it hits me like a physical blow. "Do you remember?"
Friday nights we'd lose ourselves in movement and music until the world outside ceased to exist. Some of my best memories from our relationship involve her in my arms, both of us moving to songs that became the soundtrack to our love story.
"I remember," I say carefully, hyperaware of how close she's sitting, how her vanilla bourbon scent is making my head spin.
"I haven't danced since we broke up." The admission is barely audible, but it hits me like a sledgehammer to the chest. "I tried a few times. Went to clubs with friends in Denver, let guys buy me drinks and ask me to dance."
The image of her dancing with other men sends possessive jealousy clawing through my chest. My hands clench into fists at my sides as I fight the urge to pull her against me.
"But it never felt right," she continues, scooting even closer until we're almost touching. "It always felt like I was betraying something sacred."
"I missed it." She looks directly at me now, her brown eyes shifting from green to gold in the afternoon light. "I missed you."
"Keep saying it," I tell her, covering her hand with mine.
I jump up, and then take her hand in mine, so she stands up next to me.
Eight years of hurt and anger and carefully constructed distance warring with the pull that's always existed between us, the magnetic force that used to make resisting each other impossible.
"How did you really feel?" She reaches out tentatively, her fingertips just brushing the front of my shirt.
"Like my world was ending. Like I was losing the most important thing in my life and I was too proud and too scared to admit it." I press her palm flat against my chest. "I've spent eight years regretting the things I didn't say, the chances I didn't take."
Her breath catches, and I can see the rapid pulse at the base of her throat. "Logan..."
"I don't want to make the same mistake twice. I want to make it up to you. All of it. Starting right now."
I release her hand and take a step back, extending my arm toward her with my heart hammering against my ribs. "Dance with me."
She stares at my outstretched hand for a long moment, and I can practically see the internal war playing out across her features. Logic versus longing. Self-preservation versus the need to reclaim something we lost.
Finally, she places her hand in mine, letting me pull her closer. "We don't have any music."
