But firmly.
His body caged mine.
His mouth claimed mine.
The kiss was intense — hungry — almost desperate.
He pulled back just enough to growl against my lips:
“You’re mine, Elena.”
His fingers tightened at my waist.
“Every smile.”
He brushed his thumb along my jaw.
“Every glance.”
His forehead pressed against mine.
“Mine.”
I didn’t argue.
Because the truth was — I felt the same instinct rising in me sometimes.
Possessive.
Defensive.
Not because I wanted to control him.
But because we had both survived too many threats to ever feel fully safe again.
With Daphne —
He was something else entirely.
He was devotion embodied.
He would walk the halls of the mansion at night with her pressed against his shoulder.
Pacing.
Never complaining.
Never frustrated.
At one year old —
Her first word wasn’t “Mama.”
It wasn’t “Dada.”
It was a garbled attempt at his name.
“Rush-ban.”
