"That was wonderful," I finally whispered.
The words came out cracked. Incomplete.
"A family," Maks said softly.
I looked at him. His profile in the late afternoon light, the strong jaw and warm eyes, the hands that had hurt men for me and held me through tears and chosen a collar that sat against my throat like a promise.
"You have a family now, Auralia." His voice was quiet. Certain. The voice of someone stating a fact rather than making an offer. "All of us. You're one of ours."
The words landed somewhere deep.
My hand moved without conscious thought. Found the collar beneath my dress. The leather was warm from my body heat, the metal ring a slight pressure against my throat. I traced it with my fingertips the way I'd traced it a hundred times since he'd put it there.
But this time was different.
This time, the collar didn't just mean I was his. It meant I was theirs. Part of something bigger than just the two of us, a network of survivors and damaged people and family members who'd chosen each other through violence and tenderness in equal measure.
One of ours.
I let the words settle into my bones.
And finally, fully, believed them.
The city moved past the windows—all those anonymous lights, all those anonymous lives, people going about their business without any idea that a woman in a passing car had just found exactly where she belonged.
Maks's hand tightened on mine.
I squeezed back.
And let myself be carried home.
Chapter 14
Maksim
Thelightcameingrey and soft, the particular quality of early morning before the city fully woke. I'd been awake for twenty minutes. Hadn't moved. Couldn't, really—not when she was curled against me like that, her breath slow and even, one hand tucked near her face the way a child might sleep.
The collar was dark against her throat.
Black leather on pale skin, the silver ring catching what little light filtered through the curtains. I traced the line of it with my eyes, following the curve where it met her jaw, the hollow of her collarbone visible just below. Mine. The word surfaced the way it always did now—automatic, possessive, absolutely true.
She'd been in my bed for days. The novelty should have worn off. Instead, it felt more miraculous each morning. This woman. This particular woman, with her grey-green eyes and her brilliant, anxious brain and the way she'd looked at Sophie and Maya yesterday like she'd found something she'd been searching for her whole life.
She had found it.
We both had.
My thumb traced the curve of her shoulder. Careful. Light enough not to wake her. The skin there was impossibly soft—she used some kind of lotion that smelled like lavender, and every time I touched her I caught that scent. Grounding. Familiar now, after only days. The particular alchemy of becoming someone's home.
Her lashes fluttered.
Not waking. Just dreaming, maybe. Her lips parted slightly, and she made a small sound—content, satisfied, the particular noise of someone safe in their sleep. The sound did something to my chest. Made it tight in ways I couldn't fully explain.
I allowed myself another minute of watching.
Then I slipped from the bed, careful not to disturb her, and crossed to the closet.
Her clothes hung beside mine now.
