Not even to the bedroom.
One minute I’m still straddling him on the couch, our breathing slowly evening out. The next, his arms tighten around me and he stands, lifting me like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
I let out a small, startled laugh, my legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.
“Blade—”
“Bed,” he murmurs, voice rough but softer now. Not commanding. Just certain.
I don’t argue.
I don’t want to.
He carries me down the short hallway, bare feet silent against the wood. The bedroom is simple. Large bed. Dark sheets. A window facing the trees. Moonlight spilling in.
He lowers me carefully, like I might bruise if he moves too fast.
Then he slides in beside me and pulls the covers over us.
No rush.
No urgency.
Just the slow weight of his body settling next to mine.
He draws me against him automatically, one arm around my waist, my back to his chest. His palm spreads low on my stomach, anchoring me there.
I fit.
That thought is dangerous.
I fit here.
My body is still humming from everything we did, every touch, every whispered word. But under that hum is something steadier. Something deeper.
Hours ago, I was in a club bathroom trying not to panic while a man decided I didn’t get to say no.
I remember the way his fingers pressed into my thigh. The way he smiled like I should be grateful for his attention. The way my lungs felt too small.
I remember thinking I might have to go with him just to avoid making it worse.
The thought makes my stomach twist now.
And then I remember the doors slamming open.
The cold air.
Blade.
The way he looked at me like he’d already decided.
The way he said, “Get your hands off my woman.”
My woman.
It should have terrified me.
Instead, it felt like rescue.
