Fear flashes in her eyes, quickly followed by determination. My brave little wife. "What does that mean for us?"
"It means you stay inside the compound. No exceptions. Always with me or someone I trust." My arms tighten around her. "It means I keep you safe, no matter what."
She's quiet for a moment, processing. Then she surprises me by standing up. "Let me clean those cuts first."
She retrieves a first aid kit from the bathroom and returns to kneel between my legs. There's something unbearably intimate about her gentle hands cleaning the blood from my knuckles, dabbing antiseptic on the split in my lip. This woman who should fear me, caring for my wounds.
"You fought because of me," she says softly, not a question.
"I'd kill for you," I respond simply. "Without hesitation."
Her hands pause in their work, eyes lifting to meet mine. What I see there isn't fear or disgust—it's something darker, more primal. Something that matches the beast inside me.
"Does that scare you?" I ask, voice dropping lower.
"It should," she whispers. "But it doesn't. What does that say about me?"
"That you're mine." I capture her wrist, pulling her hand to rest against my heart. "That you were made for me."
The air between us changes, thickens with sudden tension. Her pupils dilate, breath coming quicker. The adrenaline from the fight is still humming in my veins, seeking release.
I don't wait for permission. Don't need it. I pull her up and into my lap, my mouth crashing down on hers with bruising force. She responds instantly, arms wrapping around my neck, body melting against mine.
The kiss tastes like blood and need and fear transformed into hunger. I stand, lifting her with me, only to lower us both to the floor. The couch is too small, the bedroom too far for what I need right now.
"Vance," she gasps as I tear at her clothes, too impatient for finesse.
"Need you," I growl, ripping her shirt open, buttons flying. "Need to be inside you."
She doesn't protest, helping me strip the clothes from her body until she's naked beneath me on the hardwood floor. I shed my own jeans and blood-stained shirt, my cock already rock hard and leaking.
"Please," she whimpers, spreading her legs in invitation.
I settle between her thighs, the head of my cock nudging at her entrance. She's already wet, ready for me. The sight of her like this—open, wanting, mine—nearly breaks me.
"No one will ever hurt,” I snarl, pushing into her in one powerful thrust that makes her cry out. "No one."
I set a brutal pace, driven by primal need to claim, to mark, to possess. Each thrust is a statement, a promise, a warning to anyone who would dare try to take her from me.
"Mine," I growl, gripping her hips hard enough to leave bruises. "Say it."
"Yours," she gasps, back arching as I hit that perfect spot inside her. "I'm yours, Vance."
"Again," I demand, slowing my thrusts torturously.
"I'm yours!" she cries out, desperation in her voice. "Please, Daddy, don't stop!"
The word ignites something even more primitive in me. I hook my arms under her knees, pushing them back toward her chest, opening her completely to my invasion.
"That's right, little girl," I praise, driving into her with renewed force. “Oh god, you’re gonna kill me baby. Not gonna be able to last long in this sweet thing.”
Her nails dig into my shoulders, adding more pain to the mix of sensations driving me toward the edge. The floor must be hard on her back, but she doesn't complain, meeting me thrust for thrust, as consumed by this feral need as I am.
“Tell me you’re mine,” I demand, my release pending, body half crazed with lust. “Need to hear it when I nut in you.”
Her eyes lock on mine, pupils blown wide with pleasure and something deeper. "I'm yours, Daddy. Always."
That's what breaks me. With a roar, I bury myself to the hilt and explode, pumping her full of my seed. "Mine to hold, baby doll," I gasp against her neck. "Feel Daddy breeding you—no one else gets this. No one else gets you."
