"I am strong, Austin. I'm just..." I trail off, hands coming up to rest on his chest. His heart beats against my palms—slow, steady, and powerful. Like a war drum.
"Just what?" He wraps his hand around the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair to tilt my head back. His eyes search mine, looking for the ghost of a doubt. He doesn't realize I am not afraid of his darkness anymore; I am addicted to it.
"Just happy," I whisper.
The hard lines around his eyes relax a fraction. He leans down, pressing his forehead against mine. "Good. Stay happy. I'll handle the rest of the world."
He shifts, hand sliding down my spine to cup my hip, pulling me flush against his hard thighs. I feel the ridge of him through his jeans, heavy and thick. He is always ready for me. That biological imperative he talked about from the start—the need to mark, to claim, to ensure I can't belong to anyone else—never sleeps.
"I finished the nursery," he says quietly.
My breath catches. We’ve been calling it the "spare room" for weeks. He’s been in there for days, sanding the original wide-plank floors, painting the walls a soft cream.
"You did?"
"Yeah." He pulls back to look at me, gaze intense. "Built the crib frame this morning. Solid oak. Strong enough to hold a Gunnar."
Static charges the air in the room. We haven't used protection since the night the Costas first tested our borders. He has been relentless in his pursuit of that singular goal, a primal drive to knit our souls together through blood and bone.
"You're very confident," I say, a nervous, excited laugh bubbling up.
"I'm determined," he corrects, voice dropping an octave.
He walks me backward until my legs hit the edge of the mattress. I sit heavily, looking up at him as he stands between my knees, hands on his hips like a king surveying his conquest.
"Take it off," he orders softly.
I don't hesitate. I unbutton the flannel shirt, letting it slide down my arms to pool on the floor. I am not wearing a bra. My tits feel heavy and swollen with the early changes of pregnancy, my nipples hardening into tight, sensitive points instantly in thecool air. Austin’s pupils blow wide, the silver-gray of his irises disappearing into a black pit of pure, predatory hunger.
"Beautiful," he grunts, his voice a jagged scrape of sound. He drops to his knees between my legs, his massive, calloused hands spanning my waist with a grip that claims every inch of my skin. He leans in, burying his face in the deep cleavage of my breasts, his mouth hot against my skin as he inhales the scent of his successful claim.
"You smell different today. Creamy. Like milk and honey."
A tremor racks through me, starting at my toes. He knows. On some instinctual, animal level, he already knows.
He pulls back, his large, scarred palm sliding down my belly to cover my womb. The heat of his hand seeps through my leggings, marking the exact spot where his seed has taken root and our lives are colliding. "Is it done?" he asks, his voice a raw, intense growl that vibrates through my bones.
"Did I catch you, Courtney? Did I finally put a baby in you?"
I cover his hand with mine. My fingers look so small against his scarred knuckles. "I went to see Dr. Grace this morning. While you were at the hardware store."
Austin doesn't breathe. For a man who faces down knives and guns without flinching, the stillness in his frame betrays him. The blood drains from his face, leaving the scars stark against his skin.
"Tell me," he rasps.
I lean forward, wrapping my arms around his neck. "You caught me, Austin. You really caught me."
The sound he makes is guttural—a mix of a roar and a sob of relief. He buries his face in my neck, arms wrapping around me so tight it nearly bruises, lifting me off the bed to crush me against him. I feel the violent shudder running through his massive frame as the tension he carried for a decade finally snaps.
"Mine," he growls into my skin. "Mine. Mine. Mine."
"Yours," I agree, tears pricking my eyes. "Always."
He pushes me back onto the pillows, following me down with a fierce, possessive weight. He doesn't try to take more; he just holds me there, pinning me to the mattress, his lips tender as he kisses my eyelids and my nose.
"I told you," he whispers. "I told you I'd never let you go again."
"I know," I murmur, tracing the scars on his back.
