She tries to say something, but I silence it with two fingers on her lips. Then I thumb away a smudge of dessert left from dinner. She licks the pad of my thumb, and I almost lose it right there.
I take her blouse apart, button by button, slow enough to be cruel. The fabric parts like water around her, exposing collarbone and shoulder, the tattoo beneath her breast—black and red ink, Forever in Pain. Forever in Death. When we got them, we had no idea what pain was. I run my tongue under the arch of it, trace the line with the flat, wet from my mouth, and she shudders.
"You kept it," I observe, reverently, but she refuses to give up the upper hand even now.
"You kept yours," she observes, and its accusation and confession at once, a dare to take everything she's been guarding for the last decade.
I don't bother with slow, not now. I slide both hands down her hips, taking her skirt with them, yanking it clean over her knees and off her legs in a single, practiced motion. Her panties go next, black, delicate, thin enough to tear, but I make a point to roll them down inch by inch, my knuckles skimming her skin, letting her feel every moment of surrender. She never takes her eyes off my face, like she's measuring the risk, like she's hoping I'll blink first. I don't. I bring the panties up to my nose, inhale her scent deeply, and close my eyes just for a moment to appreciate the sweetness of her. Memories flood back in. They say they come the strongest with scent, and they aren't wrong.I pocket the panties like I should have done back then. Never again will I take one single moment with her for granted.
She's bared for me now. For a moment, I just look at her. Time hasn't taken from her. It's marked her. Claimed her in ways I wasn't there to witness. My hand slides down her stomach, slow, reverent, until I feel it. The faint ridges beneath my fingertips. She stiffens.
Her hand moves instinctively, like she wants to cover herself, a small, almost defensive motion. "Don't…" she murmurs, her voice barely there. "They're?—"
She doesn't finish. She doesn't have to. I know. I still her hand gently, my fingers closing around her wrist.
"No," I order.
My thumb traces the lines again. Not hiding them. Not ignoring them. Honoring them. "They're mine."
Her breath catches. I lower my head, pressing my mouth against her skin, right over the soft, pale marks. Slow. Intentional.
"They're beautiful," I murmur against her. "Every one of them." She lets out a shaky breath. "They're what your body did for me," I continue, in a rougher, emotion-filled voice, because fuck, she got those bearing our son. "For our son."
I kiss another one, softer this time. "They're not something to hide."
Her fingers slide into my hair, hesitant at first, then tightening. I move lower—and then I see it. The scar. Clean. Faint. But there. My hand stills. My gaze lifts to hers. She flinches before I even say a word.
"C-section," she explains wryly, like she needs to get ahead of it. "He… he didn't want to come out."
There's a fragile attempt at humor in her voice. It breaks halfway through. Something tightens in my chest. Hard. Violent.I lower myself without a word, pressing my mouth to the scar. Gentler than I've ever touched anything.
"That must have been terrifying," I observe against her skin.
She nods.
I feel it in the way her body shifts beneath me.
"Yeah," she whispers. "I… I've never wanted you by my side more than in that moment."
The words hit like a blade. Because I wasn't there. Because someone made sure I wasn't there. My hand fists at her hip, not enough to hurt, just enough to ground myself. Rage coils, already finding direction.
"They took that from me," I breathe, controlled. Deadly. "From us." I lift my head, meeting her eyes. "They'll answer for it."
Her breath hitches. I press my forehead to her stomach for a moment, closing my eyes, letting the weight of it settle. When I look up again, there's nothing soft left in me. Only certainty.
"You'll never be alone again," I vow. "Not for a single moment."
My hand slides back over her stomach, over the marks, over the scar. "Anyone who ever tries to take me from you again…" My jaw tightens. "They won't live long enough to regret it."
Her fingers brush my face, softer now, searching.
"I guess…" she whispers, "we both have our scars."
Something in me fractures at that. Not from weakness. From truth. I take her hand, pressing it flat over my chest, over the damage that never fully healed.
"Then we wear them together," I murmur.
And this time, when I kiss her, it isn't just hunger. It's a promise I seal with a kiss before I continue my journey down her body. She doesn't stiffen this time. This time, when her thighs tense, it's not embarrassment, it's anticipation. She's waiting for me to lose control; she wants to see if I'll devour her, worshipher, or both. I kneel at the edge of the bed, spreading her legs with both hands, thumbs pressing into the flesh until she shudders. Her hands fist in the sheet. She's breathing shallow, fast, her heartbeat is visible in the hollow of her throat. I want to mark her, claim her, erase every memory of the bastard who put a ring on her finger. But mostly I want her to know the difference, to know what it means to be truly wanted.
