So I tighten my fingers in her hair, holding her attention on me, as her fingers lace into the short hairs on the nape of my neck. “I love you,” I growl out, making sure she hears me. “I love you so bloody much. You have no idea, bubbles.” Something loosens in my chest as soon as I say the words to her, as soon as she hears them, and it’s out there. I love her. She loves me. It's nothing more complicated than that. It never has been.
The smile she gives me is pure sunshine breaking through the gray clouds. It lights up the room, my chest, my bloody life.
Her smile wrecks me. Absolutely wrecks me.
I lower my forehead to hers, breathing her in like I haven’t had enough, like I’ll never have enough, even with her wrapped around me like this. My grip on her shifts, one hand sliding upher back, the other still anchored at her arse, holding her flush against me.
Mine.
The word pulses through me, instinctive and absolute. The very foundation of everything in my life.
“Put me down?” she murmurs softly, tapping against my arm, but there’s no real demand in it. Just a gentle request that I can’t ignore.
Reluctantly, I ease her back onto her feet, my hands lingering at her waist longer than they should, like I’m not quite ready to let her go.
Like I never will be.
Thank god, she doesn’t step away. Instead, she reaches for me again, her fingers curling into the front of my ruined, blood-splattered shirt, dragging me down just enough that she can press her mouth to mine.
The kiss isn’t frantic.
It’s not desperate.
It’s…certain.
Warm, soft—claiming—in a way that settles something deep in my chest even as it stokes the fire low in my gut. I groan into her mouth, unable to stop myself, my hands tightening reflexively before I force them to still.
She’s been through so much tonight, I need to be careful. Always careful with her.
But she leans into me, like she trusts I won’t break her. Like she knows I never could.
I break the kiss with a rough exhale, my lips brushing hers once more before I pull back just enough to look at her.
Her cheeks are flushed. Her eyes bright. Her mouth soft and swollen from my attention.
My mate.
Perfect.
“Need to clean up,” I mutter, though it comes out rougher than I intend, my gaze dropping briefly to the blood smeared across her skin, her dress, my hands. “Don’t want this on you.”
She glances down like she’s only just remembering, then huffs a soft laugh, shaking her head. “You’re ridiculous. It’s already on me.”
“Doesn’t make it right, bubbles,” I tell her, even as I hover my hand over her cheek. I want to touch her, hold her, never let her go.
“Go shower,” Thayer says, voice low but threaded with something sharper now. “We’ll take care of her.”
A possessive growl builds in my chest at that, but Florence’s hand slides up my arm, grounding me before it can take hold.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she murmurs, eyes locking with mine. “Hurry back.”
That does it.
That’s the only thing that gets me moving. Her soft but firm reassurance that she will still be here when I’m done.
I drag my gaze away from her with effort, forcing my feet toward the bathroom, even as every instinct in me screams to stay, to keep her close, to not let her out of my reach again.
I’m not going anywhere.
