He stands in the middle of our apartment with his hands in the pockets of his jeans and his shoulders drawn tight, but his body holds steady, broad and solid, his flannel rolled to his elbows and his boots planted on the floor. Beneath the surface, underneath the grin he's wearing like armor, he shakes with a need so raw it punches the air out of me.
He drops to one knee.
A ring sits in his palm. A deep amber stone set in carved metal, the band etched with twin mountain peaks I recognize from the pendant around his neck. Orc craftsmanship, the kind that takes a lifetime to learn and generations to perfect. Through the bond I feel the weight of it.
"A few weeks isn't long enough—"
"Yes."
He blinks. "I didn't even ask yet."
"Ask faster."
His throat works. The grin cracks, and beneath it I see the man who spent his life believing he came second to everyone, every time, in every room. The man who volunteered for a hurricane because he couldn't stay away from a woman who wouldn't look at him. The man who was there for me through a flashback, gave his blood to save a brother in arms, kissed my combat scars and called them proof I survived.
"Marry me." His voice scrapes rough and low. "Have babies with me. Fight with me. Build a life with me. Be my first. My everything."
The tears hit before I can stop them.
"Yes to all of it."
He's off his knee and his arms close around my waist before the last word leaves my mouth. He lifts me off the floor, spinning me in the narrow kitchen, and I grab his shoulders and laugh into his neck while the candles flicker and the wildflowers blur into streaks of purple and gold.
"We're getting married," he says against my hair. "You said yes. You actually—I had a whole speech planned, Kitten. You ruined my speech."
"Sorry honey, it was a good speech." I pull back to look at him and his face is wrecked, eyes bright, jaw unsteady, the charm stripped clean. The man underneath, and mine.
He slides the ring onto my finger. The metal warms against my skin, heavy and smooth, and the stone catches candlelight and throws an amber glow across our joined hands.
"This was my mother's ring." He turns my hand in his, watching the stone catch the light. "Four generations of Stone women. Knox had it this whole time. He told me it was never his to give Sarah—that Mom gave it to him and told him to carry it until I needed it."
I kiss him. His mouth opens under mine and joy ignites between us, not the slow burn of contentment or the steady hum of daily life but a full-body flare so fierce my knees buckle. He catches me, palms on my hips, my back hitting the wall beside the kitchen doorway.
A picture frame rattles off its nail and crashes to the floor.
Neither of us looks down.
His mouth drags from my lips to my jaw, my throat, the claiming mark at the base of my neck. He presses against the scar, and possessiveness floods through him so thick I feel it through the bond. The mark pulses warm, every touch feeding his want into mine until my fingers close around his top and yank it from his jeans.
"Bed?" His voice, rough against my skin.
"Later." I pull his shirt over his head and his chest fills my vision, green-skinned, scarred, massive. My palms flatten against his pecs and his heart hammers beneath the muscle, his pulse and mine running tandem.
The amber in his irises shrinks to a thin ring, swallowed by blown pupils, and the rumble builds in his chest, vibrating against my palms. He pins me against the wall with his hips, his cock hard against my stomach through his jeans, and his hands slide beneath my thighs and lift.
I wrap my legs around his waist and he holds me there, one arm hooked under my ass, the other braced flat against the wall beside my head. The muscles in his arms don't strain. He holds me like breathing, effortless and sure, and the strength of it sends heat pooling low in my belly.
"You're sure about later?" He grins against my neck, and the broken tusk scrapes along my collarbone, the rough edge dragging a shiver up my spine. "I have a very nice bed twelve feet away."
I grind against him and his hold tightens on my thigh, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. I want the bruises.Want the proof of his hands on me when I look in the mirror tomorrow.
He strips my shirt one-handed without setting me down. My bra follows. His mouth closes over my nipple and I arch against the wall, my head tipping back, my fingers tangling in his hair. His tongue circles the peak while his tusk grazes the underside of my breast, the contrast between smooth and jagged pulling a moan from my throat.
"Finn—" His name breaks apart on my tongue.
"Give it to me, Kitten." He shifts me higher on his hips, the friction dragging his cock against my center through our jeans, and the pressure wrings a moan from me that bounces off the kitchen ceiling. He fumbles with my waistband, both of us struggling with the angle, laughing between kisses when the button jams. He sets me down long enough to shove my jeans off my legs, and I drag his zipper down while his lips stay on my throat, teeth and tongue against my skin.
He lifts me again. Bare skin against bare skin, the heat of him searing, his cock pressed between us, thick, hard and slick at the tip. I reach down and wrap my hand around him, stroking, and his forehead drops to my shoulder with a groan that shakes through him.
