This woman is mine. And for once, I’m truly happy.
The realization should have terrified him. Should have triggered every instinct that screamed about the dangers of letting someone matter this much. Instead, it felt like finally coming home.
Damon soon watched her navigate the waves with a natural grace that shouldn’t have been possible for a first-timer. The ocean lifted her coral surfboard like it was welcoming her home, and she rode the whitewater all the way to the shallows before hopping off, laughing as she stumbled through the foam. His dragon preened inside him, a possessive rumble of pride.
She belongs here. With me. In this world.
THIRTY-EIGHT
DAMON
He paddled after her, his own board cutting through the water. “You’re a menace,” he said as he reached her, the water lapping at their waists. “You’ll be stealing my waves next.”
She grinned up at him, her hands coming to rest on his chest. “Admit it. You’re impressed.”
He was. With everything. With the way she’d taken to the water. With the way she’d stood by his side these past seven days, helping to mend the fractures in his clan with a quiet strength that humbled him. With the simple, terrifying joy of watching her exist in his space, claiming it as her own.
“Impressed doesn’t begin to cover it,” he murmured.
Hand in hand, they waded ashore, collected their boards, and climbed the wooden steps back to the deck.
Their deck. Their home.
The words echoed in his head with pure, undiluted rightness.
Isla set her board down carefully, a smile playing on her lips as she looked around the open-plan living space. “I still can’t believe it. My toothbrush is in your bathroom. My books are on your shelf.”
“Our bathroom,” he corrected, his gaze tracking a drop of seawater as it traced a path from her collarbone down between her breasts. His control, always so ironclad, frayed at the edges. “Our shelf.”
Her smile softened. “Our home.”
That did it. The last thread of restraint snapped.
He crossed the space between them in two strides, his hands framing her face. “Mine,” he growled, the word ripped from some primal place deep inside.
Her breath hitched, her eyes darkening with answering hunger. “Yours.”
He didn’t kiss her. Not yet. He simply looked at her, memorizing the flecks of gold in her eyes, the faint freckles across her nose, and the way her lower lip trembled ever so slightly. This woman had dismantled a century of solitude brick by brick. She’d seen his grief, his failure, his rage, and instead of running, she’d built a new foundation with him. The gratitude was a living thing in his chest, too big for words.
Actions would have to suffice.
He took her hand and led her to the bathroom. Wordlessly, he reached into the large glass shower and turned the faucet. Steam began to curl into the air. Her hands went to the ties of her bikini top. His went to the knot of his board shorts. There was no fumbling, no awkwardness. It was a silent, coordinated undressing, each piece of clothing a barrier removed. And soon, the sight of her gloriously naked and flushed, punched the air from his lungs.
All mine.
He guided her under the warm spray, following close behind. The water sluiced over them, washing away the salt and sand. He reached for the soap, working up a lather in his hands.
“Let me,” he said, his voice a low command.
He started with her shoulders, his large hands moving in slow, deliberate circles. He took his time, savoring the slide of slick skin under his palms and the way she leaned into his touch. He washed every curve and every plane with a reverence that bordered on worship.
The hollow of her throat. The swell of her breasts, where he lingered, his thumbs brushing over her peaked nipples until she gasped. The dip of her waist. The flare of her hips.
“You’re stalling,” she whispered, her head tilted back and her eyes half-closed.
“I’m appreciating.”
He knelt before her, his hands sliding down her thighs and her calves. He lifted one foot, then the other, washing them with the same focused attention. This intimacy, this simple act of care, was a drug. He’d lived so long without touch, without this quiet connection, that every moment of it felt like a revelation.
