"For what?"
"For staying."
My throat tightens.
"Where else would I go?"
"I do not know. But I was terrified you would find one."
I reach out and cup his face.
His skin is warm.
Smooth.
Completely free of the cold, calcified texture that used to plague him.
"I'm not going anywhere," I say. "You're stuck with me."
"Good."
He leans forward and kisses me.
Slow.
Deep.
Devastating.
His hands slide up my thighs, his claws carefully retracted, his touch reverent.
When he pulls back, his amber eyes are glowing.
"I need to feed you," he says.
I blink.
"What?"
"You have not eaten since yesterday. I can smell it."
"That's—"
"Non-negotiable."
He stands, lifting me effortlessly, and carries me out of the bedroom.
I don't bother protesting.
I've learned that arguing with him when he's in provider mode is completely pointless.
The kitchen is stocked.
Not just stocked.
Aggressivelystocked.
I open the refrigerator and stare.
