She pulls back, her hands frantically checking me for injuries, finding the graze on my arm with unerring accuracy. "You're bleeding!"
"Barely." I capture her hands, bringing them to my lips. "Nothing that won't heal. The important thing is you're safe."
"Did you...?" She doesn't finish the question, doesn't need to.
"Yes." No point sugar-coating it. "They came to take you. I stopped them."
She swallows hard, processing what that means. What I've done in her name. Then, surprising me yet again, she rises on tiptoe to kiss me fiercely. "Thank you," she whispers against my lips. "For protecting me. For coming back."
Something primal and possessive surges through me at her words, at her acceptance of the violence I've committed to keep her safe. Before I can stop myself, I'm backing her against the wall of the panic room, my hands already pushing up the hem of her dress.
"Need you," I growl, all finesse gone, replaced by raw animal need. "Need to feel you. To know you're safe."
"Yes," she gasps, already working at my belt, at the zipper of my tactical pants. "Please, Woodrow. Need you too."
I lift her easily, her back against the wall, her legs wrapping around my waist. In one smooth thrust, I'm buried inside her, her tight heat enveloping me, grounding me back in the present, in what matters. She's safe. She's mine. Nothing else matters.
"Feel me deep inside, little girl?" I grunt, setting a brutal pace, claiming her with every thrust. "That's where my baby goes. Going to fill you up, breed you right here to prove you're mine."
"Yes," she moans, her head falling back against the wall, exposing the long line of her throat, the mark I left there days ago. "Yours, Woodrow. Always yours."
The adrenaline of combat, the relief of finding her safe, the primal need to claim what's mine—it all combines into a perfect storm of lust and possession. I fuck her hard against the wall, my hands leaving bruises on her perfect thighs, my mouth leaving fresh marks on her neck.
"No one takes you from me," I growl against her skin. “I can’t lose you, baby. Can’t ever lose you.”
"Please," she begs, her nails digging into my shoulders through my vest. "Fill me up, Daddy. Make me yours."
The endearment pushes me over the edge. I slam into her one final time, grinding against her as I come, flooding her womb with my seed, marking her from the inside out. She follows me over the edge, her inner walls clamping down on my cock, milking every last drop as she shudders through her own release.
For long moments afterward, we stay joined, panting, her legs still locked around my waist, my forehead pressed to hers.
“It’s over now?” she asks softly.
I press a kiss to her forehead. “Yes, baby. It’s over. You’re safe.”
And I’ll make damn sure she’s always safe. With me.
eleven
. . .
Woodrow
I've killedmen for less than a look in Priscilla's direction. I've broken bones, spilled blood, ended lives to keep her safe. But nothing—not a single fucking thing I've done in my violent life—has terrified me as much as what I'm about to do right now. The small velvet box burns a hole in my pocket as I pace the bedroom, waiting for her to finish her shower. I've faced down death a hundred times without flinching, but the thought of asking this woman to be mine forever has my palms sweating like a goddamn teenager's. Pathetic. But she's changed me. Broken me open. Made me want things I never thought I could have. A future. A family. A fucking lifetime with one woman—this woman, my woman, my Priscilla.
The shower shuts off, and I freeze mid-pace. Too late to back out now. Not that I want to. I've never been more certain of anything in my life than I am about her. About us.
She emerges from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, wrapped in one of my towels, her dark hair dripping onto her bare shoulders. My mouth goes dry at the sight of her—all soft curves and damp skin, those big hazel eyes lighting up when they find me.
"Hey," she says, smiling that smile that still knocks me on my ass every time I see it. The one meant just for me. "You look serious. Everything okay?"
"Fine," I grunt, running a hand through my hair. Words. I need fucking words now, and they're deserting me when I need them most. "Just thinking."
She crosses to me, still in that too-big towel, reaching up to touch my face. "About what?"
I capture her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm. Grounding myself in her touch, her scent, her presence. "About us. About the future."
Something shifts in her expression—hope, maybe? Uncertainty? "Oh?"
