"Are you ever going to tell Jino that I don't sleep in the dungeon?"
I pause, underwear and shirt in hand.
She continues, voice soft. "That I've never—not once—slept in the new dungeon?"
I cross back to her, holding up the clothes.
She stands without prompting, letting the towel drop.
I kneel and begin drying her off properly—careful strokes down her legs, across her hips, gentle around the marks Lorcan left on her skin.
When I rise to meet her gaze, those pale green eyes stare down at me.
I answer her question with a shrug.
Emmaleen tilts her head, but neither of us says any more.
I dress her slowly—underwear first, then the soft t-shirt that hangs past her thighs. She lifts her arms obediently, lets me pull the fabric over her head.
When she's dressed, I take her hand and lead her into our bedroom.
The space started out minimalistic and masculine—black sheets, military corners, one nightstand with nothing on it except a lamp and a gun safe.
Now the room breathes with her presence. The minimalism I designed has been colonized by her chaos.
And I haven't said a word about it.
We get in bed, and I pull Emmaleen to my chest.
We sigh.
She turns in my arms. Looks at me. Smiles.
His chapel echoes with my muffled moans,
But in each breath, your name remains unspoken?—
The secret prayer my conscience never owns.
Though I am bent and beautifully open,
My mind returns to you, a constant tide?—
Your presence is the vow I've never broken.
"Thank you," she whispers. "For gifting me Lorcan while you were away on business."
I nod, gently moving hair away from her eyes.
The sea glass shifts.
Settles.
I suddenly understand the feeling I've been having all morning.
"I'm going to marry you."
Emmaleen goes pink.
