I nodded. “I want everyone to know I’m yours. And I want to feel it, Beau. The bond. The closeness. I want to belong to you completely.”
He looked at me like I’d given him the world.
“You already do,” he said. “But I’d be honored, Sean. Truly.”
I tilted my head to the side, baring my neck, heart pounding in anticipation. He cupped my face with both hands, reverent, like I was something precious.
His lips brushed over the spot where my neck curved into my shoulder, slow and deliberate, soft as silk. Then he opened his mouth, and I felt the edge of his teeth against my skin.
The pressure built slowly, then sharply. There was heat, pain, then a rush of something deeper. Something primal and electric and right.
My wolf howled inside me, not in pain, but in joy.
I gasped and gripped his arms, letting it all wash over me. The pain, the pleasure, the heat of the bond forming between us.
When he pulled back, he licked the mark gently. Then he kissed it, sealing it. My heart was racing, my whole body humming. But I’d never felt so grounded.
“Mine,” he whispered, voice like gravel and honey.
“Yours,” I echoed, eyes fluttering open to meet his.
Chapter 22
Beau
One Year Later
The smellof warm honey glaze and toasted pecans hung in the air like a comfort blanket.
I stood behind the Bear and Bun stall, arms crossed, watching Sean arrange the display tray with practiced grace, fingers light and quick.
The morning sun hadn’t yet crested the hills, but a line was already forming at the edge of the cordoned-off vendor section.
Still, doubt curled in my gut.
I wiped my hands on my apron and leaned close to Sean. “What if no one shows up?”
Sean didn’t look up, just nudged a maple cruller into place. “You mean aside from the twenty-something people already in line?”
I huffed a breath through my nose. “Yeah. But what if they’re just lost?”
He finally glanced up and gave me that easy, lopsided smile that always managed to settle the hurricane inside me.
“Beau. We went viral last year. A food blogger posted a whole video about us. You remember that woman from LA who cried eating our honeycomb bars?”
I groaned. “I’m trying to forget.”
“Well, don’t. Because now tourists show up expecting to cry into their scones. And locals love us for the quiet mornings and the fact that Leo always sneaks kids a second cookie.”
I wanted to argue, to tell him that popularity was fickle and we might crash just as fast as we rose, but then I caught a glimpse of Rafael handing out menus and Cassian manning the oven with fire in his eyes.
Leo was already chatting up a family of four with a tray of samples, and Dorian was adjusting the sign Sean had hand-painted just last week.
Then I saw Sean again, his cheeks flushed from the baking heat, his smile soft and proud. And I believed him.
“Okay,” I murmured. “Maybe we’re doing alright.”
He leaned over and kissed my cheek. “We’re doing more than alright.”
