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Her baked goods in my kitchen.

Her scent everywhere.

It feels a lot like home.

And that is a fact.

I want Belinda with me because she is my home.

The image hits me so hard my chest aches. I want that. Goddess, Devil, Fates—whatever the fuck is listening—I want all of it. All of her.

But I don't say it.

Not tonight.

Tonight, Belinda gets to decide what she's giving me. Her fingers curl around mine.

“Then take me there.”

My pulse kicks. She leans closer.

“Take me, Damian, now.”

Fuck.

I search her face. Even with the bond humming between us, I need her eyes. Need to see the choice there.

She's smiling.

Warm.

Certain.

Wanting.

And when my thumb brushes across her knuckles, she turns her hand and deliberately threads her fingers through mine.

She chooses this.

She chooses me.

Maybe only for tonight. Maybe tomorrow she'll wake up and need space again.

I don't fucking know.

And I refuse to build a lifetime out of one invitation just because I desperately want one.

“Anything my promised wants,” I growl.

Something flickers across her expression. My stomach tightens.

Too much? But then she moves closer instead of away.

Her free hand slides up my chest.

“I think I'm starting to like it when you call me that.”

Every possessive instinct inside me surges.