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Not hard enough to draw blood—yet. Just enough to catch his bottom lip between my teeth and hear the low sound it drags out of him.

His hand tightens at my waist. “Careful, darling.”

“No,” I say, pulling back just far enough to look at him. “I’m done being careful.”

Something in his expression shifts. Heat, yes. Hunger, definitely. But underneath both of those is the thing that ruins me completely.

Relief.

Like he’s been standing at the edge of this moment for two years, waiting for me to open the door.

I take his hand and press the ring into his palm.

“If you’re going to do this,” I say, my voice rougher than I mean it to be, “do it properly.”

His eyes darken.

For the first time since I’ve known him, Nash Cross looks a little unsteady.

Good.

I like him that way.

He lifts my hand between us and slides the ring onto my finger. It fits, which is either a cosmic joke or proof that Echo has been involved in this longer than anyone should be comfortable with.

There’s something preternatural about that damned raccoon.

The diamond catches the city lights from the window and throws them back at us in small fractured sparks.

Nash bends and kisses my knuckles. Once. Twice.

Then the inside of my wrist.

My pulse jumps under his mouth.

“I love you,” he says against my skin.

“I know.”

His eyes flick up.

I shrug with one shoulder because the other is useless and wrapped and currently reminding me that fighting a witch with a hex blade was a bad life choice. “You’ve been kind of obvious.”

His mouth curves. “Have I?”

“Painfully.”

“Good.”

Then he kisses the center of my palm, and the teasing in me falls quiet.

The bond hums.

Not loud. Not demanding. Not dragging me anywhere.

Just there.

A living thread between us. Warm and steady and terrifyingly certain.