Like I’m dragging her out of the grave with my mouth. Like I’m pressing every vow into her lips, her teeth, her soul so there’s no mistaking what she just summoned.
My hand stays pressed over her heart. And I feel it hammering like a war drum now, wild, chaotic, alive.
Her hands clutch at my shoulders, unsure, but gripping. Not pulling away. Not anymore. She’s not falling apart; she’s falling into something.
When I pull back, our breath is ragged. Shared. Claimed. Synchronized like the prelude to violence. I rest my forehead to hers again, and this time, the words come softer, but not weaker.
“You called a monster.” I breathe. “And I answered.”
Then quieter, like a secret sealed in flesh: “You’re not alone anymore, Camille.”
I let it hang there, bare and brutal, not the kind of thing said in light. The kind of thing whispered in blood. “Every breath you take from this moment forward… is protected.”My fingers tighten just slightly on her chest, reminding her I’m still here, still real.
“Every night that you sleep without screaming?” A pause. “It’s because I silenced the thing that made you scream.”
She closes her eyes. Just for a second. But I don’t miss the shift.
The way her jaw sets a little harder. The way her fingers stop trembling. The way her spine starts remembering it has steel in it.
That’s not hope.
That’s alignment.
Camille
When I wake, everything is dark.
The room smells like him. Woodsmoke, cedar, soap, sex. I’m tucked under a heavy duvet, limbs tangled in something solid and hot and alive.
Kane.
One of his arms is wrapped beneath my neck, the other possessive around my waist. His thigh is hooked over mine, his chest against my back. I’m surrounded by him.
Owned.
I lie there for a long time, just breathing in his warmth, his scent, the steady rhythm of his sleeping body.
And then I move.
Slow. Careful.
I shift until I’m facing him, careful not to wake him. His face is softer in sleep. Less steel. More boy. Less predator.
My fingers trace his collarbone, his shoulder, the line of ink that cuts across his chest. I map him like a territory I’ve only walked at night…slow and reverent. My touch follows the script in Spanish inked along his ribs, down his side, over scars I don’t ask about. Not yet.
I kiss one.
Then another.
A slow press of my lips, like punctuation marks to a story only I’ve been allowed to read.
I keep going.
Slow, soft kisses press gently along his ribs, tracing the script inked permanently into his skin. Each scar, each tattoo, each carefully crafted line tells a story, and my mouth moves like I’m learning the language of him. Slowly. Carefully. Intimately.
His breath stays steady, but deepens, just a little.
He’s waking up. Gradually. Beautifully. Allowing me this quiet moment to explore him without interruption.
