Lucas rose slowly, licking her taste from his lips, eyes dark with hunger.
"I'm not done," he said.
"Good," she whispered, breathless. "Because I'm not either."
He swept her into his arms and carried her to the bed, laying her gently against the velvet pillows.
Then he stripped.
Each layer peeled off revealed another scar, another story. Her eyes roamed his chest, his stomach, the sharp lines of his hips.
"You're mine," she said.
He smiled, dark and possessive. "Say it again."
She rose to her knees on the bed, kissed his chest once—right over his heart—and whispered,
"You are mine, Lucas."
He growled and pushed her onto her back, sliding into her in one smooth, perfect motion.
They both gasped.
The bond screamed between them—heat flaring, souls locking.
And then they moved.
Together.
Hard, slow, punishing.
Every thrust a silent confession. Every kiss a broken vow sealed again.
