Chapter 33 Darla
Darla
I wake up wrapped in a cocoon of warmth that feels foreign yet utterly right.
For the first time in what seems like forever, the weight pressing down on my chest isn’t anxiety, but a deep, boneless peace.
The cool sheets around me smell unmistakably like him—cedar and fresh linen—and his arm is a heavy, possessive weight around my waist, anchoring me against the solid warmth of his bare chest. The morning light filters through the blinds, casting striped shadows across the room, illuminating the chaos of last night’s clothes strewn across the floor.
I lie still for a long moment, just breathing, soaking in the rhythm of his steady heartbeat against my back.
Memories of last night flood my mind in a rush—a wave of electric sensations.
I remember the frantic, desperate claiming against the wall, the slow, reverent worship in his bed, the playful, teasing battle for dominance, and the final, soul-deep connection that left me breathless.
A hot blush creeps up my neck as I realize how exposed I feel, yet cherished all the same.
My throat is dry, and I know I need to move.
Carefully, I slide out from under his arm, my movements deliberate and quiet, hoping not to disturb him.
He murmurs a low, guttural sound in his sleep before rolling onto his back, remaining blissfully unaware.
I take a moment to just look at him—the way the light dances over the hard planes of his chest, the intricate ink that tells stories across his skin.
I spot one of his T-shirts crumpled on the floor and slip it on.
The fabric falls mid-thigh and envelops me in his scent.
I pad into the kitchen, my bare feet whispering against the cool wood floor, and open the fridge.
My hand closes around a bottle of cold water. I open the cap and take a long drink.
“Morning, princess.” His voice is deep and rough, cutting through the quiet like a knife.
I jump, spinning around, my heart leaping into my throat.
There he is, leaning against the doorway, shirtless, wearing nothing but a pair of low-slung boxers that cling to his hips, revealing the sharp V of his abdomen.
His hair is tousled, and his eyes are still heavy with sleep, but a slow, lazy smile spreads across his face as he watches me.
The awkwardness of the morning after our first kiss has vanished; this feels different. This is ours.
“You scared me,” I breathe, my hand instinctively pressed to my chest as my heart flutters like a trapped bird.
“Just admiring the view,” he replies, his voice low and gravelly, sending shivers racing down my spine. I place the water bottle on the counter.
He pushes off the doorframe and strides into the kitchen, his presence filling the space with an intoxicating blend of danger and comfort. I watch him approach; his confident stride draws my eyes. He stops just inches away, his hands finding my hips and pulling me closer.
“You know, you really should announce your presence next time,” I tease, tilting my head back to meet his gaze.
“Where’s the fun in that?” He leans down, capturing my mouth in a slow, hot kiss that tastes of sleep and the lingering promises from last night.
When he pulls back, he gestures toward the counter where the sugar jar sits, miraculously unscathed.
“Looks like you haven’t caused any more culinary terrorism this morning. ”
I can’t help but laugh, the sound bubbling up like a spark. “Oh, the day is still young. You have no idea what I’m capable of.”
His brow quirks, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. “I’m thinking you’re a bit of a culinary anarchist. What’s next? A pancake coup?”
I trail my fingers over his chest, feeling the steady, solid beat of his heart beneath my palms. “Pancake coup sounds like a delicious plan. But I think you secretly enjoyed my little kitchen escapade.”
He looks down at my hand, then back to my face, his eyes darkening with mischief. “Oh, you girls had your fun. You got us good. But the retaliation? It’s going to be a masterpiece. Psychological. Methodical. You won’t even see it coming until it’s too late.”
I raise an eyebrow, leaning back slightly, feigning innocence. “Is that a threat or a promise?”
“It’s a promise,” he growls, and before I can respond, his mouth is on mine again, deeper this time. The kiss speaks volumes. One that says you are mine, and I’m not letting go.
The real world intrudes with a jarring buzz from his phone on the counter, slicing through the intimate atmosphere like a cold blade. East pulls back with a reluctant sigh, his expression shifting as he snatches the device. A text from Malachi flashes on the screen—a single, stark word: Tonight.
Instantly, the warmth in his gaze evaporates, replaced by a focused intensity. The playful lover fades, giving way to the soldier. The war we’ve been avoiding is now at our doorstep. He looks at me, and I see the internal shift. The day is no longer just ours; it’s a countdown.
“Tonight,” he murmurs, his voice rough .
I just nod, my stomach clenching. “Tonight.”
A heavy silence settles between us, the weight of the coming night pressing down.
East is the one to break it. He sets his phone down, his decision made.
“Well,” he says, his voice deliberately lighter, “if we’re going to war tonight, we’re doing it on a full stomach.
” He turns to the fridge, pulling it open.
“How do you feel about omelets, princess?”
A small, grateful smile touches my lips. This man... the way he balances the darkness with this easy light. “Are you any good at it?”
“Am I good at it?” He scoffs, turning back with eggs in one hand and a block of cheese in the other, a look of pure, mock offense on his face. “I’ll have you know my omelets are legendary. Men have died trying to get the recipe.”
“Or from the recipe?” I tease. Hopping up to sit on the cool granite counter, my legs dangle and my T-shirt rides up my thighs.
“Hey,” he says, pointing a spatula at me as he passes, his eyes sparkling with a humor that wasn’t there yesterday. “You keep that up, and you’ll get the salty coffee again.”
A real, easy laugh escapes me. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Try me.” He moves around the kitchen with an easy, confident grace, and I just watch him.
The sight of this dangerous, powerful man, the Treasurer of the Outsiders, looking so devastatingly normal as he meticulously chops onions, makes my heart do a stupid, painful squeeze.
This is what I’ve wanted. This right here.
He’s all focus as he cooks, but he’s never far from me.
He walks past me to the spice rack, and his hand “accidentally” grazes my bare thigh in a casual, possessive touch that sends a jolt of heat straight to my core.
I do the same, my fingers tracing the ink on his bicep as he reaches for a bowl.
He stops, his muscles tensing under my touch.
He leans in and kisses me, slow and deep, his mouth warm and familiar.
The kiss is lazy, full of the sated, comfortable energy of the morning.
“You’re distracting me,” he murmurs against my lips.
“Am I?” I whisper back, my fingers sliding from his arm to his chest, tracing the hard planes.
“Yeah.” He kisses me again, harder this time, one hand coming up to cup the back of my neck. “Keep doing it.”
After we eat—and I have to admit, his omelets are legendary—a comfortable, lazy quiet settles over us. The day stretches out ahead, a precious, stolen resource, a bubble of peace before the inevitable pop. “Come on,” he says, taking my hand and pulling me into the living room. “We’ve got time.”
He pulls me onto the couch, settling back into the cushions and pulling me with him, so I’m half-sprawled across his lap.
He turns on the TV, some mindless sports channel, but he’s not watching it.
His attention is on me. His hand, which had been resting on my hip, moves again, his thumb tracing slow, lazy circles on my thigh, dangerously close to the hem of my T-shirt.
“You’re comfortable.” His voice is a low rumble.
“Mhmm,” I murmur, my head resting in the crook of his neck.
I can feel the solid, steady beat of his heart under my ear and smell his clean, cedar soap scent. I’m home. Needing to be closer, I shift. I lift my head and kiss the spot on his jaw he missed shaving. He groans, his hand tightening on my hip.
“You keep doing that,” he warns, his voice rough.
“Doing what?” I tease, my lips brushing the skin just below his ear.
“That.” He turns his head, capturing my mouth in a kiss that is anything but lazy. It’s deep, wet, and full of a slow-building, possessive hunger. The memory of last night, of his hands and mouth on my body, crashes back over me, and my pussy gives a heavy, demanding throb.
My breath hitches as I pull back. He’s watching me, his eyes dark with a desire that mirrors my own. I make a decision. I’m not just going to be wanted; I’m going to take.
I slide off his lap and stand up. His eyes follow me, confused. “Where are you going?” I just smile, a slow, predatory grin that I’m learning from him. Putting my hands on his shoulders, I push him back so he’s lying flat on the couch.
“What are you...?” he asks.
Silencing him, I straddle his lap, pinning him. “My turn,” I whisper.
“Fuck, Darla,” he rasps, his eyes black with lust.
I lean down, my mouth hovering inches from his. The air is thick with the scent of him, of our shared breath. “We’ve got all day, East. Let’s not waste it.”
His answer is a low growl, a primal sound that rumbles up from his chest and vibrates straight through me. He doesn’t need to be told twice. In one fluid, powerful motion, he tries to flip me, to take control, but I stop him, my palms flat against his chest, a silent, smiling challenge.
“I said, my turn,” I whisper.