Chapter 31
Roxy
Idon’t remember walking into Mak’s private quarters.
I remember the moment my knees finally gave out, the instant my body understood the danger was over and the adrenaline has nowhere left to go.
One second I’m upright, clinging to him because my legs refuse to work without his permission, and the next I’m folding into his chest with a sound I don’t recognize as my own.
Makari catches me without effort. His arms close around me, one hand braced between my shoulder blades, the other cupping the back of my head, pressing my face into the hard plane of his chest as if he can physically hold me together.
I shake violently; the tremors rip through me now that I don’t have to be strong anymore, and I hate how small it makes me feel even as I cling to him like he’s the only solid thing left in the world.
“Easy,” he murmurs, his voice low and steady against my hair. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
I nod because words feel impossible. My throat burns, and my chest aches, and my eyes won’t stop spilling over.
He stays exactly where he is, unmoving and solid, letting me cry it out against him without asking for anything in return.
The room is dim, the early morning light just beginning to edge its way through the windows, and the quiet is profound in a way that feels almost sacred.
Eventually, the shaking eases. My breathing evens out. The world stops tilting. But I can still smell the iron scent of blood on both of us, and dirt.
Makari tilts his head down, his lips brushing my temple in a gesture so gentle it nearly makes my knees shake. “Let me take care of you,” he says softly.
What more could he possibly do for me than what he’s already done?
I pull back just enough to look at him, really look at him, and the sight steals what little breath I’ve recovered.
He’s bruised and scraped, dried blood dark against his skin, a cut blooming angry and red along his jawline.
One of his eyes is rimmed with shadow. He looks like a man who walked through hell and came back carrying pieces of it with him.
But he won against whatever he found there.
“You’re hurt,” I say, my voice rough with tears. I reach up without thinking, my fingers hovering near his face before touching down lightly against his cheek. He stills at the contact, his nostrils flaring as my thumb brushes the cut at his jaw.
“So are you,” he replies, his gaze dropping to my face. His fingers come up, careful as if I might shatter, tracing the line of my chin where I can feel there’s already a bruise forming. The skin there throbs with warmth, as my right knee and hip. His jaw tightens. “He touched you.”
His fury is somehow both terrifying and comforting.
“I’m okay,” I say, though it feels inadequate. “I’m here.”
“That’s the only thing that matters,” he says.
Makari doesn’t ask. He simply begins to undress me, his movements deliberate and gentle, as if he’s unwrapping a gift instead of peeling dirt and fear-soaked clothes from my body.
I help where I can, my hands clumsy and tired, until we’re both standing there stripped down to skin and scars and exhaustion.
He studies me with an intensity that makes my pulse quicken, his eyes tracking every bruise, every mark, his hands following his gaze as if committing me to memory all over again. When his fingers skim the tender places, I hiss softly, and he immediately stills.
“Tell me if it hurts,” he whispers.
“It all hurts,” I admit, trying to smile through it. “But I don’t want you to stop.”
Something softens in his expression. He takes my hand and leads me toward the bathroom, turning on the shower and testing the water before guiding me under it.
I stand with my head bowed, water spraying off my shoulders and neck, as he undresses skillfully just outside the glass doors.
It’s as if he’s done this a thousand times; scrubbed blood and dirt off before washing himself clean.
Maybe he has. And then with a careful step, he’s next to me.
The warmth cascades over us, steam rising, washing away the last clinging traces of terror.
He cleans me like it’s a ritual. His hands are steady, his touch reverent, and when I lean into him he adjusts without comment, bracing me, supporting my weight as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Despite the exhaustion and heavy eyelids, I feel balanced.
The way a magnet does when it meets its mate.
I return the care where I can, my fingers mapping the bruises on his ribs, the scrape along his shoulder, the places where he sucks in a sharp breath despite himself.
“You scare me,” I whisper, pressing my forehead to his chest as the water beats down around us.
His arms come around me immediately. “I know.”
“I don’t mean because you’re dangerous,” I blurt. “I mean, because I could lose you.”
He goes very still.
The words seem to hang between us, heavy and fragile, and for a moment I’m afraid I’ve said too much, that I’ve cracked something open he’s been carefully keeping sealed. Then, his chin rests against the top of my head, his breath warm against my hair.
“I almost lost you,” he says quietly. “That’s the only thing I can’t survive.”
The admission has me pulling back enough to look at him, my hands sliding up his arms, my heart pounding. “Mak.”
“Yes,” he says, his voice low, intent.
“I love you.”
The words feel inevitable, like they’ve been waiting for the right moment to surface, and now that they’re out I don’t regret them for a second.
His breath catches audibly. His eyes search my face like he’s looking for the truth of it written there, and whatever he sees makes his expression shift into something raw and unguarded.
“I love you too,” he says, the words rough. Finally, some emotion shows through the walls he’s built up over years of violence.
We come together without urgency, without desperation, kissing slowly beneath the spray of the shower, tasting sweat and water and relief. When he lifts me into his arms, carrying me back toward the bedroom, I cling to him not because I’m afraid of falling but because I don’t want to let go.
The bed is enormous, all crisp sheets and dark wood and quiet luxury. He hasn’t slept here in two nights, I realize. The first night he spent in the bunks with the men, planning. Last night he was out in the woods, waging war.
The sight of the clean sheets makes something flutter low in my belly. This is the first time we’ve been here together like this, and the weight of that settles over me as he lays me down and follows, bracing himself above me with exquisite care.
“We don’t have to,” he says, his forehead resting against mine. “Not if—”
“I want to,” I tell him, my hands sliding up his back, feeling the strength there, the warmth. “I want you.”
He kisses me slow and thoroughly, his body fitting to mine with a tenderness that makes my chest ache.
We stay like that for a long time—just like that.
Hands searching carefully, smoothing over bruises, little puffs of caught breath when something aches or hurts.
Somewhere in the haze of it all, I lose myself, open myself to him.
When Mak finally moves inside me, it’s careful, controlled, every inch deliberate, and the sensation pulls a soft cry from my throat despite the soreness.
“Too much?” He asks immediately, going still.
I shake my head, my fingers digging into his shoulders. “It’s perfect.”
The sun is rising fully now, light spilling across the room and painting his skin in gold as we move together in a slow, intimate rhythm. There’s no rush, no hunger born of anger or temptation, only connection—only the quiet certainty of being chosen and choosing back.
Afterward, we lie tangled together, my head on his chest, his arm heavy and warm around my shoulders. The world feels impossibly far away, reduced to the steady beat of his heart beneath my ear and the soft play of light across the sheets.
“Mak,” I murmur, tracing idle patterns over his skin and the scars there. Many more will be added after last night.
“Yes.”
“I saw the letter,” I say quietly. “The one you wrote to Andi.”
He goes utterly still. I can feel him holding his breath, can feel the tension coil beneath my palm.
“I love you,” I repeat softly, lifting my head just enough to look at him. “She’ll love you, too. If you want to be involved.”
For a long moment, he doesn’t move. Then he exhales, slow and deep, and pulls me closer, pressing his lips to my hair.
“I couldn’t stop myself from loving her,” he murmurs. “From loving you both.”