Chapter 34 Painfully Adorable
Chapter Thirty Four
Painfully Adorable
— Grayson —
We have a saying among vampires: “The sun casts no shadow the moon hasn’t yet embraced.”
It’s a hollow maxim, a self-deception we wear like armor, pretending we’re beyond the mess and novelty of mortal emotions. It’s what we murmur when the spark of life dulls, when eternity’s weight feels heavier than its promise—as if we’ve siphoned every drop of wonder from existence and returned empty-handed.
It’s also a lie . A story we whisper to numb the ache of endlessness.
Because the truth—the painful, beautiful truth—is that the possibility of something new is what keeps the shadows from swallowing us whole. I release a slow breath, clearing space in my mind for the possibility of something new.
Tomas is barely past thirty—a pup, by nearly any measure. But his judgment is steady and seasoned, a predator’s patience tempered by human resolve. Dominance hums through him with an authority so intrinsic it flows with each breath. But there’s something else there, too—a connection I’m hesitant to define. It’s not rooted in his power, nor even in what Sunday means to us, but in what he has grown to mean to me.
It’s not just about dominance and submission. Not tonight. Not with him. I’ve spent centuries mastering the dance of control, learning every nuance of power dynamics. But all that knowledge feels irrelevant in the face of this pull toward him.
It’s time to stop pretending. Pretending is what landed me in Elba. Pretending is how Vivien was taken from me, how I lost Lys, and how I almost lost my Little Cat.
My monster snarls, recoiling at the reminder of how close we came to losing everything—how thin the thread was that kept Sunday in my world. He bristles at the thought of bowing to the wolf, of allowing anyone dominion over us. Yet the part of me worn ragged by endless vigilance, whispers that this is different. That he is different. Maybe this isn’t weakness at all. Maybe it’s the beginning of something profound, something worth changing our rules for.
Tomas’ dominance isn’t a threat; it’s a refuge—a rare chance to surrender, to trust someone strong enough to bear the weight I’ve carried alone for far too long.
I remind myself that dominance isn’t measured in centuries. It’s measured by how one wields authority—by how they cherish their partners, honor their bonds, and nurture that trust.
And so, I’ll let him take the reins. I’ll allow myself the uncomfortable, yet thrilling , vulnerability of being guided—of stepping into unfamiliar shadows and welcoming what waits within them.
Sunday settles beside me on the couch. Her spine is rigid, her shoulders knotted with tension. She doesn’t lean into me, doesn’t seek the comfort of my hand. Instead, her teeth worry at her lower lip, that soft pink flesh caught between porcelain edges.
I lift a hand to free that abused bit of flesh, then stop myself. Don’t touch someone else’s sub —a rule etched into me by centuries of discipline in the shadows of dungeons and desire. I know this dance, these boundaries. It doesn’t matter that we’re bonded or that my blood runs through her veins like a second heartbeat. In this moment, she’s Tomas’ to guide.
The Alpha lowers himself onto the loveseat opposite us. The furniture seems too small for him, his presence stretching beyond its edges. He leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, and begins unbuttoning the cuffs of his chambray shirt. The slow reveal of his forearms—a deliberate gesture of preparation—snags my attention. I search for a trace of my bite, even though I know it’s long healed. My monster stirs, a possessive growl rumbling from the depths of my mind.
I send him an image of Sunday bent over the Alpha’s knee, his palm descending in controlled, measured strikes. My monster shoots me an indignant scowl before slinking back into the shadows of my thoughts. Not gone—just brooding. Making peace with the idea of what’s to come.
Tomas’ dark eyes pin me in place. “Sunday tells me you’d like to observe her punishment.”
“I would,” I say, voice steady even as my pulse betrays me.
“As a rule, I wouldn’t allow that. She needs to focus on the scene, on me—not on managing your reactions. She’s already upset and this will be… difficult.” Tomas leans back slightly, his shoulders rolling as if settling deeper into his role. “Convince me you’ll make this better for her, and you can stay.”
He’s asking for more than justification; he’s asking if I can stay and watch while he punishes my fully bonded mate—with my instincts screaming to protect her, can I let him take the lead.
He wants to know if I can trust him not just with her body, but with her heart—and with mine.
It’s a test of faith, of restraint, of whether I can surrender control without unraveling. This isn’t just about discipline; it’s about reinforcing the bonds between us. It’s about proving that trust runs deeper than instinct, that connection outlasts pride. I gather my thoughts, corralling the chaos into order.
“She needs to know that my care for her doesn’t falter, even in moments of correction. That I trust you with her, and that we stand as a united front—that her dominants are aligned in celebrating her achievements and administering corrections when they’re warranted.”
His expression shifts as he weighs the value of a united front.
Sensing a thawing in his resolve, I press on “I also want her to understand that nothing about my love for her, or our bond, is diminished by what she needs from you.”
Sunday releases a shuddering breath beside me, and Tomas catches it. He studies her for a moment, evaluating her emotional state. Then he nods—the slightest tilt of his head—an Alpha’s concession.
“Very well,” he rumbles, “you can stay. But if I sense you’re becoming a distraction, you will leave.” His gaze pins me in place. “Understood?”
I incline my head, “Understood.”
His focus shifts back to Sunday, the weight of his care settling over her like a protective cloak.
“Then let’s begin.” Tomas’ voice drops into that steady, commanding register that leaves no room for doubt. “First, remove your clothing to whatever level you’re comfortable with.”
Her breath hitches, and I feel a pulse of hesitation through our bond. But beneath that, anticipation simmers—dark and sweet, laced with a hint of desire that blooms like the memory of warmed honey on my tongue.
She stands, her hands drifting to the hem of her dress, fingers trembling as she lifts it over her head. The colorful cotton pools at her feet.
Cool air kisses her skin, raising goosebumps along her arms and thighs. With a graceful twist, she steps out of her panties, then reaches between her breasts to unclasp her bra. The garment slips away with a shimmy of her shoulders, leaving her bare.
She gathers the pieces of clothing, folding them carefully and placing them on a nearby shelf—tucking away her defenses, piece by piece.
A blush spreads down her cheeks and neck, but she doesn’t hide. Her shoulders straighten, her chin lifts, and she stands, vulnerable yet determined. She meets Tomas’ gaze, awaiting his command.
His eyes sweep over her—slowly. There’s no cruelty, only unyielding focus. He takes in every detail, acknowledging her bravery and trust.
“Now,” he says, his voice a low rumble, “assume Apology.”
She lowers herself to the floor in a single fluid movement. “Knees apart. Feet straight. Ankles uncrossed.”
She adjusts, spreading her thighs wide, the position leaving her open, laid bare in every possible way. The room stills—nothing exists but her quiet resilience and the steady power of his guidance.
“Bow forward,” Tomas continues. “I want your chest low, your back arched. Let your forehead kiss the floor.”
Sunday obeys, folding herself down until her chest brushes the cheery rug and her forehead rests against the cool floorboards. Her arms extend in front of her, palms flat, fingers splayed. The curve of her spine leaves her buttocks high, the blush of her submission painting her skin.
My breath catches again, not just in appreciation of her beauty, but of the trust she places in him. In us. Her calm resolve humbles me, a reminder that vulnerability takes a kind of courage I’ve rarely let myself embrace.
“Eyes closed,” he says softly. “Stay exactly like that.”
Tomas rises to his feet. He circles her, gaze sharp, cataloging every detail of her surrender.
“Very good, Trouble,” he murmurs. “Stay in this position until I say otherwise.”
He pauses in front of her, then looks up at me.
“Text the others,” he directs, his tone firm. “Explain what they might feel from her in the next hour.”
My monster snaps its teeth at the audacity of the command. But it’s a reasonable precaution. Our bonds are taut, ready to snap at the first tremor of distress. If we don’t reassure them, they’ll come crashing in, all claws and fury.
I nod once and pull out my phone, fingers hovering before I type.
Gray
Sunday has earned a punishment. All consensual. No need to storm the gates.
Ben
From you? My animal is about two seconds away from making us fly there.
Gray
Not me.
Little Cat
Ooh, a spanking from the Alpha. Lucky…
A smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth. I file away the thought that my darling little Shadow might enjoy a spanking in the future—the only question is, from me or Tomas. The idea simmers, a tantalizing possibility for another day.
For now, I force my focus back to where it belongs: on my bonded, prostrate on the floor, still as a windless lake. Pride bubbles up, sinking then rising, a constant effervescence beneath the surface. Of course, she’s a perfect submissive.
Tomas steps closer, his gaze steady—his voice measured.
“Sunday, confess your misbehavior.”
Her breath shudders slightly before she speaks, the words carefully measured. “I left without a guard. I put myself in danger. I ignored messages from my mates.”
Tomas nods. “And what do you need to do now?”
Her fingers press into the floor, the tips blanching. “Apologize and accept my punishment.”
“Offer your apology,” Tomas says, each word deliberate, a thread stitching the moment together.
“I’m sorry for my reckless behavior. I betrayed your trust, and I’m ready to make it right.”
A heartbeat of silence stretches between them.
“And are you prepared to receive your punishment?” Tomas’ voice is a steady rumble, his authority undeniable.
“I am, Alpha.”
“Now, I want to be clear about this,” his tone softens but loses none of its gravity. “I will not forgive you faster if you’re too stubborn to safe-word. Pushing yourself beyond your limits won’t heal anything between us. It will only upset all your bonds—and hurt me more than any of us.” The words land with a heavy thud of truth. “I’m trusting you to tell me if it’s too much.”
Silence stretches between them. Sunday swallows hard, her eyes still lowered. She straightens slightly, her hands pressing into the floor, lowering herself more.
“I promise. I won’t violate your trust again, Alpha.”
“Good. We’ll use the stoplight system. Tell me what your colors mean.”
Her voice is soft but sure. “Red means stop. Yellow means pause and check in. Green means everything is okay.”
His eyes search her face, seeking any flicker of doubt, any shadow of fear that needs soothing. Finding none, he nods. “We’ll begin with five warm-up strikes.”
Tomas rises to his feet fluidly, the shift catching Sunday off guard. Her eyes widen, confusion displacing her resolve as she watches him stand.
She hesitates, then rises, hands pressing into the floor for balance, muscles stiff from the prolonged stretch in apology. As she straightens, her gaze drifts, the pull of instinct and habit clear through the bond.
He shakes his head, a soft, knowing laugh escaping him. “Not my lap, Trouble. Not tonight.” His voice is almost rueful; this won’t be fun for either of them.
Tomas lifts a hand, gesturing to the sofa, his voice all velvet command. “Bend over the arm of the sofa, please. Hands clasped behind your back.”
His gaze softens, but his voice remains firm, a thread of warning woven through his next words. “And if you come without permission… you’ll be very sore indeed.”
She hesitates only a heartbeat before moving into position. The curve of the sofa supports her hips, arching her back into a perfect display of vulnerability. Her hands come together, fingers lacing tight, the motion both grounding her and exposing her further.
Tomas steps closer. His gaze sweeps over her, cataloging every trembling breath, every line of her body offered up to his discipline.
“Good.” he murmurs, “Stay exactly like that.”
I feel Sunday begin to slip away from me as she takes her position. Or perhaps ‘slip away’ is too broad. It’s more like she’s sinking into Tomas’ care, her anxiety unwinding, thread by thread when it should be at its tightest.
The bond hums with her shifting emotions, and I feel it all—the nervous flutter in her chest, the tremor of almost giddy anticipation beneath her skin. Just as Tomas raises his hand, her entire being softens, like a sigh exhaled into the safety he offers.
And here I stand, on the periphery. Fully bonded as we are, I could choose to experience every strike as she does. I could blur the edges of her pain, taking on some of it for myself, or mute it entirely. The power sits there, ready to be wielded—a whispered temptation that slithers around my resolve, daring me to reach for it.
But I would never disrespect her trust in Tomas’ guidance or undermine his authority. This is their moment, their dance of correction and care. To steal even an ounce of her pain would diminish the lesson she’s chosen to accept.
The first strike lands with a sharp crack, slicing through the air like a whip. My monster surges forward, fangs scraping the edges of my mind, a snarl locked behind my teeth. Pain isn’t my preferred language. I don’t enjoy doling it out or receiving it.
It prickles under my skin, and makes my fingers curl into fists so tight they ache.
Her breath whooshes out on impact, her body jolting forward, the graceful curve of her spine momentarily disrupted. Her legs twitch, a fleeting dance of reflexive motion, but her arms remain clasped behind her back—a testament to her resolve.
She swallows, I hear her heartbeat kicking into a canter and then she blurts out, “One, thank you, Alpha.”
The bond trembles, a delicate thread vibrating with her effort to shield us all from the onslaught of sensation. Eyes narrowed, my monster inspects it, wary, measuring every ripple of sensation flowing between us. He’s willing to tolerate her discomfort, to let her endure what she must. But the instant that discomfort tips into distress, the moment her composure cracks or fear clouds her resolve, he’ll shatter my composure in turn.
Her breath steadies, a surprising calm unfurling within her. Tension seeps from her limbs, the edges of her anxiety smoothing out as if surrendering to this moment offers her solace rather than fear. My monster settles back, eyes glinting with begrudging patience, baffled by how vulnerability seems to ground her when it should undo her.
Tomas’ hand rises again, his control absolute. The air thickens, every heartbeat stretching into an eternity. Tomas’ hand hovers, deliberately, as though measuring the weight of the next lesson.
The second crack splits the silence.
Her body absorbs it, and her voice comes quicker this time. “Two, thank you, Alpha.”
By the fifth strike, her skin blossoms into a deep crimson, a rich red spreading across her cheeks like the blush of ripe apples. Her body trembles. Yet her arms stay locked behind her back, her submission unbroken.
Tomas’ hand falls, and the sharp crack of the strike vibrates through the air. Sunday’s breath shudders out, and the scent of her tears threads through the room, twisting something tight in my chest.
The scent is impossibly sweet, a crystalline note of pure sugar making me needy. It rises above Tomas’ musky satisfaction, wrapping around me and burrowing deep into the bond.
She’s not drifting into bliss; she’s enduring. Each strike is a drop of penance, a step deeper into surrender, and her body feels every inch of the journey. Her tears are the evidence—raw, delicate, beautiful in their fragility and potent.
It’s a fuck or fight feeling and it’s hitting both of us.
My phone buzzes against my thigh, the soft vibration jarring against the charged stillness of the room. I glance at the screen.
Little Cat
I hate this. But also… she’s probably being really cute right now, isn’t she?
Gray
Painfully cute. And yeah, emphasis on painful.
Ben
You’re both awful. Let me know when it’s over. I’ll be ready with cuddles and snacks.
Little Cat
Same. And if Tomas breaks her, I’m breaking him.
Gray
Relax, he’s being careful. But yeah… she’s beautiful, even when she’s apologizing through her tears.
I tense but don’t jump at the sound of another swat. Sunday’s soft voice rises. “Six, thank you, Alpha.” She’s doing well and Tomas isn’t allowing his obvious affection for her to soften this lesson. He’s a good Dom.
I slip the phone back into my pocket, my eyes fixed on her trembling form. Her head is turned to the side, silvery tracks glistening on her cheeks, eyes squeezed shut.
The tenth strike lands. Her voice trembles. “Green, Alpha.” The words are wet, breaking on a soft hitch, like she’s barely holding herself together.
She doesn’t say “Ten, thank you, Alpha.” Just “Green.” Words, torn from somewhere deep inside her. It’s all she can manage. I know how far under she must be, how words feel foreign when you’re that deep. It’s why Tomas makes her to count—to keep her from slipping away, to force her to stay in this moment.
He waits a beat, his eyes scanning every trembling inch of her. Will he stop the scene? Gods forbid, will he start over?
Instead, he rests a hand on her lower back. “Thank you for checking in.” His touch is firm, pulling her back into her body. “Are you ready to continue?”
Tomas knows exactly where she is. The warmth of his hand grounds her, brushing the frayed edges of her resolve.
“Yes, Alpha.”
The strikes continue, each one landing with precision. By the time Tomas reaches fourteen, Sunday is sobbing—soft, jerky hiccups shake her frame. The sharp edge of pain has likely dulled—her ass numb by now—but the tears still fall in a relentless deluge.
She isn’t crying from pain anymore. This is something deeper, rawer. A dam breaking inside her. Her feelings are too tangled to contain, spilling out in ragged gasps and broken sobs.
Tomas pauses, his hand hovering, eyes assessing her trembling form with a calm that feels like solid ground beneath a crashing wave. “Your color?”
She shudders, the sobs thickening her voice, but her answer is clear. “Green, Alpha.”
Even through this storm of emotion, she’s anchored, held by the structure of his dominance. It’s not the physical pain unraveling her; it’s the release. The shedding of guilt. The catharsis of letting go.
My monster growls low, uneasy at the sight of her anguish. His claws flex, testing the edges of my restraint, but I hold firm. This is what she needs. Tomas knows it. I know it. And instinctively, we understand that Sunday knows it too.
The Alpha’s gaze softens just a fraction. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t soothe. He lets her cry, lets the storm surge through her, unimpeded. His hand remains steady, his presence unshakable—he’s the eye of the hurricane she’s been lost to.
We’re all here with her—waiting and holding ourselves together. And when it’s over, we’ll pull her back into warmth, into safety—cuddles, snacks, and all.
Fifteen lands and her ass is a riot of red, mottling into deeper hues that promise lasting marks. My monster roars beneath my skin with a visceral surge of protectiveness. A possessive certainty settles over me—I’ll be rubbing my blood into that bruised skin later, healing what’s mine. But my monster wants to tend to her now .
“I’m okay,” she calls out, breathless. “Relax, darlin’.” She’s comforting me, even as she shudders with pain.
Tomas stills. The quiet sharpens, the air thickening with unspoken correction. His fingers curl as he stares down at her.
“Sunday,” he says, each word deliberate, “who are you here with right now?”
She swallows, sensing her error. “You, Alpha.”
“And where should your attention be?”
“On you, Alpha,” she whispers.
His gaze hardens, but not unkindly. “Eyes closed. Mind on me. Nothing else exists.”
Her hands tighten behind her back, her shoulders roll back. “Yes, Alpha.”
He raises his hand once more, and the air crackles with what he hasn’t said. This isn’t just about correcting her behavior—it’s about disciplining her mind, honing her focus. He’s perfecting her submission.
His hand comes down, and her legs tremble. She doesn’t breathe for almost a full minute—I know, because I’m counting the seconds—then she bursts into another round of sobs. I can’t help but examine our bond. She’s trying so hard to limit what I can feel, but we’re fully bonded now, and the connection is irrevocable.
I exhale slowly, forcing the tension from my shoulders. My phone sits silent now, forgotten. There’s nothing left to distract me.
Only her sobs, his unwavering patience, and the certainty that sometimes, breaking apart is the only way to become whole again.
The sixteenth strike lands, sharp and precise, a punctuation mark in the heavy silence of the room. Sunday’s body jolts, her breath coming out in a broken gasp. Her body trembles, fine tremors running through her limbs like a live current.
Tomas pauses, the edge of his control slipping just enough to let a glimpse of tenderness seep through. His hands come down gently, rubbing slow, soothing circles over her scorching flesh.
He leans in, his voice a low murmur. “Breathe, sweetheart. Slow and deep.”
She inhales shakily, her breath catching as his hands continue their path. His fingers brush over the marks—a silent check-in, cataloging color and heat, offering reassurance. They slide down to her wrist, thumb pressing lightly over her pulse. I can hear it, feel it like it’s my own. Steady. Strong.
His wolf is in his gaze, watchful and patient. “Are you cold?”
Her head shakes, she whispers, “No, Alpha.”
“Your color?”
She swallows, the tremors stilling just enough to speak. “Green, Alpha.”
Tomas straightens, authority sliding back into place like a mantle. He raises his hand, his eyes flicking over her one last time.
The seventeenth strike falls.
Her voice quivers but rises clear. “Seventeen, thank you, Alpha.”
The final three strikes fall, the sound cracking through the room like a whip. No pause, no space for words. Each lands with force—not cruel, but far from gentle. He targets the untouched parts of her skin, his control precise.
As the twentieth strike lands, the tension inside me snaps like an overstretched wire finally breaking.
Before the echo fades, Tomas is lifting her. She melts into his arms, trembling—boneless and spent, an exhausted but trusting rag-doll.
He settles her across his lap, his hands gliding over her back, his lips brushing her hairline. The room hums with the fragile rhythm of her breath, her pulse fluttering beneath delicate mottled skin.
I want to reach for her. To spirit her away into the dark, to pull the pain out of her, to erase the throbbing still lingering on her flesh.
Then his eyes meet mine. “Grayson, come here.”
I stumble forward, my gaze fixed on the brutal bloom of red across her skin, edges already darkening with bruise-deep hues. My monster is desperate to heal her, to pour myself into her and erase the evidence.
“Can I heal her?” My voice is tight, ragged, my monster warping my vocal cords.
Tomas nods, his jaw clenched. But before I can bite into my wrist, a small, fragile sound escapes her—a whimper of disagreement.
“No,” she breathes, barely audible. “I’m okay. I want to heal naturally.”
I freeze, fangs at my wrist. The instinct to protect burns through me, the urge to coat her in my blood and erase every mark screaming for release.
Tomas voices the question I can’t. “Why?”
Her eyes flutter open, glazed but determined. “Because I want to remember. So I won’t fuck up again.”
She’s stronger than I give her credit for—stronger than my monster can bear.
Tomas’ voice softens, dominance fading into pure care. “Sweetheart, no . The punishment is over. Now we heal you and make you comfortable.”
His hands cradle her face, thumbs brushing away her tears, his eyes steady but bleeding gold. Her body may ache, but she’s not alone. We’re here, ready to carry her through the aftermath.
I drop to my knees beside them, fingers threaded with hers. “Let us take care of you now,” I whisper. She nods, finally letting go. As Tomas holds her and I prepare to heal her, the storm inside me quiets.
Without a word, I lift my wrist, fangs parting skin. The sharp tang of blood coats my tongue. I let it well up before pressing my wrist to her marks, my thumb spreading the blood with reverent care. I give thanks to Nyx for the power humming through it.
Her skin drinks it in, bruises fading, heat dissipating. The crimson ebbs away like twilight surrendering to night, leaving smooth, perfect flesh.
She shivers, a sigh slipping from her lips. “Thank you, Gray.”
I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, my fingers lingering on her cheek. “Rest now, Lover. You’ve earned it.”
Tomas’ eyes meet mine, a silent question followed by an answer exchanged in glances. I take a seat beside them and he shifts Sunday gently, guiding her into my arms. Her weight settles against me, warm and pliant, her breath a soft flutter against my neck. I cradle her close, grounding us both as the bond between us swells—a joyous, frothing sea of relief.
“I’ll get some water,” he says, voice low and steady. “Give you two a moment.”
I brush a tear-damp strand of hair away from her cheek, my fingers lingering on her soft skin. Her eyes flutter open, glazed with mental and physical exhaustion but holding that spark of stubborn resolve I love so fiercely.
The tears have left her eyes reddened and swollen, but the color… the color steals my breath. I’ve never seen them this intensely green before, the grayish hue of her irises now almost entirely overtaken by a lush, vibrant green that pulls me in, sharp and captivating. It’s as if her emotions have bled into them, mirroring her growth—spring green, full of possibility.
She feels different now. Lighter. As though the guilt and anxiety she carried in with her have been stripped away, leaving only bone-deep peace in their place. If I let her go, she might drift away on a sigh.
“I hate seeing you hurt,” I murmur, my voice rough. “But I’ve never been prouder of you. You’re so much stronger than I give you credit for.” I let out a slow breath, the truth settling heavily on my chest. “And I’m sorry if I ever made you feel otherwise.”
Her lip trembles, a tear slipping free, and I catch it with my thumb, pop it in my mouth. Her face breaks into a radiant smile. Her fingers curl around mine, shaky but sure. “You didn’t, Gray. I know you see me.”
The tightness in my throat makes it difficult to speak, but I push on. “Always.”
I lean down, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. “Rest now, Lover. I’ve got you.”
Her eyes drift closed, her body feather-light, our bond weightless with inner-peace.
Tomas returns with a basin of warm, soapy water and a soft cloth. The scent of lavender curls through the air. Kneeling before us, he dips the cloth into the water, his voice low and soothing.
“Let’s get you cleaned up, Princess. Turn over for me.”
With a soft sigh, Sunday shifts in my arms. Her body is languid, trusting, as she pushes up slightly and rolls onto her stomach across my lap. Her cheek rests against my thigh, and her arms tuck beneath her, quiet vulnerability in every movement.
Tomas swipes the cloth gently over her skin, wiping away the remnants of my blood. The smooth pink flesh beneath is revealed, unmarred and new. He huffs a soft laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
“Gray, I think you just knocked ten years off her ass.”
I snort, the sound surprising me. “Well, she is timeless. Might as well look the part.”
Sunday giggles and the weight of the past hour lifts, replaced by a warmth that seeps into every corner of the room.
Tomas presses a kiss to her temple, his voice a soft murmur. “You’re perfect.”
I squeeze her hand, leaning in close. “And you’re loved.”