Chapter 31
Royal
The moment my tongue leaves her skin, everything in me collapses.
For one suspended second, I’m still inside the rush of it, her taste, the heat of her pussy pressed against my fingers, the sound she made when I carved my initial into her back. That raw, broken whimper that burrowed straight into the darkest part of me.
Then Becki sways.
Just a little.
Barely a step.
But it snaps me out of the spell like a punch to the throat.
“Becki.”
My voice comes out low and torn, not dangerous anymore, shaken.
She blinks slow, breath shallow, hands gripping the bed like she needs help staying upright. The adrenaline is still running through both of us, too sharp, too thick. The wound is fresh and clean but bleeding more than I like.
Fuck.
I step in front of her fast, hands catching her arms, steadying her before she can sink to her knees. Her skin is hot. Her pulse is wild under my hands.
“Easy.” My voice is rough. “You’re good. You’re fine. Come here.”
I guide her down to sit, lowering her carefully like she’s something fragile. Like I didn’t just carve my name into her body.
My long hair sticks to her damp cheek. I brush it away before my brain can stop my hand. She leans into my palm in a way that kills me.
Christ. What the hell did I just do.
She looks up at me, like she’s surprised. “Royal…”
I shake my head once, hard, like I need to jump-start my own sanity.
“Don’t talk yet.” My hand trembles when I tuck another strand of hair behind her ear. “Just breathe.”
She does as I say.
For once.
But her breath is still uneven, shallow little pulls that match the shivers running through her.
Shock.
Not fear.
Aftershock from pain and pleasure twisted too tight.
I drop to my knees in front of her.
Not because I should.
Because I have to.
Her blood is on my tongue. On my hands. On my blade still lying on the floor where I dropped it.
And I need to fix what I broke before the reality of it hits me too hard.
I grab the old first-aid kit from under the cot, popping it open with one hand. Gauze, wipes, tape. My fingers move fast but not frantic. I’m a man who’s patched up brothers after gunfights. I know wounds.
“Turn,” I say softly. “Let me see.”
She shifts, baring her back to me. The R is clear and brutal and perfect, the crimson lines catching the dim basement light. The rest is jagged and rushed, done in the heat of the moment. Reckless.
Something fierce and possessive surges inside me at the sight.
Something sick and ashamed rises right behind it.
My breath leaves in a slow exhale.
“Does it hurt?” I ask.
Her answer is quiet. “Not in the way you think.”
My chest tightens. I don’t ask her to explain.
I only leave her to go to the sink. Come right back and press a warm cloth to the cut. She flinches, just barely, but she doesn’t pull away. The blood smears under my touch, staining my fingers again.
“Becki…” I swallow hard. My voice cracks in a way I hate. “I went too far.”
“You didn’t.”
“I carved this deep into your skin.”
“I let you.” She turns her head slightly, looking at me over her shoulder, hair falling in her eyes. “You didn’t cut me to hurt me,” she whispers. “You marked me because you wanted me.”
I close my eyes.
Want isn’t a strong enough word.
I pick up clean gauze, dab gently, slow, careful. My hand shakes just once when she lets out a soft, involuntary sound as the cloth brushes her skin. I force myself to keep going.
“You’re shaking,” I murmur.
“So are you,” she says.
She’s right.
My hands tremble when I tape the gauze down. My throat is tight. My heartbeat hasn’t slowed since the moment I held the knife to her.
When the wound is covered, I sit back on my heels, staring at the white square against her skin.
My mark underneath. Permanent now. Mine.
My voice comes out low. “You shouldn’t let me touch you again.”
“Then stop touching me.” She says it without turning around.
She knows I won’t.
I reach up and wrap my hands around her waist, forehead dropping to the small of her back, just above the fresh bandage. A prayer and a curse all at once.
“Becki…” My voice is rough. “I’m losing myself with you.”
Her fingers slide into my hair, soft and shaking.
“Good,” she whispers.
I exhale a broken sound into her skin.
She pulls me closer.
And for a long moment, I kneel at her back, arms around her waist, her hand in my hair, both of us trembling as the basement settles around us.
Not lovers. Not yet. Not officially. I haven’t fucked her again. Obeying my President. Technically, anyway. Keeping my cock out of her. Out of her mouth. Out of her pussy.
But we’re not enemies, either. Something far more dangerous. She’s mine. Finally, I force myself to speak.
“You’re staying down here with me tonight,” I say, voice steadying with the decision. “I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
She doesn’t argue. She just leans back into my hands, slow and trusting. Trusting me.
After what I did.
That’s what wrecks me most.
I help her ease down onto the bed, curling around her with the blanket half over us, my arms locking around her like restraint and protection are the same thing.
She breathes my name once, almost too soft to hear.
“Royal.”
And I hold her tighter. Knowing the truth I’ll never say aloud. I didn’t just mark her.
She marked me back.