Chapter 6
six
. . .
Dagger
Three days she's been in my apartment, in my bed, in my life.
Three days of her scent on my sheets, her toothbrush beside mine, her soft body curled against me at night.
Not enough. Nowhere near enough. I want more.
I want forever. The need to keep her, to claim her completely, grows stronger with each passing hour.
She's working through the logistics of her upended life—calling insurance companies, arranging for replacement ID, contacting her school. I'm arranging for her to never leave.
I've taken time off work. Called in favors I've never used in twelve years on the job. Nothing matters except being with her, watching her move through my space, filling all the empty corners I never realized were there.
Yesterday, I took her shopping. Watching her try on clothes, seeing the flush spread across her cheeks when I insisted on buying everything she liked—it did something to me. Something possessive and primal. Mine to provide for. Mine to protect. Mine to keep.
She's still shy about her body, still turns away when she undresses despite how many times I've worshipped every inch of her. Still doesn't understand how perfect she is, how her curves drive me crazy, how the softness of her makes my hands ache to touch her.
I'm in the kitchen making coffee when the doorbell rings. Connie looks up from the couch where she's been making calls, her brow furrowed in confusion.
"Are you expecting someone?" she asks.
I'm not. My team knows I'm off-rotation. My few friends know better than to drop by unannounced. I cross to the door, tension coiling in my muscles.
The man standing in my hallway is everything I'm not—medium height, slim build, neatly dressed in pressed khakis and a button-down shirt. He holds a small gift bag and wears a concerned expression that instantly raises my hackles.
"Can I help you?" I ask, not bothering to hide my displeasure at finding him at my door.
"I'm looking for Connie Evans?" he says, the statement lilting up like a question. "I'm Patrick Lawson, we work together at Westfield Elementary. The principal said she might be staying here after the fire?"
A hot, dark feeling spreads through my chest. This man knows Connie. Works with her daily. Has probably watched her bend over tiny desks, seen her laugh, heard her voice when I wasn't there to protect her.
"Dagger? Who is it?" Connie appears beside me, her hand lightly touching my arm. The simple contact does nothing to calm the territorial surge rushing through me.
"Patrick!" she exclaims, sounding pleased. Too pleased. "What are you doing here?"
"The whole staff's been worried sick," he says, his eyes lighting up at the sight of her.
"When Mrs. Abernathy said you were staying with a firefighter, we wanted to make sure you were okay.
" He holds out the gift bag. "Just some things from the teacher's lounge.
Gift cards, some toiletries, a few books to keep you occupied. "
She steps forward to accept it, moving past me into what I consider dangerous proximity to this stranger. This male stranger who is looking at her with undisguised concern and something else—something that makes me want to put my fist through his face.
"That's so thoughtful," she says warmly. "Please thank everyone for me. I'll be back at work on Monday."
Monday. Four days away. Four more days of having her all to myself before the real world intrudes. Not enough.
"Would you like to come in?" she offers, the hospitality automatic.
Yes, she would invite another man into my space. Into our space. The primal part of my brain roars in objection, but I force myself to step aside, to allow this intrusion for her sake.
Patrick steps inside, his eyes widening slightly as he takes in my apartment.
"Nice place," he comments, his gaze lingering too long on Connie, who's wearing leggings and one of my t-shirts, knotted at her waist. The sight of her in my clothes usually fills me with satisfaction.
Now it makes me want to drag her back to the bedroom, remind her who she belongs to.
"How did you find where I was staying?" Connie asks, leading him to the living area. She sits on the couch. He sits too close.
"Mrs. Abernathy had the address from the insurance forms. I volunteered to drop off the care package." He leans toward her, lowering his voice slightly. "Are you really okay, Con? This is all so sudden and... well, unorthodox."
Con. He has a nickname for her. The muscle in my jaw ticks as I clench my teeth.
"I'm fine, really," she assures him, her eyes flicking to me. "Dagger's been... incredible."
"So you two are..." He trails off, looking between us.
"Yes," I answer before she can, moving to stand behind the couch, my hand dropping possessively to her shoulder. "We are."
Patrick's expression flickers with something—disappointment, maybe. Good. He should be disappointed. He should know she's taken. Off-limits. Mine.
"Well, that's... fast," he says with an uncomfortable laugh.
"When you know, you know," I reply, my tone making it clear this conversation is over.
Connie shifts awkwardly, clearly sensing the tension. "Would you like some coffee, Patrick?"
"No, I should get going. Just wanted to check on you." He stands, and I feel my body relax incrementally. "The kids miss you. Especially little Jason—he's been asking when Miss Evans is coming back every five minutes."
Her face softens at the mention of her student. "Tell him I'll see him Monday. And that I can't wait to hear how his pet hermit crab is doing."
They exchange a few more pleasantries while I stand guard, monitoring every expression, every movement, every word. When he finally leaves, the door closing behind him feels like oxygen returning to a room that's been airless.
Connie turns to me, her expression caught between amusement and exasperation. "Was that really necessary?"
"Was what necessary?" I ask, playing dumb even as the dark feeling in my chest expands.
"The alpha male territory marking. The glaring. The 'when you know, you know' comment."
"He wants you," I state flatly.
She laughs, the sound both beautiful and infuriating. "Patrick? No, he doesn't. We're just colleagues."
"He has a nickname for you."
"Everyone at school calls me Con. It's not special."
"He came to my apartment."
"With a gift from my coworkers. Because they care about me."
"He was looking at you," I insist, stepping closer, crowding her against the wall. "Like he's thought about you naked. Like he's imagined touching you."
Her breath catches, her pupils dilating as I invade her space. "You're being ridiculous."
"Am I?" I place my hands on the wall on either side of her head, caging her in. "Did you like him looking at you? Like knowing he wants what's mine?"
The question is unfair, irrational. I know this even as I ask it. But something dark and possessive has taken over, something that needs to assert ownership, to eliminate any doubt about who she belongs to.
"Dagger," she says softly, placing her hands on my chest. "You're the only one I want. The only one I've wanted since the moment you carried me out of that fire."
It should be enough. It isn't.
I crash my mouth against hers, swallowing her gasp of surprise.
The kiss is hard, demanding, possessive—nothing like the gentle explorations of the past three days.
My tongue invades her mouth, claiming every inch.
My hands move from the wall to her body, one tangling in her hair, the other gripping her hip, pulling her against the rigid evidence of my arousal.
She responds instantly, her body melting into mine, her arms winding around my neck. The surrender in her posture, the way she yields to my demand, feeds the beast inside me.
I lift her, her legs instinctively wrapping around my waist, and carry her to the bedroom. Not gently, not carefully. Driven by a need so primitive it has no name.
"Mine," I growl against her lips as I deposit her on the bed. "Say it. Say you're mine."
Her eyes are wide, dark with desire and something else—a recognition of the precipice we're standing on. "I'm yours," she whispers.
The confirmation ignites something in me. I strip her clothes off with efficient movements, not bothering with the usual care or finesse. When she's naked beneath me, I take a moment to devour her with my eyes, to remind us both who she belongs to.
"No one else gets to see you like this," I tell her, my voice rough with need. "No one else gets to touch you. To taste you. To hear the sounds you make when you come."
She nods, her breath coming in quick gasps, her pupils so dilated her eyes appear black. "No one else," she agrees. "Just you."
I shed my own clothes with urgent movements, then cover her body with mine, skin to skin, heat to heat. My mouth finds her neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark—a visible sign of my possession that her colleagues will see. Let Patrick see it. Let him know she's claimed.
She arches beneath me, offering her throat in a gesture of submission that makes my cock throb painfully. I drag my mouth down to her breasts, taking one nipple between my teeth, biting just hard enough to make her cry out—a sound of pleasure edged with pain.
"Dagger, please," she begs, her hands clutching at my shoulders, nails digging into my skin.
"Please what?" I demand, moving to her other breast, lavishing it with the same attention. "Tell me what you need."
"You," she gasps. "Inside me. Now."
I should go slow. Should make sure she's ready. But the animal inside me won't be denied. I position myself at her entrance, finding her already wet, already wanting.
"Look at me," I command, waiting until her eyes lock with mine. "Who do you belong to?"
"You," she whispers without hesitation. "Only you."
I thrust into her in one powerful movement, burying myself to the hilt. She cries out, her back arching, her inner walls clamping around me in a vise grip of pleasure. I give her no time to adjust, setting a punishing rhythm that has the headboard slamming against the wall.
"Say it again," I demand, driving into her harder, deeper. "Who do you belong to?"
"You, Dagger," she gasps, meeting each thrust with perfect counterpoint. "I'm yours. All yours."
Her words feed my frenzy. I hook my arms under her knees, pushing them toward her chest, changing the angle to hit the spot that makes her scream. Her eyes roll back, her mouth falls open, her body tightening around mine with impending release.
"Come for me," I command. "Show me who makes you feel this way. Who owns this perfect body."
She shatters with a cry of my name, her inner muscles spasming around me, milking me toward my own climax. I follow her over the edge with a roar, emptying myself inside her, marking her in the most primal way possible.
As the haze of possession recedes, I become aware of how roughly I've taken her. Concern floods me as I carefully lower her legs and gather her against my chest, pressing gentle kisses to her forehead, her cheeks, her swollen lips.
"Did I hurt you?" I ask, sudden fear replacing the jealous rage.
She smiles lazily, her eyes heavy-lidded with satisfaction. "No. That was... intense."
Relief washes through me. I roll to my side, keeping her close, one hand stroking down her back in soothing motions.
"I'm sorry," I murmur against her hair. "I don't usually lose control like that."
"Don't apologize," she says, pressing a kiss to my chest, right over my heart. "I liked it. I like knowing how much you want me."
Her easy acceptance of my possessiveness, of my darker needs, makes my throat tighten with emotion. I tilt her face up, needing to see her eyes, to make sure she's really okay.
"You're everything," I tell her, the words inadequate but all I have. "Everything I never knew I needed until I found you."
She smiles, soft and sweet, her fingers tracing patterns on my chest. "I'm not going anywhere," she says. "You don't need to worry about Patrick or anyone else."
"I know." But I don't, not really. How could someone like her want to stay with someone like me? A man with nothing to offer but protection and an obsessive need to possess?
I cradle her against my chest, breathing in the scent of her hair, feeling the soft curves of her body molded to mine.
"You're not going back to that apartment," I say quietly. "You're staying right here. With me. Forever."
It's not a question. Not even a suggestion. It's a declaration of intent, a promise, a vow.
She doesn't argue. Instead, she nestles closer, her breath warm against my skin. "Forever is a long time," she murmurs, but there's no resistance in her voice. Just wonder.
"Not long enough," I reply, meaning it with every fiber of my being. "Not nearly long enough for all the things I want to do with you. To you. For you."
As she drifts toward sleep in my arms, I hold her with a gentleness that belies the possessive fury of minutes before. This woman—this soft, perfect, kind woman—has somehow become the center of my universe in less than a week.
And I will burn the world to ashes before I let anyone take her from me.