Chapter 8
eight
. . .
Dagger
The building looks different in daylight, less imposing without flames licking up its sides.
They've cleared the debris, replaced the blown-out windows on the lower floors, repainted the exterior where smoke damage blackened the brick.
My hands tighten on the steering wheel as I park across the street.
I don't want to be here. Don't want her to see that other lives have moved on, that there's a path back to her old existence that doesn't include me.
But she deserves the choice. Even if the thought of her taking it makes me feel like my chest is caving in.
"They've made progress," Connie says quietly beside me, her eyes fixed on the apartment building where I found her—where everything in my life changed in an instant.
"Yeah." The word comes out rougher than intended. "Third floor's still under renovation. Your unit and the ones around it took the worst damage."
She nods, absently toying with the sleeve of her new sweater—soft blue, matches her eyes. "The insurance company said it might be another month or two before those units are habitable."
A month or two. More time with her in my home, in my bed, in my life. Not enough. Not nearly enough. I need forever.
"Do you want to go in? The property manager said she'd meet us, show you what they've done, what the plans are."
Connie hesitates, then nods. I exit the truck, rounding to her side to open her door—a gesture she initially found old-fashioned but now accepts with a small smile that does dangerous things to my heart.
The lobby smells of fresh paint and new carpet. No trace of the acrid smoke that filled it two weeks ago. The property manager meets us with a clipboard and a professionally sympathetic expression, launching into details about the renovation timeline, insurance coverage, future rent considerations.
I hang back as they talk, watching Connie's face. She's listening attentively, asking practical questions about the restoration process. My perfect, practical girl. Always thinking things through while I operate on instinct and need.
They take the elevator to the third floor—functional now, though it wasn't the night of the fire. The hallway is gutted, walls stripped to the studs, floors bare concrete. The manager unlocks what was once Connie's door, revealing a hollow shell of the apartment where she lived.
"As you can see, we've removed all the damaged materials," the manager explains. "We'll be putting in new drywall next week, then flooring, fixtures, cabinets. You'll essentially have a brand-new apartment when it's done."
Connie steps into the space, her eyes tracking around the perimeter. Is she imagining it finished? Imagining herself living here again, sleeping in a bed that isn't mine, waking up without my arms around her?
Something cold and sharp twists in my gut.
"We're keeping a waitlist for the renovated units," the manager continues. "Since you were a previous tenant, you have first right of refusal on this one. We'll need to know in the next few weeks if you'd like to reserve it."
Connie nods, still looking around the hollow space. "Thank you. I'll think about it."
Think about it. Not an outright rejection of the idea. The twist in my gut tightens.
We leave the manager with promises to be in touch, heading back to my truck in silence. I help Connie in, close her door, walk around to the driver's side. Each movement feels mechanical, my mind racing ahead to what comes next.
I start the engine but don't pull away from the curb. Instead, I reach into my pocket, removing the small object I've carried all morning, waiting for the right moment.
"I have something for you," I say, holding out my hand, palm up, revealing the key nestled there. Simple brass, newly cut, utterly ordinary except for what it represents.
She looks at it, then at me, her eyes questioning.
"It's a key to my place," I explain, the words inadequate for the magnitude of what I'm offering. "You don't have to go back there. Not unless you want to."
She takes the key, her fingers brushing mine, sending electricity up my arm. "Are you asking me to move in with you? Officially?"
I nod, throat suddenly tight. "Been trying to figure out how to ask. Thought this might be the right time. Seeing the old place. Knowing you have options."
"Dagger, we've only known each other two weeks."
Two weeks that feel like a lifetime. Two weeks that have rewritten everything I thought I knew about myself, about what I wanted, about what was possible.
"I know," I acknowledge. "Too fast by normal standards. But nothing about us has been normal from the start."
She turns the key over in her fingers, her expression thoughtful. "I'm still not sure this is real," she admits softly. "What if it's just the circumstances? What if once everything settles, you realize I'm not what you want?"
The mere suggestion is absurd. As if I could ever want anything, anyone other than her. As if the need pulsing through my veins could ever diminish.
"Not possible," I say, the words coming out harsher than intended. I soften my voice with effort. "But I understand why you're unsure. Why this feels fast. Why you need to be certain."
She looks at me with those big brown eyes that see straight through to parts of me no one else has ever reached. "I do need to be certain," she says. "Not because I doubt what I feel. But because I've never felt anything this intense before. It scares me how much I need you already."
The admission makes my heart pound harder. She needs me. Not as much as I need her—that wouldn't be possible—but she feels it too, this bone-deep connection that defies explanation.
"Let me take you home," I say, the single word—home—heavy with meaning. "Let me show you why you belong there. With me."
She nods, slipping the key into her purse—not a rejection, but not an acceptance either. The drive back to my apartment—our apartment—passes in charged silence. My mind races with all the things I want to say, all the ways I need to convince her.
Inside, she sets her purse down, turns to me with that look of gentle uncertainty that makes me want to gather her close and never let go.
"I'm scared," she admits again. "Not of you. Of how much this would change my life. How completely I'd be choosing you over everything familiar."
Something shifts inside me at her words. She's right to be cautious. Right to question the speed and intensity of what's happening between us. My instinct is to demand, to possess, to claim—but that's not what she needs right now.
For the first time in my life, I drop to my knees before another person.
Her eyes widen as I kneel at her feet, looking up at the woman who's become my whole world in two impossible weeks.
"You don't have to wonder," I tell her, my hands finding hers, engulfing them completely. "I'm yours, heart and soul."
I press my forehead against her stomach, breathing in her scent, feeling the warmth of her through her sweater. "I've never begged for anything in my life," I continue, my voice rough with emotion. "But I'm begging now. Choose me. Choose us."
Her hands come to my hair, fingers threading through the short strands in a touch so gentle it nearly breaks me. "Dagger," she whispers, and my name on her lips sounds like both a question and an answer.
I look up at her, letting her see everything—all the need, the vulnerability, the love I've kept locked away my entire life until she came along and shattered my defenses.
"Let me show you," I say, my hands moving to the waistband of her jeans, seeking permission with my eyes. "Let me worship you. Let me prove what you mean to me."
She nods, her own eyes shining with unshed tears. I unbutton her jeans with reverent hands, sliding them down her legs along with her underwear. She steps out of them, and I guide her to the couch, positioning her on the edge.
I remain on my knees before her, spreading her thighs with gentle pressure. This isn't about my pleasure. This isn't even about sex. This is supplication. Devotion. Proof.
"I love every inch of you," I tell her, pressing kisses to her inner thighs, working my way inward with aching slowness. "Your body. Your mind. Your heart. Everything you are."
Her breathing quickens as I approach her center, but I take my time, letting anticipation build. When I finally taste her, it's with a groan of satisfaction that vibrates against her sensitive flesh. She gasps, her hands returning to my hair, neither pushing nor pulling—just connecting.
I worship her with my mouth, my tongue, exploring every fold, every texture, learning what makes her sigh, what makes her moan, what makes her thighs tremble against my shoulders.
This isn't the hungry devouring of our previous encounters.
This is prayer—deliberate, reverential, focused entirely on her pleasure.
"So beautiful," I murmur against her. "So perfect. My everything."
Her hips begin to move, seeking more pressure, more friction. I give her what she needs, circling her clit with the tip of my tongue, then sucking gently, gauging her reactions to find exactly what sends her climbing toward release.
"Dagger," she gasps, her head falling back, exposing the elegant line of her throat. "Please."
I slide two fingers into her heat, curling to find the spot that makes her cry out. Working in tandem with my mouth, I build her pleasure systematically, relentlessly, pouring all my devotion into every movement.
"Let go," I encourage between strokes of my tongue. "I've got you. Always going to have you."
Her thighs begin to shake, her inner walls fluttering around my fingers. She's close—so close—but I need her to know what this means. Need her to understand that this isn't just physical.
"I love you," I tell her, the words spoken directly against her most intimate flesh. "Choose me, Connie. Let me love you forever."
The declaration pushes her over the edge. She comes with a cry of my name, her body arching, her hands tightening in my hair almost to the point of pain. I work her through it, gentling my touch as the waves of pleasure recede, until she collapses back against the couch, breathing hard.
I rest my cheek against her thigh, giving us both a moment to recover. When she tugs gently at my hair, I look up to find her watching me with an expression I can't quite read.
"Come here," she says softly, patting the space beside her on the couch.
I rise from my knees, my own arousal evident but irrelevant. This wasn't about me. I sit beside her, and she immediately curls against my side, fitting perfectly under my arm.
"No one has ever made me feel the way you do," she says, her voice still husky from her release. "Wanted, cherished, safe...seen."
I press a kiss to the top of her head, inhaling the sweet scent of her shampoo. "Because no one has ever seen you the way I do. From the first moment."
She's quiet for a long moment, her fingers tracing patterns on my chest. "I'm still scared," she admits finally. "But I'm more scared of walking away from this. From you."
Hope flares in my chest, bright and painful. "What are you saying?"
She shifts to look up at me, those beautiful eyes serious and clear. "I'm saying I want to try. Really try. Not just stay with you because I have nowhere else to go, but because I'm choosing you. Choosing us."
The relief that washes through me is so intense it's almost painful. I gather her closer, pressing my face into her hair to hide the emotion threatening to overwhelm me.
"I'll never give you reason to regret it," I promise, the words muffled but fervent. "I'll spend my life making you happy. Making you feel safe. Making you feel loved."
She reaches up, cupping my face in her small hand, guiding me to look at her. "I believe you," she says simply. And in those three words, I hear everything I've been desperate to hear.
I believe you. I trust you. I choose you.
I capture her lips in a kiss that tries to convey everything words can't—my gratitude, my devotion, my absolute certainty that she is everything I will ever need or want.
When we part, she reaches into her purse, retrieving the key I gave her earlier. She places it on the coffee table, then reaches into her other pocket and pulls out a small, empty keyring.
"Maybe we should make this official," she says with a smile that lights up her entire face. "Put my key on a proper ring. Since I'm going to be living here."
Living here. With me. Not out of necessity but by choice. My heart feels too large for my chest, expanding with a joy I've never experienced before.
"Yeah," I agree, my voice embarrassingly thick with emotion. "Definitely need to make it official."
As I thread the key onto the ring, my fingers brush hers, and the simple contact feels as intimate as any physical act we've shared. This small piece of metal represents everything—her trust, her choice, our future together.
"Welcome home," I tell her, pressing the keyring back into her palm, closing her fingers around it.
Her smile is worth everything. "Home," she repeats, testing the word, claiming it. "I like the sound of that.”