Chapter 35
35
CLAIRE
T he world had narrowed to two things: pain and Marcus.
Pain was expected. It lived in my ribs, a sharp reminder of every fist that had landed, every bruise that would bloom deep beneath my skin. It curled in my wrists and ankles, raw from the zip ties, throbbed in my face where Hart’s mercenary had struck me. I could feel it everywhere, a map of violence written across my body.
But Marcus—Marcus was something else entirely.
The next day, I sat on the edge of his bed in Dominion Hall, wrapped in one of his t-shirts, my hands curled around a bottle of water I had barely touched. The room was dim, quiet, the kind of stillness that only came after the storm. But Marcus wasn’t still.
He was pacing.
Back and forth across the room, his hands in his hair, his jaw clenched so tight I swore I could hear his teeth grinding. His knuckles were split, his breathing uneven, his entire body coiled with something unleashed, something that had no outlet now that I was here, safe.
Safe.
The word didn’t feel real yet.
Hart was gone—taken by the Agency’s quiet cleanup crew, a group of men who had stepped out of the dark like ghosts and looked at her like she was already dead. Marcus and his brothers had worked her over first, but she had given them little. Just confirmation that the Charleston operation had been about the port. Control it. Use it. For what? That part was still a mystery.
Atlas had been the first to step back when the suits arrived, his expression unreadable as he watched them drag Hart out. He knew something. Something he hadn’t said yet. And now? Now, he was gone. Vanished into the night to chase whatever truth was waiting for him.
But I wasn’t thinking about Atlas now.
I was watching Marcus. Watching him come apart, watching the storm inside him rage without release.
“You’re going to wear a hole in the floor,” I murmured, my voice hoarse.
Marcus stopped. Turned.
His eyes locked onto me, dark and wild, and suddenly, he was right there, kneeling in front of me, his hands coming up like he wanted to touch me but couldn’t.
“I almost lost you.”
His voice was raw. Wrecked.
I swallowed hard, reaching for him first. Because I could. Because I was alive. Because he needed it. Because I needed it.
I traced my fingers over his jaw, my touch featherlight, but he shuddered. His hands closed around my wrists—not to stop me, just to hold on. His grip was tight, like he was grounding himself with the feel of me.
“You didn’t,” I whispered. “I’m here.”
He exhaled sharply, his fingers flexing against my skin. “You don’t get it, Claire. I saw them take you. I was right there, and I—” He cut himself off, shaking his head.
I knew what he was thinking. That he had failed.
“Marcus.” I leaned in, pressing my forehead to his. “You saved me.”
His breath hitched, but he shook his head. “Not fast enough.”
There was something fractured in his voice, something I had never heard before. Marcus Dane, the man who burned like a wildfire, was unraveling.
And God, I loved him.
It hit me then, in a way that left no room for doubt, no space for denial.
I loved him.
Not just the protector, not just the man who had cut through bodies to find me. I loved all of him. The sharp edges. The broken parts. The violence and the vulnerability, the loyalty so fierce it was terrifying.
I had spent my life chasing the truth. And this? This was the truth.
I lifted my hand, cupping his face. “Marcus, look at me.”
He did. And in that moment, I saw everything.
The fury. The grief. The desperate, terrifying love he was holding back, afraid it would consume me, afraid it would destroy him.
I wouldn’t let it.
I leaned in, kissed him softly. Not like before. Not like the frantic, desperate kisses we had shared in the dark, fueled by adrenaline and hunger. This was different.
This was a promise.
“I love you,” I whispered against his lips. “I love you, and I’m right here.”
His entire body shook.
And then—then he was kissing me back, his hands framing my face, his touch reverent and desperate all at once.
“Say it again,” he rasped, his forehead pressing to mine.
“I love you.”
He exhaled roughly, like I had just given him the one thing in this world that he didn’t know how to ask for.
Then his hands slid lower. And the storm inside him finally broke.
Marcus kissed me like he was drowning, like he was still caught in the moment where I had been ripped from his hands, where I had been gone.
I felt it in the way his lips crashed against mine, in the way his hands clutched at me—my waist, my back, the curve of my hip—like he needed proof that I was real, that I was here. That I hadn’t disappeared.
I melted into him, my body aching, but not from the bruises. From him. From the need that had been simmering between us since the moment we met, since the moment he stalked toward me on the pier with that knowing look in his eyes, like he had already decided I was his.
But now? Now, I was deciding, too.
I pressed closer, gasping as he lifted me effortlessly, his hands gripping my thighs. My legs wrapped around his waist, my fingers tangling in his hair, pulling, gripping, trying to get closer because closer wasn’t enough.
Marcus groaned into my mouth as he dropped me onto the bed, his weight pressing me down into the mattress, into him. My body screamed from the impact, my bruises protesting, but I didn’t care. I wanted this. I wanted him.
His lips left mine, dragging down the column of my throat, his teeth scraping, his breath hot and uneven. His hands pushed up the hem of the t-shirt I was wearing—his t-shirt—exposing my bare skin to the cool air.
His fingers hesitated over the bruises on my ribs.
His breath hitched.
And then he pulled back.
“Marcus—”
He shook his head, his jaw clenched, his hands trembling against my waist. “I can’t—” His voice was hoarse, raw. “You’re hurt, Claire.”
“I don’t care.” I reached for him, desperate to pull him back down, but he resisted.
His eyes burned as they roamed over me, his fingers brushing so lightly over my bruised skin that it sent a shiver through me. “I do.”
I swallowed hard, my chest tightening. “Then don’t be gentle.”
His nostrils flared. His jaw ticked. And something shifted in his expression—something dark, something primal.
He didn’t hesitate after that.
He kissed me again, harder, deeper, his hands gripping my thighs as he spread me beneath him, as he settled between my legs like he belonged there. He did belong there. He always had.
There was no restraint now. No hesitation. Just us .
The room disappeared. The world disappeared. There was only Marcus—his hands, his mouth, his body claiming mine.
It was desperate. Fierce. Possessive.
And I let him take me. Because I was his.
Because I had never belonged to anyone the way I belonged to Marcus Dane.
Marcus moved above me, inside me, like he was making sure I felt it—every inch of him, every hard, unyielding part of his body pressing into mine, surrounding me, owning me.
He didn’t hold back.
Didn’t ease into it.
He took me like he needed it, like he was still chasing the proof that I was here, alive, breathing beneath him. And I gave it to him.
Because I needed him just as badly.
I arched up, wrapping my legs around his waist, digging my fingers into his back, my nails leaving red lines against his skin. He growled into my neck, the sound vibrating through me, raw and hungry and possessive.
“You’re mine,” he rasped against my skin, his breath hot, his voice thick with wreckage and devotion.
“Yes.” My gasp broke into a moan as he slammed deeper, as he buried himself inside me like he was staking his claim in a way that no one—not Hart, not Department 77, not even the ghosts of our pasts—could take away.
He wanted me here.
With him.
Not just in this moment, tangled in sweat-damp sheets, his body flush against mine, but always.
Forever .
And God, I wanted that, too.
His hand tangled in my hair, tilting my head back as his teeth scraped my throat, his lips following, softer now, reverent.
His thrusts slowed, deepened, his hands smoothing over my hips, my thighs, like he was memorizing me. As if he already owned me, but still couldn’t quite believe I was here.
I pressed my palm to his chest, feeling the pounding of his heart, the heat of his skin, the raw power coiled beneath the surface.
This man had torn through the city for me. Had put bullets in bodies, broken bones, spilled blood?—
And now he held me like I was something fragile. Something he couldn’t risk losing.
I lifted my lips to his ear, my breath uneven but certain. “Yours.”
A growl rumbled deep in his chest. Dark. Satisfied.
He caught my mouth in a brutal kiss, swallowing my cries, driving into me harder, faster, rougher. His hands slid under my thighs, lifting me to take him deeper, to let him pound into me exactly how I needed.
His control was unraveling.
I wanted it gone.
“Marcus,” I whispered, my lips brushing his jaw, my teeth scraping his skin. “More.”
Something snapped.
He flipped me onto my stomach in one swift motion, dragging me onto my knees, his body caging mine, covering me, dominating me.
His hand fisted in my hair, tugging my head back just enough to make me arch, just enough to make me feel the sharp edge of control he still had left.
“You’re playing a dangerous game, baby,” he warned, his voice like gravel and thunder, his cock teasing my entrance, sending shudders through me. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
I turned my head slightly, my lips curving. Daring him.
“Show me.”
A growl tore from his throat, and then he was inside me again, pushing in so deep I saw stars.
I cried out, my fingers fisting the sheets as he fucked me like he meant to leave a mark, like he needed to rewrite the pain I’d endured with pleasure.
Every thrust was relentless, brutal, his hips snapping forward as his grip tightened on my waist, pulling me back onto him like he couldn’t stand to be even a fraction away.
I felt wrecked.
I felt worshipped.
Every inch of me was his, claimed and possessed in a way that was more than just physical. It was deeper than that, a burn in my soul, a hunger in my bones.
And he felt it, too. I could tell in the way he grunted my name, in the way his fingers dug into my skin like he’d never let go again.
One of his hands slid around to my throat, not squeezing, just holding me, tilting my head back until his lips dragged along the shell of my ear.
His voice was a snarl, a promise as his hips drove into me harder.
“You think you can just say you love me and not expect me to ruin you for anyone else?”
I shuddered violently, my whole body trembling beneath him. “Marcus?—”
“Say it again,” he demanded, his grip tightening just slightly, just enough to own every inch of me .
My entire body tightened, pleasure coiling low, winding tighter and tighter.
“I love you,” I gasped. “I love you.”
His body stiffened behind me, his thrusts turning erratic, desperate.
He dragged me up, pressing my back against his chest, his hand sliding between my thighs, finding the most sensitive part of me, rubbing, circling, owning.
“Come for me, baby,” he ordered, his voice nothing but gravel and fire.
And I did.
I shattered.
Completely.
Pleasure ripped through me, a white-hot explosion that left me shaking, pulsing around him, my fingers grasping for him like he was the only thing tethering me to reality.
Marcus cursed harshly, his grip bruising, his body surging forward one last time before he followed me over the edge, spilling inside me, claiming me in every possible way.
I felt it. Felt the way he shuddered, felt the way he buried his face against my neck, his breath ragged, his hands still gripping me like I could disappear again if he let go.
I turned my head slightly, kissing him softly, lazily.
His lips softened against mine, and when he pulled out, he didn’t let me go. He flipped me onto my back, pulling me into his chest, wrapping me up in his arms.
I barely registered the way he tucked the blanket over us, the way he pressed slow kisses to my shoulder, silent promises I knew he meant.
His voice was low, barely a whisper against my hair.
“You’re mine, Claire Dixon. ”
I smiled sleepily, already drifting.
“Yours,” I murmured.
And I meant it.
His lips found my temple, pressing there, lingering. “I’m not letting you go.”
I smiled sleepily, already knowing I wasn’t going anywhere.
But he wasn’t done.
His fingers brushed along my spine, spreading warmth, possession. “Tomorrow, I’m calling movers. They’ll pack up your things in New York, ship them here.”
I stiffened slightly, tilting my head to meet his gaze. “Here?”
His blue eyes burned into mine, absolute. Unwavering.
“With me. At Dominion Hall.”
My breath caught.
This wasn’t just Marcus taking me, loving me, claiming me. This was Marcus keeping me.
The words settled somewhere deep inside, their weight heavy, real.
A past version of myself might have hesitated. Might have tried to push back, to hold on to some illusion of independence, of distance. But I wasn’t that version of myself anymore.
I wasn’t the woman who had arrived in Charleston looking for answers, determined to chase the truth no matter where it led.
I wasn’t the woman who had thought she could walk away from Marcus Dane.
Because there was no walking away.
And I didn’t want to.
I lifted myself just enough to press my lips to his, slow and soft, a promise wrapped in something deeper than words.
“Okay,” I murmured. “I’ll stay.”
Something shifted in his face.
Relief. Possession. Something like love, but even darker and deeper.
His grip tightened on me, his voice rough as he pulled me even closer. “You were never leaving.”
And I knew he was right.
I tilted my head, pressing a kiss to his temple. “I love you,” I murmured again, just because I could.
His grip on me tightened. His breath shuddered out.
Then he lifted his head, his eyes finding mine. “I love you, too,” he whispered.
My heart clenched, my breath catching in my throat.
I had known. Of course, I had known. But hearing it? Hearing it broke something in me in the best possible way.
He kissed me—slow this time, reverent. And then he buried his face in my neck, holding me like he never wanted to let go.
I held him just as tightly.
Because neither of us had to let go. Not now. Not ever.