Chapter 15
Chapter fifteen
Hayden Herron
Islide my arms beneath her, one under her knees, the other at her back. Her head rests against my chest, her hair clinging to the fabric of my shirt, still damp at the ends.
The dining room is silent now. The storm, the spectacle, all of it behind us. Only she and I remain.
I carry her upstairs, each step measured. My grip is steady, my pace is unhurried, she doesn't stir. Her breathing is soft and shallow, but it’s there, and that’s enough.
In my suite, the lights are low, and the curtains are drawn. The bathroom waits, cold marble, still air. I kneel by the tub and ease her down into it, her limbs folding like silk.
Her beautiful body is streaked with our mix of cum and blood.
She doesn’t resist as I ready her for the bath.
I study her for a moment. Not with lust. With a different kind of gaze closer to ownership.
The water runs as I undress, letting each piece fall where it may. I step into the tub behind her, the heat blooming up around us, wrapping her in it before she even stirs.
Pulling her gently against my chest, her back fits me perfectly, like we were carved for this moment. My hands move across her arms, washing away everything that touched her tonight.
She came apart in that room.
Now she’s mine to put back together.
My fingers move through her wet hair, brushing it behind her ear. I don’t know if I’m soothing her or branding her, making her mine with every pass. Maybe both.
I can’t stop looking at her. Even like this, especially like this, she owns the room without trying. There’s a poise to her that doesn’t fade when the mask slips. She’s still her. Maybe even more so.
I want to preserve this version of her, the one no one else sees. I want to keep it for myself. No, not keep. Contain.
I trail my hand down her arm, slow, reverent.
She’s beautiful, and I am drowning in it.
The water beads along her skin, catching the dim light as I drag the cloth over the cut between her breasts. My mark. Our mark.
It should have been deeper.
I’m glad I didn’t do this in front of the other Bonesmen. The idea of them laying eyes on her, my wife, my property, is laughable. I don’t give a damn what the tradition demands. If the ritual calls for an audience in the mausoleum, it’ll have to learn to do without. She’s not for them.
She belongs to me.
I press the cloth a little harder, watching the water stain pink as it soaks into the fabric. The wound is fresh, a clean line down her sternum, but it will scar.
It better scar.
I want her to have to look at it every time she undresses. Every time she meets her gaze in the mirror. A reminder that she gave herself over to me completely.
I wipe the last of the blood away, but I don’t move my hand. Instead, I let my fingers linger, just at the edge of the cut, feeling the faint rise and fall of her chest beneath my palm.
She doesn’t even know what she’s done. What she’s become. But either way, there’s no going back.
I pull her from the bath once I’m satisfied we’re both clean and towel her dry.
I reach for my shirt, pulling it over her limp body, the fabric swallowing her whole.
A stark contrast, this woman, who held her own against a man who would crush others without a second thought, reduced to something small and almost fragile in my hands.
But she’s not fragile, and that’s why I chose her. She looks untouchable to everyone else. Polished. Poised. Perfect. But I know the truth.
I know what lies under that mask. I’ve seen the sharp edges, the cold calculations—the steel in her spine.
Now, I’m the only one who gets to break it.
I lay her down in my bed, beneath my sheets, in my shirt. My hand presses against her stomach for a moment, just to feel her breathe. Just to feel she’s real.
She doesn’t belong to herself anymore; she belongs to me.
And I will never let her forget that.
Her in my space, wrapped in my clothes, the mark of our oath fresh on her chest; all that assures she is mine and mine only.
I leave her there and move through the halls, barefoot, silent, as the house bends around me.
My study waits behind a door that only I have the key to. As I open the door and step inside, I look to the far wall, where mahogany paneling, unmarked to the untrained eye, is visible. I press the hidden latch, and the panel clicks open.
Behind it lies the safe that requires a thumbprint and code, full of stacks of assets, sealed files, and various items that men like me inherit. But buried beneath them is what I came for.
My mother’s emeralds.
The necklace gleams as I lift it, stone after stone, rich green fire captured in platinum settings. Each emerald is at least four carats, strung tight and close like a collar—a chain of wealth, Legacy, and ownership.
She wore this to remind people who she was when she wanted to silence a room without speaking.
I run my thumb along the clasp. Old-world craftsmanship, nearly impossible to open without knowing the trick. Once it’s on, it stays on.
Perfect.
I set the necklace down on the desk and reach for the ring box beside it. My mother’s, too. Massive. Heavy. A square-cut emerald, framed in diamonds.
I return to the bedroom with the velvet-covered boxes. The necklace glimmers under the low light, stones catching every flicker like they know exactly what they’re worth. Like they know where they belong.
She’s still asleep. Still perfect.
I kneel beside the bed, watching her chest rise and fall beneath the fabric of my shirt. The collar slipped slightly to one side, exposing the base of her neck, the faintest edge of the wound between her breasts.
I smile.
Carefully, I undo the clasp, and with slow precision, I place the necklace around her throat. One emerald at a time settles against her skin, cool and heavy. She shifts slightly, a faint murmur escaping her lips, but she doesn’t wake.
The clasp clicks into place with finality and permanence.
The weight and symbolism suit her. A true emblem of wealth, power, and Legacy. It was my mother’s pride, and now it is mine to give.
She stirs again, this time a little more, her brow furrowing faintly.
“Hayden…” she mumbles, barely audible. A whisper tucked between sleep and awareness as she reaches for me.
My chest tightens with something sharp, a sudden pain cutting through a feeling that should be soft.
I set the ring box down on the bedside table.
I climb into the bed, pulling back the covers, slipping behind her. My body curves around hers effortlessly, as if I were made for this. Like I’ve done it a hundred times in a hundred different lives. I’ve never let anyone sleep in my bed before. Fuck. I’ve never slept next to anyone.
I pull her close. One arm is tight around her waist, the other resting just beneath the emeralds at her throat.
She murmurs again, softer this time. She settles into me, the curve of her body folding perfectly into mine, her breath warm against my forearm. The weight of her, the scent of her skin, the emeralds catching faint glints of light with every slow rise and fall of her chest, it's all perfect.
But it’s not enough.
Not yet.
I reach for the ring box on the nightstand, flick it open with a quiet snap. The emerald stares up at me, cold, unblinking, massive. A stone that says you’ll never belong to anyone else again.
It’s not just a ring. It’s a vow she hasn’t even spoken, but one I’ve already accepted on her behalf.
I take her left hand gently in mine. Her fingers are soft, relaxed in sleep, unaware of what I’m doing.
Good.
I slide the ring onto her finger with slow deliberacy. Letting it catch, just slightly, on her knuckle, just enough resistance to feel earned.
It fits perfectly, just like she does around my cock.
She stirs again at the pressure, murmuring something incomprehensible, her fingers curling slightly around mine.
I press a kiss to the back of her hand, just beneath the stone.
“There,” I whisper, voice low, almost reverent. “Now the world knows.”
I settle back into the bed, drawing her closer. My arm tightens around her waist, her hand still in mine, the emerald cold against her warm skin.
She breathes gently while she sleeps. Resting and unaware, she now wears my name.
And when she wakes, when she sees the weight I’ve placed on her throat and her finger, there will be no question left.
No room for doubt.
She belongs to me.
Completely.
I can't help but slide my hand around her neck, and slide my other in between her legs, feeling in between her thighs for her slick, wet heat.
Satisfied that she’s warm and wet for me after stroking her clit a few times, I slide my hard cock into her. Moving slowly so I don’t wake her.
She stirs a bit but doesn’t move. The only sound in the room is our breathing intertwined, and the stifled groan I want to let out from being seated inside of her wet heat.
Her ass will need to wait to be used again, but this pussy is mine to milk and fill full of cum whenever I see fit.
I breathe out from my nose in short, painful breaths. Her pussy clenches around my shaft in her sleep, and I find it difficult to believe something so simple could send a chill up my spine.
Fucking Martine short-circuits something in me. The second I feel her moan in her sleep, I go still, like my body’s trying to figure out if it’s allowed to feel excitement from this.
She’s soft where everything in my life is sharp, and when she exhales, it’s like she’s trusting me with something sacred. I don’t know what to do with that. I hold her tighter than I should, like I’m trying to memorize the shape of her before I ruin it.
This rattles me, how much I want to stay like this. How much I hate needing her, even just for a second.
I hate how much I feel. That’s the problem. One second of her in my arms and it’s like my skin doesn’t feel right anymore. It’s too tight, too hot.