Chapter 5
FLEUR
Iwake up wrapped in him.
His arm is heavy across my waist, his chest warm against my back, his breath slow and steady against my hair. For a moment, I just lie there. Let myself feel it. The solid weight of him curved around me like he's afraid I'll vanish if he lets go.
I've never woken up like this. Never felt so completely held.
Dominic used to sleep on the far side of the bed, a careful distance between us.
I told myself he just ran hot. Told myself some people weren't cuddlers.
Told myself a lot of things that sound pathetic now, in the light of morning, with Grim's arm tightening reflexively around me like he's making sure I'm still here.
I shift slightly, and his hand spreads across my stomach. Possessive even in sleep.
Mine, he'd said last night. You're mine.
I am. God help me, I am.
The morning shatters at 10 AM.
I'm in the kitchen, wearing jeans and a t-shirt I found in his drawer, when I hear his voice from the hallway. Low. Clipped. The rough warmth from last night stripped away entirely.
I move to the doorway. Watch him through the crack.
He's on his phone, his back to me, every muscle in his body rigid. I can't hear what the other person is saying, but I can see what it does to him. The way his free hand curls into a fist. The way his shoulders lock up like he's bracing for a blow.
"When?" His voice is flat. Dead. "How specific?"
A pause. Whatever he hears makes his jaw clench so hard I can see the muscle jump from here.
"Yeah. I understand." He hangs up. Stands there for a moment, perfectly still.
Then he turns.
The man looking at me isn't Grim. Not the Grim I'm starting to know—the one who bandaged my feet with gentle hands, who kissed me like I was oxygen, who held me all night like I might disappear.
This is someone else entirely. Someone cold and lethal and utterly terrifying, with eyes like winter and a face carved from stone.
This is the monster everyone else sees.
I should be scared.
I'm not.
"What happened?"
He doesn't answer right away. Just looks at me with that flat, assessing gaze, like he's calculating something. Deciding how much to tell me.
"Another message from Dominic's people." His voice is ice. "More specific this time. They know where you are. They know I'm the one keeping you here." A pause. "They want you back within twenty-four hours, or they're coming to get you themselves."
The words land like stones in my stomach.
"Twenty-four hours," I repeat. My fingers find a loose thread on my jeans and twist. "And then what?"
"Then he sends people to collect you."
"People." My stomach drops. "You mean—"
"The kind you don't want showing up at your door."
He's across the kitchen before I can blink, his hands finding my arms—firm, not rough, but certain. Grounding. The cold in his eyes flickers, just for a moment, and I see something underneath. Something desperate.
"I'm handling it," he says. "I'm working on something."
"And if it doesn't work?"
"It'll work."
"Grim—"
"I'm not letting them take you." His grip tightens. "You understand me? I don't care who he's connected to. I don't care what it costs. You're not going back to him."
I believe him. That's the thing. I look into those grey eyes—cold on the surface, burning underneath—and I believe every word. He'd burn the world down before he let Dominic touch me.
That's exactly what I'm afraid of.
The hours crawl by.
Grim disappears into meetings with his brothers. I catch glimpses of them through doorways—Vice, Knox, a massive man with a face like a thundercloud who I think is called Wolf. They talk in low voices, phones pressed to ears, expressions grim. Planning something. I don't know what.
I pace my room. Sit on the bed. Pace some more. Pick up one of his books, put it down without reading a word. My hands won't stay still.
Twenty-four hours. That's all the time we have. Twenty-four hours before dangerous men show up looking for me, before Grim has to do something that could get him killed, all because I was too naive to see what Dominic really was.
By late afternoon, I can't take it anymore.
I find Grim in the hallway outside the room they use for meetings. He's alone, leaning against the wall, eyes closed. For a moment, he looks exhausted. Human. Not the cold-eyed killer from this morning.
Then he hears me approach, and the walls slam back up.
"You should be resting," he says.
"I can't rest." I stop in front of him. Force myself to say the words I've been turning over in my head for hours. "Maybe I should just go back. End this before—"
"No."
The word cuts through the air like a blade. He pushes off the wall, suddenly looming over me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him.
"You're not going anywhere near him."
"But I'm not—" Not yours. Not one of you. Not worth whatever this is about to cost.
"You are." His voice breaks on the word. Actually breaks, cracking down the middle like something inside him is fracturing. "You're mine. And I protect what's mine. That's not—that's not negotiable. That's not something you get to argue with."
"Grim—"
"You're not leaving me." His forehead drops to mine, his breath ragged against my lips. "I can't let you go back to him. I can't. Do you understand? I spent fifteen years making sure I never had anything to lose. Never letting anyone close enough to matter. And then you—"
He stops. Swallows hard.
"Then you looked at me like I wasn't a monster," he finishes roughly. "Everyone else sees it. You didn't. And I can't—"
His voice cracks again.
"I can't lose that. I can't lose you."
Even in the short time I've known him, I've sensed the walls—felt them every time he pulled back, every time he shut down. But right now, with his forehead pressed to mine and his voice breaking on words he doesn't know how to say—
The walls are gone.
I've never wanted anyone the way I want him.
I kiss him.
He goes rigid. Like he doesn't know what to do with tenderness. Like the anger was easier, the desperation familiar, but this—soft and deliberate—short-circuits something in him.
So I do it again. Softer. Slower. My hands sliding up his chest, feeling his heart hammer beneath my palms.
"Fleur—"
"Not here." I pull back just enough to meet his eyes. "Take me to your room."
Something shifts in his expression. He takes my hand—doesn't say a word—and leads me down the hallway. Past the main room, past the noise of his brothers, to the door at the end. He pushes it open, pulls me inside, and the lock clicks behind us.
Then he just stands there. Looking at me like he doesn't know what comes next.
I close the distance between us. Rise on my toes. Press my mouth to his.
"Fleur—"
"Stop thinking." I kiss him again, softer. Slower. My hands sliding up his chest, feeling his heart hammer beneath my palms. "Just feel."
A sound escapes him—rough, broken. His hands hover at my waist like he's afraid to touch me. Like he doesn't trust himself.
I take his wrists. Guide his palms to my hips. "Here. Touch me here."
His fingers flex against me, and I feel the shudder run through him.
"I don't—" He swallows hard. "I don't know how to be gentle. Not really. Last night was—"
"Last night was perfect." I pull back enough to look at him. Those grey eyes are wild, almost panicked. "But tonight I want something different."
"What do you want?"
I push against his chest. He doesn't move—of course he doesn't, he's a wall—but his eyebrows rise.
"Bed," I say. "Sit."
He blinks at me.
"Now."
He backs up until his knees hit the mattress and sits heavily, looking up at me with an expression I've never seen on him. Open. Waiting. Uncertain.
This man who terrifies everyone. Sitting on the edge of his bed, letting me lead.
I pull my shirt over my head and drop it on the floor.
His breath catches. His hands twitch against his thighs—wanting to reach for me, holding himself back. The restraint is visible, coiled tension in every muscle.
"You can look," I tell him, reaching back to unhook my bra. "You can't touch. Not yet."
"Fleur." My name sounds like it's being dragged over broken glass.
I let the bra fall. Step between his spread knees. Close enough that he could pull me down with one yank. He doesn't. Just stares up at me with those storm-grey eyes while his chest heaves.
"You've spent fifteen years not letting anyone in." I trace my fingers along his jaw, feel the muscle jump. "Fifteen years keeping everyone at arm's length. Fifteen years convincing yourself you don't need this."
"I didn't." His voice is raw. "I didn't need it. Until you."
"So let me in." I unbutton my jeans, shimmy them down my hips, kick them aside. Now I'm in nothing but underwear, standing over him while he sits fully clothed. The power imbalance does something to me—makes me bolder than I've ever been. "Let me see you."
His hands finally move. Grip my thighs hard, fingers digging in. I don't tell him to stop.
"I don't know how to do this," he admits, and it sounds like it costs him everything. "The other stuff—the fighting, the blood, the things that would make you run—that's easy. That I know. But this..."
"This?"
"Letting someone matter." His thumbs stroke restless patterns on my skin. "Letting someone stay."
I lean in. Press my lips to his forehead. His temple. The crease between his brows that never quite smooths out.
"I'm staying," I whisper against his skin. "So you better get used to it."
He breaks.
His mouth crashes into mine—not gentle, not careful, but desperate in a different way than last night.
Last night was hunger. This is surrender.
His hands slide up my back, pulling me flush against him, and I feel the groan rumble through his chest when my bare breasts press against the rough fabric of his shirt.
"Off," I gasp against his lips. "Take this off."
He yanks his shirt over his head, and then it's skin on skin—my softness against all that hard muscle, his tattoos rough beneath my palms. I straddle his lap, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips, and we both make sounds that aren't quite words when I settle against him.
"Need to feel you." His voice is wrecked. "Need to be inside you. Please, Fleur—"
The please undoes me. This man who doesn't ask for anything. Begging.
I reach between us. Work his belt open, unbutton his jeans, free him. When my hand wraps around him, his head falls back and he groans—loud and unguarded, the sound of someone who's stopped trying to control anything.
"Look at me," I tell him.
His head comes up. His eyes find mine. Blown dark, almost black, with something raw in them.
I rise up on my knees, push my underwear aside, and position him at my entrance.
"Fleur—" His hands grip my hips. "Wait, I need to—you need—"
"I need you." I sink down onto him.
The sound he makes isn't human.
I take him slow—inch by inch, letting my body adjust, feeling every ridge and pulse of him. His fingers dig into my hips hard enough to leave marks, and his jaw is clenched so tight I can hear his teeth grind. But his eyes never leave mine. Not for a second.
When I'm fully seated, I stop. Let us both feel it. The stretch. The fullness. The overwhelming intimacy of being connected like this, face to face, breath to breath.
"Okay?" I whisper.
"No." His voice cracks. "I'm fucking ruined. You've ruined me. I'm never going to recover from this."
I start to move.
Slow at first. Rolling my hips in a rhythm I control, watching his face, cataloging every reaction.
The way his breath stutters when I clench around him.
The way his fingers spasm against my skin when I rise up and sink back down.
The way he's looking at me like I'm the only thing in the world that matters.
"I love you," I say. "I need you to hear it again. I need you to believe it."
"Fleur—" His voice is wrecked.
"I do." I keep moving. Keep riding him, slow and deliberate. "I love you. And I'm not going anywhere. No matter what happens tomorrow." I lean in, press my forehead to his. "You're stuck with me."
"Good." The word tears out of him. His hips buck up to meet mine, and I gasp. "I love you. Fucking terrifies me, but I do."
I kiss him, swallowing the words, and start moving faster.
He matches my rhythm. His hands slide from my hips to my ass, gripping hard, helping me rise and fall. The angle shifts and suddenly he's hitting a spot inside me that makes sparks shoot up my spine.
"There," I gasp. "There, don't stop—"
"Never." He thrusts up harder, and I cry out. "Never stopping. You're mine. Say it."
"Yours." It comes out broken. "I'm yours."
"And I'm yours." Another thrust. Deeper. "First thing that's been mine in fifteen years. First thing that matters. Only thing."
The pressure builds. Different than last night—less frantic, more inevitable. Like a tide coming in. I can feel it gathering at the base of my spine, spreading through my limbs, winding tighter with every roll of my hips.
"I'm close," I breathe.
"I know. I can feel it." His hand slides between us, thumb finding my clit. "Let go. I want to watch you. Want to feel you fall apart on me."
His thumb circles once. Twice.
I shatter.
The orgasm tears through me—my back arching, my fingers digging into his shoulders, his name spilling from my lips.
And he watches all of it. Takes all of it.
Keeps thrusting through my release until his own hits him, until he's groaning into my neck and spilling inside me and holding me so tight I can't tell where I end and he begins.
We stay like that for a long time.
Tangled together. Still connected. His face buried in my hair, my cheek pressed to his shoulder, both of us shaking with aftershocks and something bigger than either of us knows how to name.
After, we lie in his bed, my head on his chest, his fingers tracing absent patterns on my back.
"Come back to me," I say quietly. "Whatever you have to do tomorrow. Just come back."
His arms tighten around me.
"I will," he says. And the way he says it—certain, absolute—I believe him.
For the first time since I ran from that wedding, I let myself imagine a future.