Chapter 50
It takes longer than I expect to feel like myself again.
Not because of the pain, that fades quickly with medication and forced rest, but because my body remembers the fear.
It holds onto it like muscle memory, flinching before my mind can catch up.
A few weeks pass in quiet pieces. A physical therapist comes and goes.
Colter rarely leaves my side. Food appears whether I ask for it or not.
He watches me like I’m something fragile, like one wrong move could break me all over again.
By the end of the month, the bruises are gone and my shoulder feels almost like normal again. The stiches have been removed, and I no longer have to wear the sling. My range of motion is nearly back to where it was before, and I can finally sleep without waking in a panic.
Normal. Or close enough.
Colter went upstairs an hour ago to handle something he won’t explain. He hasn’t explained much lately, but at least, when I ask, he doesn’t lie to me. Lee and Sutton come and keep me company when he is gone, filing the silence with chatter that doesn’t ask anything of me.
The bathwater steams as I lower myself into it, lavender blooming through the air. Heat loosens my muscles for the first time since everything went wrong. I sink deeper, letting my thoughts drift where I’ve been carefully avoiding.
The bathroom door opens softly.
“I figured I’d find you here,” Colter says.
I lift my gaze to him. To the familiar breadth of his shoulders. To the way his eyes check me first, always, before anything else. Relief and restraint tangle together in his expression.
“You’ve been avoiding telling me something,” I say lightly.
He doesn’t deny it. He steps closer, resting his hand on the edge of the tub. “I don’t want to overwhelm you.”
“I’m not fragile,” I say. “Not anymore.”
His jaw tightens. “I know.”
The silence stretches, thick with everything we aren’t saying. When I reach for his hand, he stills, but he doesn’t pull away. Hus thumb brushes over my knuckles, grounding and careful, like he needs a reminder that I’m real.
We sit like this until the bathwater cools.
It’s a comfortable silence. When I begin to shiver, he helps me from the tub, wrapping me in a towel.
His touch is deliberate, restrained, intimate without crossing the line he’s drawn for himself.
One I definitely want him to cross. He guides me to the bed and sits beside me instead of hovering, his knee brushing mine.
“I almost lost you.” His hand covers mine, firm and certain.
My pulse kicks.
He leans in, resting his forehead against mine, and for the first time since I woke up back in his home…our home…he lets himself breathe me in.
“I don’t ever want to feel that again.”
Neither do I.
The words settle between us, fragile and heavy all at once. Colter’s grip tightens slightly, like he is anchoring himself to the sound of my heartbeat.
“There’s something I need to say,” he murmurs.
I lift my head enough to look at him. His expression is stripped bare—no control, no strategy. Only truth.
“Okay.”
He exhales slowly, like he’s been holding his breath for weeks. Months. Maybe longer.
“I’ve built my life around contingencies,” he says. “Around making sure nothing touches what’s mine unless I allow it.” His thumb traces the inside of my wrist, right over my pulse. “And then you came along and ruined every plan I ever had.”
I smile faintly. “I’m good at that.”
“That not what I mean.” His voice roughens. “You didn’t change my life. You became it.”
My chest tightens.
“I thought loving you would make me weak,” he continues. “Turn out, it’s the only thing that’s ever made me honest.”
He shifts off the bed and drops to one knee.
The world tilts.
My breath leaves me in a rush as he reaches into his pocket, pulling out a small, velvet box. His hands are steady. His eyes are not.
“I don’t want a life where I have to imagine losing you again,” he says quietly. “I don’t want a future where you’re anything other than my wife.”
The box opens.
The ring is simple and perfect. No excess. Only certainty.
“Marry me, Peyton,” he says. “Not because of what happened. Not because I’m afraid. But because I choose you, ever version of you, for the rest of my life.”
Tears blur my vision.
“Yes,” I whisper, the word breaking as it leaves me. “Yes, Colter.”
Relief crashes through him like a wave. He’s on his feet in an instant, pulling me into his arms with careful urgency, like he still doesn’t quite trust that I won’t disappear. His lips press to my temple, my cheek, my mouth—each kiss reverent, unhurried, full of promise.
He slides the ring onto my finger, his thumb lingering like he’s memorizing the sight.
“My wife,” he murmurs, awe threading through the word.
I bite my lower lip, lashes lowering as he pushes open my thighs with his hands, placing himself on both knees.
When his tongue licks the inside of my thigh, I let out a groan of appreciation.
He works his way up until his tongue runs across my clit and then all the way back, flickering along the sensitive areas as he goes.
I watch him, my hands in his hair. He lifts his eyes to look up at me as his finger slides inside me. I bite down harder on my bottom lip and rock my hips against his hand.
“Please,” I plead, needing more.
Colter stand and discards his shirt, them removes his jeans and briefs, chucking them to the side.
He grabs my hips, flipping me over so that my ass is sticking up on the edge of the bed.
His hands gently caress each cheek. A soft slap to the right side causes me to startle before he runs his hand over it before pressing a kiss to the spot.
I arch, wanting more, and he slaps the other side. My clit begins to throb with arousal. I shake my ass back and forth, looking back at him over my shoulder.
“You like me spanking you?” he asks, his hungry gaze meeting mine.
“I do, sir,” I admit, drawing out the last word.
His eyes darken and his nostrils flare. He gives me a harder slap. I cry out as pleasure shoots through me. He gives the other side a firm hit, causing me to pulse between my legs.
“More,” I beg. He growls before slapping my right cheek again, then the left.
I’m so close to exploding. I snatch fistfuls of the sheets, begging him for more.
His hands grab my hips, and I feel his erection slide behind me until it is pushing inside of me. He buries himself deep inside of me with a harsh breath. His forehead presses against my shoulder, his arms wrapping around my front and gripping me in a painfully tight hold.
“Fuck, baby,” he groans. “So tight and wet for me.”
He fists my hair and yanks my head back. His mouth finds my racing pulse, his teeth and lips branding my skin with his mark.
I feel impossibly full, his hard length stroking me ruthlessly. My abdomen clenches so tight, and it’s the only warning I get before an orgasm tears through me.
Whimpers and sobs pour from me, the ecstasy as overwhelming as Colter is.
He doesn’t let up his harsh pace, and I swear he’s determined to make me spontaneously combust.
My clit is swollen, and I know that if I reach between my legs and stroke it, I’ll shatter again. But I want more of what he is offering.
I look back over my shoulder at Colter. His arms are flexed, veins and muscles standing out on them. His heated gaze is on my ass, but it lifts to meet mine.
“Harder.”
The muscles in his neck flex, and he slaps my right cheek hard.
“You’re mine, little star,” he growls, the nickname making me clench around him. “And soon, I’m going to this ass. Just like I take this pussy.”
The heat in his gaze excites me. I feel it as the wave of my next orgasm breaks free, and I cry out his name, pushing back on him. He starts to pull away, but I am still there. Riding it. I am not done yet.
“Harder,” I beg him. “Fuck me harder!”
His grip on my hips tighten, and he growls as he pumps into me harder. “Fuck!” he roars. “Little star.”
I am trembling from the pleasure when another orgasm breaks free, and I scream his name. Clawing at the sheets.
He pumps faster, and I push back on him, meeting each thrust.
“I’m gonna come, baby,” he shouts as his body jerks against mine, his cock hitting that special spot inside of me as he releases with each thrust.
I shake as I feel his warmth inside me.
When he pulls out, I collapse on the bed, gasping for air.
He settles beside me and draws me into his chest, his body warm and solid behind mine. His hand traces slowly down my stomach, slipping between my thighs, and I flinch when he touches me. Everything still too sensitive, too exposed.
He murmurs something low as his fingers explore, testing, then retreating, skimming along my thighs instead. I didn’t think I could want more so soon, didn’t think my body could respond again, but it does, heat building despite myself.
“We should take care of this,” he whispers near my ear, voice rough. “But I want to feel it. Want to know you’re marked by me.”
The words send a shiver through me. His touch follows, deliberate and knowing, drawing a gasp from my throat as sensation floods back in. I close my eyes, letting myself sink into it, into him, into the way he makes everything else disappear.
“Mine,” he breathes, the word heavy with meaning.
The sound of it, combined with the way he touches me, pulls me apart. I rock into his hand without meaning to, chasing the feeling.
“Feels so good,” I whisper.
He swears softly and shifts, turning me onto my back, his control fraying. “You make me lose my mind,” he mutters, and I know it’s true because I feel it too—this reckless pull, this need that drowns out reason.
I clutch the sheets as he moves with me, meeting me stroke for stroke, until all I can do is say his name and hold on.
When it’s over, he stays there, hovering above me, his gaze sweeping over me like he’s memorizing every inch.
“My wife,” he says quietly.
The certainty in his voice settles deep inside me.
I know it then. Know it without doubt.
This man owns my heart.
And I am his.