Chapter 26-Honor
The walk back is a blur. Faster than it took to get to her.
Maybe because I’m not heading for the Den.
I’m not dragging her into a crowd of concerned voices and curious stares.
No.
I’m taking my mate home.
Well, to the room I’ve been sleeping in—above Hope’s garage.
It isn’t much.
But it’s private. Quiet.
Ours for now.
And it will work until my plans to build her a house are finished.
Because right now, this is all I need.
She is all I need.
I carry her the whole way, her body curled against my chest like it belongs there.
Because it does.
My Bear is still riding high—possessive, blood-soaked, vibrating with rage at the thought that anyone dared put their hands on her.
That anyone dared think they could take what’s ours.
Rosalind is mine.
My mate.
And they touched her.
They shackled her. Hurt her. Marked her with pain instead of love.
I caught the scent of her blood in that hellhole of a camp, and I nearly lost my fucking mind. I did lose my mind.
But she’s here now.
And I’ll never let her go again.
I climb the stairs two at a time, every step echoing with purpose. I kick the door shut behind me and head straight for the bathroom.
She stirs against me. I feel her trying to be brave, trying to smile through the pain.
But when I set her down on her feet, she flinches.
Her lip’s cracked. There’s a bruise blooming beneath her eye.
Fury burns through me like wildfire.
My Bear growls low, deep, murderous.
But her small hand presses to my chest, right over my heart.
"I'm alright,” she whispers, voice soft but steady. “You saved me.”
I can’t speak. Not yet.
My throat is too tight.
My soul too raw.
So I press my forehead to hers, just for a second. Just to feel her there, breathing.
Still mine. Still here.
The rumble in my chest deepens—not anger this time. Something deeper. Older.
Ours.
I turn away to adjust the water, needing the distraction before I snap.
Steam starts to rise, the warmth wrapping around us like a blanket. And my fingers tremble, not with lust but with reverence.
I step into the shower first, testing the water until it’s warm—not hot. Gentle. Safe.
Then I turn and hold out my hand.
She takes it without hesitation.
That simple trust nearly guts me.
I help her step inside, careful and slow, watching her face for any sign of pain.
My hands stay steady, anchoring her as the water spills over us, steam curling around our bodies and closing us off from the rest of the world.
Just us.
I reach for the shampoo first, pouring a small amount into my palm.
“Okay?” I murmur.
She nods.
I work it into her hair gently, massaging her scalp with slow, patient movements.
Dirt and sweat rinse away, dark water spiraling down the drain.
I take my time, fingers careful as I lift sections, making sure nothing tugs or hurts.
When I rinse it out, I follow with conditioner, smoothing it through strand by strand, separating knots with my fingers instead of forcing them apart.
“You don’t have to do that,” she whispers and lets out a shaky breath.
“Yes, I do. And I want to. I want to take care of you, Rosie.”
She nods, and I reach for the body wash.
I pour it into my hand and hesitate for half a second—giving her time to stop me if she needs to.
She doesn’t.
So I start with her shoulders. Her arms. Her back.
Each touch is deliberate.
Reassuring. Protective. Possessive.
When my hands move over her ribs, she gasps.
“Did I hurt you?” I freeze.
“It’s okay. Please, go on.”
I can’t say no. So I do, and then she cries. Quietly. And I know it has nothing to do with physical pain.
But it guts me.
It’s like she’s been holding it in for too long and can’t anymore.
I immediately pull her close, wrapping my arms around her, pressing her against my chest.
“It’s okay,” I murmur into her hair. “I’ve got you. You’re safe. I swear.”
Her skin is warm against mine. Familiar. Right.
And slowly—steadily—my scent replaces everything else.
The fear.
The blood.
The filth of hands that never should’ve touched her.
I keep holding her as the water runs over us, washing away the last of it.
Not rushing.
Not letting go.
Because this—this is how I protect her now.
With my body, my breath, my heart.
With tenderness.
With reverence.
With love.
“I’m going to take care of you until the last breath leaves my body, Rosie,” I murmur finally, voice gravel rough. “From now on. No more running. No more hiding. No more being alone.”
Her arms wrap around me.
“You’re not alone either,” she whispers.
God.
I almost fall to my knees.
The woman who was just nearly broken—is comforting me.
“Fuck, Rosie,” I murmur, my voice rough with everything I can’t hold back anymore.
She blinks up at me with those beautiful baby blue eyes that bring me to my knees.
There’s no fear in them.
No hesitation.
Just her—mine—looking at me like I’m her entire world.
“I love you. I love you so much, my brave, stubborn, fierce-as-hell mate.”
She gasps, then lets out a soft, breathless laugh. “I love you too, Honor. Mate.”
That word.
Mate.
It hits me like lightning to the chest.
My Bear growls his approval—low and hungry, rumbling beneath my skin.
And my whole body lights up like fire.
Suddenly, we can’t get clean fast enough.
Not because of the grime, or the blood, or the stink of those bastards—though that’s part of it.
It’s because I need her.
I need her to be the last thing I touch, the only scent I wear, the one thing that fills my every sense from this moment on.
I grab more soap and lather it into my hands, scrubbing myself quickly—shoulders, chest, arms.
She helps. God, she helps.
Each swipe of her hands across my skin is like a vow.
Each stroke, a wordless promise.
You’re mine. You’re safe. I’ve got you.
And with every touch, every glance, the need coils tighter.
But I won’t rush her. Not ever again.
Still, I feel it—sparking in the air between us. Building.
The water finally runs clear, rinsing away the war, the fear, the hours of terror that came before.
When I shut off the faucet, steam clings to her lashes and her cheeks are flushed—not from the heat, but from something deeper.
I wrap her in a towel. My towel.
Big. Soft. Smelling like home and cedar and Bear.
Then I lift her into my arms again—gentle but firm. No hesitation this time.
And I carry her out of the bathroom, down the hall, and into my room.
Our room, now.
The bed’s already turned down. I did it on instinct. Knew I’d be bringing her back with me.
Because there was never any other option.
I set her down carefully, but my hands linger.
There’s so much I want to say.
So much I need her to hear.
About the plot of land next door.
About the house I want to build.
About asking her to be my wife—not just my mate. My everything.
But that can wait.
Right now, all I care about is the fact that Rosalind is here.
Alive. Safe. With me.
So no, I don’t speak. I can’t.
The words get caught behind the pounding of my heart and the roar of my Bear—who only has one thought left as I lay my Rosie down and fuse my lips to hers.
Mine.