18. Jagger
JAGGER
The iron band weighs nothing in my hand. Four generations of Ironjaw women, and it weighs nothing. That's what certainty does. Strips the gravity right out of heavy things.
Sabine stands above me. Firelight paints half her face gold and leaves the other half in shadow. Her sharp bob is a mess. Dust on her sensible blouse from inspecting the crawl space. A cobweb clinging to her collar. She has never looked more like home.
"This band is not a ring the way humans understand rings. It is not a promise. It is not a symbol."
Her lips part. No sound.
"In my bloodline, when an Ironjaw gives this band, they are saying: I am done. My war is over. You are the land I choose to rest in."
Her chin trembles. Just once. She locks it down fast, the way she locks everything down. Jaw tight, posture straight, accountant armor snapping into place. But her eyes. Her eyes are full and bright and spilling over at the corners.
"Sabine Lin. Will you be my mate? Not because the DMI stamped a form. Not because blood-magic ink made a mistake. Because I am choosing you. Every morning, oatmeal instead of raw meat. Every evening, spreadsheets instead of bounty warrants. Every single day, you."
A tear tracks down her cheek and hits the dusty floor.
"You're kneeling on a nail."
"I know."
"Your knee is bleeding."
"I know."
She drops. Not elegantly. Not gracefully. Knees hitting the floor hard enough to make the boards bark. She grabs my face with both hands, palms flat against my jaw, fingers barely reaching past the ridge of my cheekbones. Small hands. Warm hands.
"Yes."
She kisses me. Salt and dust and the ghost of the lavender soap she packed in her overnight bag. I slide the iron band onto her thumb because her ring finger is far too small and I will have it resized tomorrow and the next day and every day until it fits because I will make everything fit for her.
She laughs against my mouth. The sound vibrates through my tusks and down my spine.
"It's enormous."
"We will fix it."
"I'm keeping it on my thumb forever."
"That works too."
She pulls back to study the band on her hand. She turns it in the firelight. The runes glow faint amber, responding to the warmth of her skin, recognizing her the way old magic recognizes things that belong.
Then she looks at me unguarded. Hungry.
"There's a blanket in the truck."
"Get it."
I'm on my feet and out the front door in three strides.
The truck is parked crooked in the gravel drive.
I reach for the thick wool blanket from behind the seat, the one I've been sleeping under at the office for the past week.
It smells like me. Like leather and smoke.
By the time I get back inside, she's already cleared the floor.
Pushed our bags to the wall. Stacked her renovation notebooks in a neat pile by the hearth.
I spread the blanket in the center of the empty room. The fire crackles. Shadows dance on the bare walls and the exposed ceiling beams.
Sabine unbuttons her blouse. Methodical.
Top to bottom. Each button released with the same precision she uses on a ten-key.
The fabric parts and the firelight finds the hollow of her throat, the line of her collarbone, the plain cotton bra she wears because she is practical in all things and it drives me absolutely insane.
I pull my shirt over my head. The tattoos flare..
"The floor is hard."
"That's what the blanket is for."
"Your knees will hurt tomorrow."
"My knees are not your concern right now."
She grins. Wicked. The accountant goes away and someone feral takes her place. I pull her down onto the blanket and her back arches against the wool and my hand spans the entire width of her waist and she gasps and the sound fills every empty room in the house.
I go slow. She fights me on it. Nails dragging across the tattoos on my shoulders, hips lifting, teeth finding the muscle of my neck.
But I pin her wrists above her head with one hand and worship her with the other.
Every inch. Every sound. The sharp cry when I find the place below her ear.
The broken moan when my mouth travels south.
She tastes like salt and victory and the rest of my entire life.
When she shatters the first time, the runes on my arms blaze gold.
When she shatters the second time, the iron band on her thumb glows warm enough to match.
When I finally let go, the old farmhouse groans around us and the fire roars high in the hearth and she holds my face in both hands and says my name like a prayer and I am ruined. Completely. Permanently. Gratefully.
We lie tangled on the blanket. The fire burns low. Embers click and settle. The iron band catches the last of the light.
"The kitchen needs new countertops."
"Granite."
"Granite is expensive. Butcher block is more cost-effective."
"Granite. I want you to have granite."
She traces a rune on my stomach. Lazy circles.
"The barn could be converted into office space."
"For what?"
"I've been thinking." Her eyes sharp. Calculator eyes. "Supernaturals get audited at three times the rate of humans, and most of them don't even know what a W-2 is. The troll who runs the deli by your old office told me he hasn't filed taxes since 2019."
"You talked to Grug?"
"Grug owes the IRS forty-seven thousand dollars. He was very forthcoming once I explained the penalty structure." She taps my sternum. "I want to open a firm. Specifically for supernatural clients. Out of our barn."