His hand is still wrapped around mine as we climb the last stair, and I feel the shift in him—the coiled tension, the decisive turn toward the master bedroom door. The hallway is quiet, the afternoon light slanting through the window at the far end, dust motes suspended in the gold. I've walked past this door a thousand times. Never opened it. Never been invited.
He pushes it open with his shoulder, pulls me inside, and kicks it shut behind us.
The room is bigger than I expected. A massive bed against the far wall, dark linens, a grey duvet that matches his eyes. Heavy curtains half-drawn. The air smells like him—cedar and something sharp, something animal. I barely register any of it because his hands are on me, already pulling, already taking.
I'm pressed against the inside of the door before I can draw a full breath. The wood is cool against my back through the thin fabric of my blouse. His hand fists in my hair, tilting my head back, and his mouth finds my neck—hot, open-mouthed, teeth scraping down the column of my throat like he's tasting me.
I gasp. My hands find his shoulders, grip the fabric of his shirt.
"You wanted me to prove it," he mutters against my skin, his voice rough, and his other hand is already at the button of my jeans, working it open with brutal efficiency. The rasp of the zipper is loud in the quiet room. "So I'm going to prove it. Every inch. Every way. Until you remember who you belong to."
I arch into him, and I am already gone—the heat of him, the weight of his body pinning mine, the way his fingers slide beneath the waistband of my jeans, finding skin. His hand is rough and warm against my hip, and I make a sound I don't recognize, something caught between a whimper and a yes.
His mouth finds my jaw, my cheek, the corner of my lips. "Say it again," he breathes. "Say you're mine."
"I'm yours." The words fall out of me, bruised and honest. "I'm yours, Kaelen."
A sound rumbles in his chest—satisfaction, hunger, something darker. His hand slides lower, fingertips grazing the waistband of my underwear, and my breath catches, my whole body tightening in anticipation—
A knock.
Small. Insistent. Three sharp raps on the wood behind my head.
He freezes. His hand stops. His breath goes still against my throat.
"Uncle Kaelen?"
Liv's voice. Muffled through the door. So close I could reach out and touch the wood she's standing behind.
"Grandma says breakfast is ready. She says you have to come now or the eggs get cold."
Kaelen doesn't move. His forehead drops to my shoulder, and I feel the vibration of a low growl against my skin—frustration, pure animal frustration, rumbling through his chest into mine.
"Five minutes, Liv." His voice is rough, scraped raw, but he controls it. Makes it sound almost normal. "Tell Grandma I'll be there in five minutes."
A pause. Then her small footsteps, retreating down the hallway.
Neither of us moves. His forehead is still pressed to my shoulder, his breath hot against my collarbone. My jeans are still undone, his hand still resting on my hip, my heart slamming against my ribs like it's trying to escape.
He stays there for a long moment. Breathing. Pulling himself back from whatever edge he was about to go over.
Then he lifts his head.
His grey eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, hunger still banked in them like coals. He looks at me—really looks—and something in his face shifts. Softens, almost. He reaches up, slow, and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers linger against my cheek.
"Tonight," he says. The word is a promise. A vow. "After they're asleep. You and me. This door locked. No interruptions."
I can't speak. My throat is too tight, my body still humming with the shock of the interruption, the ache of being stopped mid-fall.
He waits. His eyes hold mine, demanding an answer.
I nod.
His thumb brushes across my lower lip, once, featherlight. Then he leans in and kisses me—hard, consuming, a kiss that says this is not over, this is only deferred. My lips part beneath his, and I taste the edge of his hunger, feel the restraint in the way his hand tightens on my jaw and then releases.
He steps back.
The air rushes in between us, cold and wrong. He leaves me pressed against the door, shaking, my jeans still undone, my body still aching for his hands.
He looks at me for one more heartbeat—takes in the flush on my chest, the mess of my hair, the way I'm barely holding myself upright—and something flickers in his eyes. Satisfaction. Possession. Mine.
Then he turns and walks to the bathroom, closing the door behind him.
I stand there for a full minute, trying to remember how to breathe. My fingers find the button of my jeans, do it up with trembling hands. The zipper rasps back into place. I smooth my blouse, press my palms to my burning cheeks, and try to compose myself into something that looks like a person who wasn't just about to let her husband take her against a door.
I fail. I look exactly like what I am—a woman who was five seconds away from being claimed, interrupted, and told to wait.
The bathroom door opens. Kaelen steps out, his face composed, his hair smoothed back. He looks at me, and there's the ghost of a smirk at the corner of his mouth.
"You might want to splash some water on your face before you go down."
I want to hit him. I want to kiss him. I settle for glaring at him as I push past him into the bathroom.
The face in the mirror is wrecked. My lips are swollen, my cheeks flushed a deep rose, my eyes too bright, too hungry. I look like someone who's been thoroughly kissed and wants more. I look like a woman who's been seen.
I splash cold water on my face. Once. Twice. Pat it dry with a towel that smells like him. It doesn't help. I still look flushed. I still look like I'm seconds away from climbing out of my skin.
Breakfast is a battlefield.