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She had all of it.

Here.

With him.

Home.

40

ROLLO

The moon was higher now, pearled against the sky like it had climbed there just to witness this moment.

The forest had quieted. The town had dimmed. Lanterns flickered low at the sanctuary’s edge, casting golden trails of light across the wild grass. The last laughter had faded with the guests as they'd meandered home with warm hearts and full bellies, leaving the night to its rightful keepers.

Delilah stood barefoot on the sanctuary porch, gown loose around her frame, curls falling soft around her shoulders. Her back was to him, but she felt him there—he knew it by the way her shoulders eased, her breath slowed.

“You’re quiet,” she said softly, not turning.

He stepped up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist, pressing a kiss to the curve of her neck. “Just takin’ a moment.”

“To breathe?”

“Toremember,” he murmured. “To etch this in my head. You, here. Ours.”

She turned in his arms, hazel eyes glowing in the moonlight. “We’re already etched.”

He let out a quiet breath, full of reverence and ache. “Not yet.”

Her brows lifted. Not with confusion. But knowing.

Anticipating.

“Rollo…”

He took her hand, large and calloused, the one that had fought battles and rebuilt enclosures, that had carried her through fire and fury. And he led her inside.

The sanctuary was still, scented with the herbs she'd gathered earlier in the week—cedar, rosemary, a little starflower.

They didn’t need candles.

Moonlight spilled through the high windows, catching on the dust motes like stardust. It shimmered against the blankets they'd laid together across the floor days ago, talking of dreams and plans and which way to hang curtains.

Now, it was holy ground.

Rollo turned to her slowly, his breath caught somewhere between his ribs and his throat.

“You sure?” he asked, voice gruff with the weight of it all.

Delilah stepped close, sliding her hands beneath the open edges of his shirt, palms warm against his skin, fingers brushing across the firm plane of his stomach and the thick line of hair that trailed downward.

“I’ve been yours since the moment you left that moonvine garden to follow me,” she whispered. “And I’ll keep bein’ yours. Mark or no mark.”

His fingers trembled as they brushed her cheek, rough knuckles trailing the soft slope of her jaw. “But I need to. Not for a claim. Not to cage you. Just… to show you. To bind you to me in the way my soul’s already done.”

She smiled then, slow and sure. “Then do it, Rollo. Mark me. I want it. I want us.”

The air shifted. Not with magic. But with meaning.