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I can’t believe she’s mine.

When he’s finished, I look in the mirror.

It’s perfect.

And I already know exactly what I’m going to do with it.

I take a calm breath, and I go find my wife.

Her cousins file out first, heading to the front to pay and chat. One of them is talking about grabbing matcha lattes or smoothies—whatever.

I don't care.

Because I know she’s in the back dressing room now. Alone.

I move quietly through the narrow hallway until I reach the half-closed door. I knock once.

“Yeah?” Her voice is soft. Tentative.

I push it open slowly.

She’s just slipping her arms into her top, I think it’s called a halter top. Her back is to me, long dark locks spilling over her shoulders.

She hasn’t fastened the clasp yet around her neck yet, and her gaze flicks up at the mirror in front of her.

She sees me.

But then—she sees it.

The tattoo on my shoulder and neck. Her name. The phoenix.

Identical.

Claiming her the way she’s claimed me.

Because I’ll always belong to her. And she will always be mine.

Together we rise up.

Her breath catches.

“Balor,” she whispers. Her voice cracks, her eyes welling.

She turns around fully, chest rising and falling like she’s holding back a storm of emotions.

“How?” she asks. “Why would you do that?”

I step into the room, slowly, deliberately. My hands are fisted at my sides because I’m shaking. She deserves more than words. But it’s all I have.

“Because I’m yours,” I rasp, voice low and rough. “You don’t get it yet, do you? You already own me. Every part. Mind, soul, fuck, even my nightmares.”

Her eyes glisten, lips trembling.

“You followed me here.”

“I followed you here,” I agree, letting her in. Letting her see how wild I am for her.

Mad. Crazy. Unhinged.