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She feels like heaven.

Like every wound I’ve ever carried just got kissed clean by fire and light. Like all the hollow parts of me she never saw—every scar, every secret—are being filled with her. With her sweetness. Her strength. Her fucking love.

“Balor,” she breathes against my throat, arms winding tighter around my neck. “Oh my God…it’s so good!”

I shove my shirt up, guiding her face against my chest, needing her closer even though we’re already one body now.

“Bite me if you have to,” I murmur hoarsely. “Mark me. Scratch me. I want it. But keep those sounds for me only, Angel. Just me.”

Because this isn’t just sex.

This is something primal. Something sacred.

And even though we’re in a borrowed space, a hidden hallway with the faint scent of ink and citrus cleaner in the air, it doesn’t matter.

Nothing matters but her.

Her voice, breathless and breaking, is the only soundtrack I need.

Every stroke, every grind of my hips, she takes like a goddess carved in pleasure.

She moves with me—for me—tilting her hips, clenching around me like her body was built to break me apart and remake me in her image.

I kiss her cheek. Her neck. Her throat. Soft and reverent between growled curses and shattered prayers.

“Mine,” I mutter into her skin. “You’re mine, Lucy. You hear me?”

“Yes,” she whimpers. “Yours.”

And when her nails dig into my back, her body fluttering and pulsing around me, I know she’s close. So fucking close.

And so am I.

My balls tighten, spine locking as I drive into her with desperate, filthy thrusts. I want to give her everything.

Every desperate drop of love, rage, obsession—all of me.

And when she finally comes, clenching down on my cock, trembling in my arms like she’s being set free, I follow.

My whole body stiffens, and I come so hard I lose track of everything except the feel of her arms holding me tight and the sound of her voice whispering my name like a vow.

“Love you so much,” she whispers.

“I love you, Lucy Cruz. From the second I saw you. You were always meant to be mine.”

Epilogue One-Lucy

I look out over the backyard setup, and for a moment, I can’t breathe.

Not because anything’s wrong—God, no.

But because everything feels right.

And still, I’m nervous.

Nervous and giddy and full of the kind of fluttering excitement that makes my palms sweat and my throat tighten with emotion.

Our home—this home—it was already beautiful. Clean lines, masculine tones, subtle tech that whispered money instead of shouting it. But Balor?