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His body locks against mine. His hips jerk once, twice. And then he loses it completely.

He comes with a growl that seems torn straight from his throat, every muscle in his body drawn tight as his release hits. I feel it all—inside me, deep, claiming—like he's emptying every last piece of himself into me.

And even then—he doesn't stop.

He keeps moving. Slower now. Rougher. Like he's painting the last strokes of something sacred.

"You're mine," he breathes against my mouth, the words a vow more binding than any contract.

"Down to your fucking bones. You'll leave this canvas soaked in me—and there'll be no part of you I haven't claimed."

And in that moment, covered in paint and sweat and him, I don't want there to be.

"And you're mine."

Forty-Seven

BECKETT

The paint hasn't driedon her skin yet.

She's still trembling when I lift her, body pliant in my arms. Paint streaks across her skin. The colors shimmer under the fading light as I carry her from the studio, her thighs still quivering around my waist, her breath warm against my neck.

I don't speak. I don't need to. Her body molds against mine like she knows I'll never let her fall.

Because I won't.

She belongs to me now. Every broken piece. Every rebuilt one. Every shade she's painted between us. In every sense of the word and no longer the Possession she never truly was. She'd always been more. I just never admitted it to myself.

The bathroom is all stone and glass when we enter—cool surfaces that will soon fog with steam and heat. I lower her carefully onto the marble bench beside the shower, my hands lingering on her skin as though letting go might break the spell between us.

She doesn't move. Doesn't speak. Just watches me with those wide, hazy eyes that seem to see right through the walls I've spent a lifetime building. She looks at me like I've just cracked her open and she's still deciding if it was salvation or destruction.

I reach past her to turn the water on, letting steam fill the space between us. "Hot enough?" I ask, my voice rougher than intended.

She nods, a small movement, but I catch it. I always catch everything about her.

The paint is still wet on her skin. Gold dust shimmers across her collarbones. Black streaks curl around her inner thighs. The evidence of our claiming marked in colors that belong on canvas but look better on her.

I can't stop looking. She's a masterpiece I never knew I was creating.

She slides off the bench, movements slow and deliberate despite her exhaustion, and steps into the shower. The water cascades over her immediately—droplets catching in her hair, streaming down her curves. She tilts her head back, eyes closed, and for a moment she looks untouchable.

I follow her without thinking, drawn toward her like gravity exists only where she stands. The spray hits us both as steam curls around our bodies, rising between us like smoke from something burning.

Maybe it is. Maybe it's me.

She tilts her face toward the water, letting it sluice through her hair, over her flushed skin. For a moment, she's transformed—no longer the girl I chased through woods, or the woman who defied those who tried to trade her like property. She's just Luna.

Naked. Untouchable. Entirely mine.

I move behind her, careful not to crowd, and press my hand to the curve of her hip—a touch meant to ground, to claim, to simply feel.

She shivers under my palm.

"Cold?" I murmur against her ear.

"No," she whispers, the first word she's spoken since I carried her from the studio. "Memory."