Page 92 of Blood, Bones, and the Bratva Bogeyman

Once the story is finished and my kids’ eyes are heavy, I kiss them both on the foreheads and whisper the words that come easier now.

“I love you.”

“Love you, Papa,” Cal whispers.

“Wuv you,” Nik replies sleepily.

Cressida goes one way, and I go the other as we finish out our nightly duties. I wait until the house goes quiet. I wait until the stars are high and the lights are low.

Then I stalk down the hall, slow and silent, toward where my wife waits.

The door is cracked but the room is dark, lit only by the soft gold glow of the bedside lamp. The air is lit with something electric.

Cressida stands at the window in nothing but my shirt this time, her legs bare, her hair down in a wild tumble and begging to be pulled.

“I just checked on them. They’re fully asleep,” she says softly.

“Good.”

She turns, watching me with eyes that scream her excitement.

I move and she bolts through the bathroom connected to our room and out the door that connects to the hallway.

We both know it’s a game, a chase, a promise that I’ll always find her.

My growl echoes down the hall as she runs, her feet slapping the hardwood. She’s fast, but I’m always going to be faster.

I catch her halfway down the stairs, one arm wrapped around her waist, and drag her against my chest. “Caught you.”

She shivers. “Took you long enough.”

Lifting her, she wraps around me like she was made for it because she absolutely fucking was.

We don’t make it to the bedroom. I pin her to the wall at the base of the stairs, and my mouth finds her throat. Her fingers claw at my shirt, her thighs tightening around my waist.

This woman. My wife. My fucking queen. The only one who’s ever known how to love the monster and survive the fallout.

I worship her like the storm she is.

After we make it to the bedroom for another round, we lie tangled in the quiet, her head on my chest and her fingers tracing lazy circles across my ribs.

“You’re soft,” she teases.

“Only for you.”

“And Caly and Niko.”

“Do not spread it around. I have got a reputation, yes?”

She kisses me again, slow and sweet, then leaves me staring up at the ceiling as warmth buzzes through my limbs.

Once, I was the Bogeyman. The one whispered about in dark alleys and blood-slick dreams.

Now, I am hers.

The father of her feral daughter and her stoic son.

I am the bedtime monster that tells stories and paints his nails glittery pink when his little princess demands it.