Page 18

I know this obsession I have with my new wife isn’t normal.

But fuck me, I can’t seem to help myself.

I can’t stop touching her.

I can’t stop watching her, holding her, breathing her in like I’m an addict chasing his next high.

Because that’s exactly what I am now.

An addict.

And Aella is my only drug.

She’s sleeping, curled soft and warm against my chest, her delicate breaths puffing against my skin.

Poor worn-out thing.

Not that I can blame her.

Not after the absolute destruction I rained down on her body.

Not after I knocked our breakfast off the table just to sit her fine ass on it and feast on my sweet Pixie’s sublime sex.

I was ravenous for her.

Still am.

I need to consume her.

But I also know I need to pace myself, to remember she’s new to all this, that she’s still learning the language of pleasure, the rhythm of us.

But just acknowledging that I’m her first does something to me I can hardly describe.

It’s a primordial mixture of pride and humility, tangled with something darker, more possessive.

Because she chose me.

Out of every man in the world, she chose me to be the one to have her first.

That’s a fucking honor.

One I will spend the rest of my life proving myself worthy of.

She makes a soft sound, shifting against me, her body warming to consciousness, and my heart swells painfully.

I am completely, utterly enamored with this woman.

And I don’t give a shit who knows it.

I wish I could say I saved myself for her, that I spent my whole life waiting for this moment, just like she did.

But the truth?

I spent years ignoring my feelings, burying my need, pretending she wasn’t mine.

Because she was too young.

Because she was too innocent for the likes of me.

Because war had stained my hands, turned me into something dark and lethal and unworthy.

But ever since she turned seventeen, I never even looked at another woman.

Because I knew.

I knew I was born to love her.

And I’ve been planning for this moment ever since.

No, we haven’t talked about the usual things—houses, kids, forever—but that’s okay.

I’m flexible.

Still, I think about the house I built for her back home, the furniture I chose, the cars in the garage.

The way I planned everything from our Saturday date nights to our daily commute into the city—which, yes, I fully intend to share with her since we both work in Volkov Towers.

I rub her bare shoulder, lost in my thoughts, loving the feel of her in my arms.

When I was younger, Uncle Adrik used to ask me and a few of the other boys if we thought we were hard men.

He’d tease us—something he didn’t get to do much, having only daughters and no sons.

And man, I wanted to impress him.

I’d stick my chest out, my twelve-year-old voice full of false bravado, and say, “Yeah, Uncle Ad, I’m a hard man.”

He’d just laugh, shake his head, and say I had a hard head, just like my father.

Then he’d say, “Be hard sometimes. But somewhere inside, you must be soft, Sammy.”

I’d frown, confused.

“When, Uncle Ad?”

“When you find your wife, she will sometimes need it. Then you must be soft for her.”

I was just a kid, had no idea what he meant.

But now?

I think I do.

I was raised with love, with understanding, with care and compassion.

And I feel all that and more for Aella.

Am I a hard man?

That question has haunted me for years.

And every time I ask myself that, I think about Uncle Adrik, about my father.

The first time I killed a man, I lost that innocence, that childhood sweetness I once had.

I still remember coming home on leave and telling my father.

He cried. So did I. But there was nothing weird about it.

My father is an amazing man, and he held me for an hour as I wept in his arms. Owning my emotions is one of the first lessons he taught me, and I was a better man for it.

Still, we can only process as we experience things, right?

Well, my last deployment was the worst.

I’d been injured.

Heartsick by the death and darkness I saw.

When I came home, the first thing I did was see my father.

I confessed some of what I’d been doing in special ops, and it wasn’t pretty.

But what did I expect, joining the army?

I won’t shit talk my country. Not that. The world of war and politics was too fucked up and it had no place in my life now.

So what did I get for all my experience?

Well, I now had a special set of skills, but I wasn’t interested in being the government’s tool.

I would be my own man from now on.

What made it all easier? My father. My mother. Family.

And secret thoughts of her. My little Pixie.

Dad was always proud of me.

But he was happiest when I announced I was done.

Because war made me a hard man.

And sometimes? I hate that.

I wish I still had the innocence of my youth, back when Uncle Ad used to ask me that question.

But right now? As I watch my Pixie sleep in my arms?

I think—maybe I can be soft for her.

Or maybe— maybe she can be my softness.

Not that she’s a wilting violet.

No, not my wife.

Aella is made of stronger stuff than even she knows.

She’s no stranger to violence.

To men like me.

After all, her father is a hard man.

So, maybe I’m not crazy for loving her like I do.

And maybe one day— she’ll love me like I love her.

I’m counting on it.

“Mmm. What time is it?” she murmurs.

Her sleepy, soft voice sends a wave of emotion and something even darker, deeper, more primal, rolling through me.

I brush my fingers through her tangled hair, the strands slipping like silk against my skin.

“Almost time to get ready for dinner,” I say. “I ordered some room service, though. In case you’re hungry.”

She blinks up at me, her crystalline eyes hazy and half-lidded, and for a moment, I can’t breathe.

I’ve seen beautiful things before—sunsets over the ocean, the raw, untamed landscapes of war-torn countries, places most men never get to see.

But nothing compares to her.

Nothing ever will.

Then, her stomach growls, loud and unashamed, and she flushes pink, biting her lip like she wants to sink straight into the mattress.

“Guess there’s no point in denying it,” she mutters, her voice sheepish, her lips fighting a losing battle with a grin.

I arch a brow.

“Why on earth would you deny it?”

She hesitates. Then— quiet, almost too soft to hear —she says, “Cause.”

She drops her head to my chest, her fingers tracing nonsense shapes over my skin, her words coming out in a rush.

“I’m chubby. Fat. I can stand to miss a meal.”

My whole body goes still.

And for a moment, I just stare down at her, my fingers tightening at her waist, over the soft curves I fucking worship.

“That’s my wife you’re talking about,” I warn, my voice low, serious.

Before she can protest, before she can say something else that makes me want to track down whoever the fuck put those ideas in her head and break their jaw—I attack.

Tickling her.

She squeals, kicking, writhing beneath me, laughing so hard she’s gasping for air.

“Oh my God! STOP! STOP! I’m gonna pee!” she cries, breathless and beautiful.

“Alright, alright.” I grin down at her, grudgingly relenting.

Somehow, in our playful wrestling, I’ve flipped us, her body pinned beneath mine, her skin flushed, her hair wild, her chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths.

I can’t help it.

I need to kiss her.

So I do.

Slow at first.

Then deeper.

The taste of her is warm and sweet, and I swear, I could survive off her alone.

Her stomach growls again, and I smile against her mouth.

I pull back, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, my voice low, coaxing.

“Come on, Pixie. Let me feed you. Then we’ll dress for supper. Good?”

She studies me for a moment, her eyes soft, like she sees something in me I don’t even see in myself.

Then she smiles.

And fuck—the way she’s looking at me?

I feel ten feet tall.

“Yeah,” she whispers. “Perfect.”

And it is. It really fucking is.