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A fter whatever the fuck that was in our dining room— the sexual explosion brought on by flowers sent by another man, a song title about my wife, the fucking handwritten message —I feel raw.

Like something in me got turned inside out.

There’s fury, yeah.

Rage simmering beneath my skin like a second pulse.

But under that? There’s something worse.

Fear.

That someone might get close enough to rattle her.

Shake her faith in me.

Or worse— convince her I’m not worth the trouble.

I step out of the shower first, rubbing my hand over my face, trying to pull myself together.

The bathroom is filled with steam and the scent of her.

That floral shampoo she likes.

The one I made sure we had stocked here before we even left for the honeymoon.

My chest tightens when I reach for a towel and grab blue instead of white.

I don’t own blue towels. Never have.

But she does.

She’s adding things to this house.

Quiet things.

Soft things.

Herself.

Like she belongs here.

I really fucking like that.

Fifteen minutes pass before she finally opens the stall door, and when she does, she looks surprised to see me waiting.

I just lift the towel.

No words. No speeches.

She steps into it, into me, and lets me wrap it around her body.

Lets me hold her, hug her close, press my lips to her temple like I might lose her if I don’t.

And I don’t even know why I do it next.

It’s not calculated.

It’s not foreplay.

It’s something deeper.

She doesn’t ask questions as I guide her toward the cushioned vanity stool she uses when she gets ready.

She just looks at me, soft and wide-eyed, and takes a seat.

Like she knows.

Like she trusts me.

Like she wants this, too.

That alone almost brings me to my fucking knees.

I pick up the wide-toothed comb and move behind her, my big hands careful— so careful —as I run it through her damp hair.

She lets me.

God help me, she lets me.

And her eyes, when they meet mine in the mirror, are like twin pools of midnight, so full of questions, of heat, of vulnerability.

She’s not guarded right now.

Not posturing. Not posing for cameras or playing the perfect daughter of the Volkov name.

She’s just Lucy.

My Lucy.

All fucking mine.

I comb through a tangle gently, fingers brushing her scalp, and I swear I feel her melt beneath my touch.

Not sexually.

But emotionally.

Like all her armor is sliding off piece by piece and she’s letting me hold what’s underneath.

She sighs— this little breathy sound that punches right through my chest —and leans her head back just a little.

And in that moment, I know something with terrifying clarity.

I don’t just want her.

I need her.

Her presence. Her scent. Her towels. Her trust.

Her everything.

And I’ll spend every fucking day earning this— whatever this is .

Because no one else gets this part of her.

Only me.

Only her husband.

And that right there is something I just learned about myself—I’m proud of this. Of us. Of belonging to her.

Some might call that whipped, but I don’t give a fuck what anyone else thinks or says. Because as of right now, only we matter.

Lucy Cruz is the only person who gets a say in my life. And I will spend every minute of mine making sure she is safe and happy and with me.

Always.

“Come here,” I murmur after I place the comb back on the vanity.

She rises. So sweet and trusting.

I lead her to the bed, dropping my towel, and she follows suit.

I pause, just admiring her before I pull the blanket and sheet down, waiting for her to climb in.

Then I join her on our bed. I don’t have to ask or cajole. She simply turns and places her head on my chest, and I wrap her in my arms.

“Balor?”

“Yeah,” I grunt the word more than speak it.

“I love you,” she whispers.

But before I can think or move or say it back, she falls asleep.

And my whole world gets a little brighter all because of her.