Page 37 of The Chief (Those (Damn!) Texas Dantes #3)

His eyes darkened instantly. “No,” he said, voice heavy with need, with a vow more unstated than spoken. “This is the part where I make damn sure you remember exactly who you belong to.”

“Good,” she whispered, rising on her toes. “Because I’m done waiting.”

His hand dragged up her side, fingers splaying across her ribs like he was learning her by touch, not memory.

His mouth brushed hers—close, closer—hovering with a hunger that trembled just beneath restraint.

The air between them pulsed, heavy with heat and history, and her body tightened in response, every nerve tuned to the aching promise in his eyes.

Their mouths crashed together again, this time hungrier, messier, all heat and teeth and the promise of what came next.

“I need you to feel it,” he paused long enough to say. “Every heartbeat. Every inch. Alive. With me.”

A tremor chased down her spine, a sharp pulse of anticipation that sparked deep and hot. There was no mistaking the look in his eyes. This wasn’t just a vow.

It was a claim.

He cupped her face, thumbs brushing the line where Marcello’s blade had pressed. The mark was gone, but the memory lingered. Her breath hitched.

“I told you to stay in the room,” he said. “But I knew you wouldn’t. Because you’re mine. And mine doesn’t run.”

“Neither do you.”

Their mouths met again, not soft, not gentle, but frenzied. A kiss forged in survival. In everything they hadn’t said until now.

When he pulled back, his voice was stark. “I love you, Elise.”

She blinked, throat working. “Say it again.”

“I love you.”

“Once more.”

He paused, lips brushing hers, his breath unsteady and hot against her mouth. “You heard me,” he rasped, each word like it had been dragged from the center of him.

Her fingers gripped his shirt, hauling him closer, her thighs brushing his in a silent dare.

“It still took you long enough,” she murmured, her voice sultry and challenging, every syllable a taunt.

Her lips skimmed his face, a whisper of heat, before she pressed her mouth to his again, slow this time, drugging, designed to undo him.

He didn’t answer. Just bent, one arm curling behind her knees, the other bracing her back as he swept her up like she weighed nothing.

“Cade—”

“You’re covered in his blood,” he said, voice dark. “And I need it gone. All of it.”

Cade carried her into the bathroom, bare feet silent on the tile, and set her down with a tenderness that made her chest ache.

She hadn’t realized how much she needed that, his strength, his silence, the way he carried her like nothing else mattered.

Only then did he step ahead and reach for the dial.

Water thundered to life, the sharp, hot spray hitting the tile as steam bloomed fast and thick.

Within seconds, the mirror fogged, the glass misted, and the room turned into a cocoon of heat and shadows.

He stripped first, then turned and tugged her hoodie up and off. Each motion was confident, unhurried, and unapologetically his, hands steady, eyes locked on hers. There was no question of permission. No pause. Just a dark, simmering certainty that every inch of her now belonged to him.

Next came her tee shirt and jeans, and his hands slid across each inch he revealed, trailing heat like a fuse. By the time he reached the last shred of lace, she was aching for him. He gathered her up and stepped into the shower with her, pulling the glass door shut behind them.

Water poured over them, hot and unrelenting, the blood staining their bodies disappearing rapidly down the drain until the water ran clear.

His hands weren’t rough, but they weren’t soft either. More like he was chasing every trace of Marcello away. The places he’d touched, the line where the blade had pressed, Cade erased them all with his mouth, his fingers, his body.

Her breath caught as he lifted her leg around his waist, the heat between them flaring white-hot. She clung to him when he entered her—sharp, deep, perfect—her back pressed to the tile. There were no words. Just breath and heat and the frantic, furious need to make love.

To live.

There was no stopping. Not with her fingers clawing at his shoulders, not with her gasps breaking into moans that shattered him.

Water streamed over them, but the heat wasn’t from the spray.

It was from the blistering friction of their bodies, from the press of flesh and muscle, from the slick tension of her against him as he thrust deeper.

Elise’s head tipped back against the wall, her eyes wide and glazed as his mouth found her throat, then her collarbone, then the soft underside of her breast. She arched for him, her cries echoing off the glass walls.

Every motion was desperate, his hips driving into her, her nails raking down his back, their breaths colliding between kisses that burned with need.

His hips moved with a swift, staccato rhythm, matching the quickening pace of her heart.

Each thrust drove the fire between them higher, setting them ablaze beneath the water’s relentless cascade.

The strength of him surrounded her, solid and unwavering, grounding her while desire twisted inside her.

Her grip tightened, searching for purchase as waves of sensation crashed through her. The taste of him—salt and something primal—was on her lips when he captured her mouth in a bruising kiss, swallowing her gasp and turning it into a moan.

She surged into him, the friction of their bodies fanning the flames that had been smoldering since their first touch. His hands roamed, commanding and unyielding, with a possessiveness that was as fierce as it was tender.

They moved together with an urgency carved from desire and need, a fierce communion of survival and hunger, of a bond no blade could sever, their breaths mingling in the steamy air, ragged and feverish.

Every touch, every gasp, every shudder rebuilt what had nearly been destroyed. A promise that what Marcello tried to take would rise stronger, fiercer, untouchable.

He cupped her ass and lifted her higher, grinding into her until she shattered in his arms, thighs trembling, a sob torn from her lips. And still he didn’t let go. Not until she was limp and slick and whispering his name like a prayer.

He buried his face in her neck and followed her over the edge, groaning her name against her pulse like it could brand her there forever.

When they finally tumbled back, spent and trembling, the water still running over them, their bodies glistened, breathless and raw, marked by everything they’d just reclaimed.

She met his eyes, saw the same exhaustion and fierce adoration that pulsed in her own.

And in that silent exchange, every unspoken word was a vow.

They stayed that way, entwined, panting and dazed, water cascading around them like silence finally earned.

To live. To survive. To reclaim what no one would ever touch again. She hadn’t just survived him. She’d beaten him. They both had.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he murmured into her wet hair.

She smiled faintly. “I came back. Just took me… fifteen minutes.”

His laugh was hoarse, but real. “Never doing that again.”

“Which part?”

“All of it.”

Eventually he reached behind her, turning off the water with a firm twist. Silence fell, thick and warm, the steam still curling around them like breath. Then he reached for a towel and wrapped her in it before pulling one around his hips and guiding her to the bed.

They sat side by side, curled together, limbs and breath tangled, her legs draped loosely over him, his towel slipping low on his hips.

Cade’s fingers found the inside of her thigh and lingered there, warm and possessive.

She leaned into him, her hand pressed to his chest, the thud of his heartbeat like proof.

“I’m still not done with you,” she whispered, her voice husky with leftover need.

His hand slid higher. “Good. Because I’m just getting started.”

She opened her legs for him, unhurriedly. A dare.

“Then don’t make me wait another fifteen minutes.”

Cade growled, gritty and primal, as his mouth claimed hers and his hands followed—mapping, taking, owning.

He rolled her back onto the bed, the towels forgotten. And then there was nothing but heat and friction and the sound of her laughter turning into a moan.

Later, breathless, tangled in sheets rumpled and warm from everything they’d just done, she pressed her palm to his face, her heart full and her breath catching. “I love you too,” she whispered, letting the words settle between them like truth and heat.

He smiled for the first time all night. Dark, dangerous, and hers.

“Say it again,” he murmured.

She kissed him. “You heard me.”

She rolled into him, her fingers threading through his hair, connecting them in that last, electric second.

His hands drifted lower, confident and relentless, and she knew this wasn’t the end of something.

It was the beginning of whatever came next—hell, storm, or salvation—and he’d face it with her. No armor. No mercy. Just them.

THE ROOM had gone still, breathless in the aftermath.

Elise lay curled against Cade’s side, their bodies slick with heat, their limbs interwoven in the hush that followed.

His heartbeat still thudded against her ear, steady now, no longer frantic with need or fear. Just him. Just her. Just... peace.

For two whole minutes.

Then came the pounding, loud and brutal, echoing all the way from the front of the house.

Fists, heavy and relentless, slamming into the front door like a battering ram, each strike louder than the last, rattling the frame and echoing through the walls like a warning shot.

Cade’s entire body went tense beside her, every muscle coiling. His breath stopped mid-exhale, his hand flexing where it had been resting against her hip. The peace shattered in an instant and the war-born instinct in him snapped awake, silent and ready to strike.

“Not now,” he growled, already half out of the bed, the threat in his voice sharp enough to cut. It wasn’t just irritation. It was promise. Whoever dared to break this moment was about to regret it. “Not after the day we’ve had.”

Elise groaned, not lifting her head. “Could be important.”

“If it’s not war or a resurrection, someone’s about to find out what pissed-off looks like in a towel.”

Cade pushed up from the bed, stark naked and already moving.

He grabbed the nearest towel, slung it low around his waist, then detoured to the nightstand.

The drawer slid open with a snap, and he tucked a handgun into the back of the towel like it was second nature.

Elise pushed out of bed, the chill biting at her skin as she yanked on a robe and followed.

The pounding hadn’t stopped. Together, they took the stairs fast and silent, tension crackling in the space between them.

Cade drew his gun as they neared the entry, the movement smooth and deadly calm.

He held it down but ready, his eyes hard.

Elise didn’t flinch, just watched, pulse hammering, as the man who’d just cradled her like a promise turned lethal in an instant.

Then he yanked the front door open without ceremony, gun raised in warning.

Leif Severin shoved across the threshold like a storm, completely ignoring the gun leveled at him. His face was dark with fury, his palm already raised—thrusting it straight into Cade’s face without hesitation.

“What the fuck is this?”

Cade blinked, stepped back.

And froze.

There, burned into the skin of Leif’s palm, unmistakable in its dark golden curve, was a soul mark—vicious, ancient, and absolutely not Severin.

And not just any soul mark.

A Dante Brand.

Elise stepped forward, her breath catching as her eyes locked on Leif’s outstretched arm.

Wordless, she reached for it, hand curling around his wrist as if needing to feel the truth with her fingers.

Her thumb brushed the edge of the Brand, her voice stunned.

It glowed, sharp and binding. “That’s a Dante Brand. What are you doing with one?”

Cade’s voice had gone quiet, dangerous. “An excellent question, wife.”

Leif’s hand gave a single twitch before he clenched it into a fist and forced it open again.

“It hit last night,” he said, voice hard and clipped.

“Lit me up from the inside, like fire under my skin, like something alive trying to break out. I thought it was some kind of fever dream. I was burning, shaking, couldn’t breathe.

Then it stopped. Just pain and silence.”

He shoved his hand forward again, eyes blazing, jaw like granite. “And when I woke up, this—this fucking Dante lion—was burned into my hand.”

He stepped in, nose to nose with Cade. “So tell me what the hell that means.”

Cade’s eyes stayed locked on the mark, his voice dropping into something flat and final. “There’s only two explanations.”

“Which are?” he bit out.

“You slept with a Dante.”

Leif’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t sleep with Dantes. What’s option two?”

Cade’s voice dropped, becoming quiet and lethal. “Then you are a Dante.”

But wait! What about Leif and his Dante Brand? Don’t miss a minute of his blistering discoveries in The Boss!