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EMORY

H e does grow a beard. It takes nearly two weeks for it to become thick and luxurious, but on the morning of day twelve, he examines his jaw in the tiny mirror in our cabin and assesses his reflection.

I watch him, curled on my side, happiness invading every cell of my body.

Mine.

He’s mine.

“What do you think?” he asks, oblivious to the greedy way I watch him under my lashes. “Should I keep it?”

“That depends. You look like a wolf man. When are we going back?”

His eyes narrow in the mirror. “Never,” he growls.

“Aiden,” I protest, laughing softly. “We have responsibilities.”

He rubs a hand over his jaw, then down his stomach. I’m jealous of that hand. “No, wife,” he says, his voice stern. “We don’t.” He turns, and I suck in air. He’s half-hard and his erection thickens as I watch him walk toward the bed.

“We have to go back eventually.”

“They hurt you.” His jaw flexes. “I will never take you back. Never.” His words are rough.

Emotion clogs my throat. “You don’t have to protect me forever.”

“But I want to.” His eyes are burning into me as he stalks forward, and I watch the planes of his stomach flex, the dip of his hipbone, the crease of his knee. Elegant, strong, so handsome it makes my stomach shiver when I look at him.

“Mine,” he says firmly. “I won’t share you, Emory.”

“Yours,” I agree. He needs to hear it right now.

“And that means we never go back.”

“Aiden.” The rest of my protest is swallowed by his body pushing me into the bed, the words pressed out of me by his weight.

“No arguing,” he says, nipping at my neck. “You promised you’d be more compliant.” His hand squeezes my ass.

“I would never,” I gasp.

“Yeah.” He pulls back to smile down at me. “You would never, and fuck, I love that about you.”

“I love you too,” I tell him. I say it as much as I can, because it makes him light up and I love nothing more than to see him happy.

He slants his mouth over mine, slides his tongue between my lips, and teases me with his hands until I’m whining his name and pleading with him to take me.

“Turn over for me, pretty girl.” His thumbs drag over my hips.

I turn, letting him lift my hips and rub his erection between the crease of my cheeks.

“That’s a good wife,” he says, pushing at my entrance. “That’s a—fuck.” The breath chokes out of him as he surges inside and I push back to take him.

I laugh as I feel him shudder behind me. He swats my ass.

“Think you’re funny?”

I circle my hips and catch another gasped sound from his throat. He’s throbbing inside me.

“Doesn’t matter if I’m funny,” I say with another circle. “I can make you finish first.”

He yanks me up and bands me to him, my back arched, my breaths panting, his teeth on my neck.

“We’ll see about that.” He bucks up into me, and I writhe and moan.

“I’m going to win this time,” I pant, wriggling for purchase on his arm, trying to regain control.

“Good luck with that,” he growls. “I do love to see you try.”