Page 129 of Fragile Heart

She smiles, her face lighting up, her entire being radiant. I’m filled with awe that I’m the bastard who gets to see it. I get to know how she smiles in the morning when she sits on the porch and watches the sunrise. I’m the one that gets to know what her moans sound like, the throaty ones when I’m rough with her the way we both love and the breathless ones when my knot’s locking us together or when my tongue is between her thighs. I know how she softens against me when I whisper in her ear when I’m deep inside her, soft little things that asshat never told her. I get all of it.

And now I get another one, this soft moment where she leans against me, her eyes betraying her vulnerability.

“I don’t know whose it is,” she whispers.

I run my thumb across her cheek. “We don’t care, princess.”

Her shoulders drop away, and she offers a tentative smile. Her lips are such a damn temptation. I glance over my shoulder, double checking the door to our bedroom is mostly closed. And then I press her against the glass of the shower, grinding into her as I kiss down her neck, biting at the pulse points that make her shiver.

“Let me bond with you,” I whisper against her collarbone.

I hadn’t planned to ask about the possibility until tonight after dinner. ButfuckI need to ask her now, need to see if she’ll accept my bonding bite knowing that we’ve put a fucking baby in her. We’ve talked about it several times over the last year, but neither of us were inclined to rush it. There was so muchwe needed to rebuild, and I didn’t want to look back in another thirty years and worry we’d done everything wrong this time.

Her chest shudders with her breathing, her nails digging into my skin for a heartbeat. She runs her hands along my sides, pushing my shirt up. Her panties are soaked through already, her slick coating her thighs as she pushes her hips into my stomach.

“Is that a yes?” I ask, chuckling as she whines and rolls her hips again. “I’m not about to bond with you without clear consent, princess.”

Her throat ripples as she swallows, the lavender of her scent growing again, nearly as powerful as when she’s going into heat. Then she nods.

“Bond me,” she says, barely more than a whisper.

It races down my spine, straight to my dick.

Yes.

I rip her panties in the next second, more than ready to have her slick dripping down my legs.

“Dad!” Camden’s voice echoes down the hallway a moment before the rushing footsteps of his running follow.

Damn it.

Brielle curses, pushing me away and scrambling for the dress laid out over the edge of the tub. I readjust myself again as I watch her slip into the soft green fabric a hairsbreadth before Cam busts into our bedroom. I blow out a breath and turn around, crossing my arms, blocking her with my body. The dress clings to her body, and her cheeks are still flushed.

“Dad, did she like them?” he asks, skidding to a stop at the bathroom door. He bounces on his feet, his blond hair dropping into his eyes.

“Brielle’s getting ready. Damn it, Cam, you need to knock,” Caleb calls across the house.

His footsteps are softer than our son’s but relentless anyway. He comes up behind Cam, putting a hand on his shoulder. He raises an eyebrow as he turns Cam away, running his hand through our son’s hair as his gaze soaks in Brielle. Cinnamon overlays the mint and lavender already filling the small space, and Brielle whines, low in her throat. Her body practically vibrates with her need. If she hadn’t just gone through a heat last month, I’d worry she was dropping into one.

No, she’s just that desperate for us.

The feeling’s mutual, and neither Caleb nor I will deny it.

“Since they’re still on the island, she probably hasn’t seen them yet,” Caleb says. His voice has dropped an octave. Brielle’s scent grows stronger, and her breath catches in her throat. “Let’s give them time to finish getting ready and then we can show her both of them together.”

The doorbell rings, and Caleb sighs. Camden’s head jerks up, twisting toward the front of the house.

“Nana’s here!” he says.

Before any of us can say anything, he’s bolting out of the bedroom and back toward the rest of the house, Brielle’s reaction to the flowers I’d picked out this morning forgotten.

Caleb runs a hand down his face.

“Don’t take eight years, Ethan,” he says, already turning back toward the door to our room.

I scoff. “You took an entire day. Everything will keep for an hour.”

He chuckles. “I’ll hold off your mom that long, at least,” he says. He glances over his shoulder as he pauses with his hand on the doorknob. His gaze isn’t locked on me, though. He drinks Brielle in again, his cinnamon scent so strong it wafts over to us in the bathroom and blends anew. “Can’t promise more than that, though.”

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