Page 59 of The Alpha's Broken Oath

The bitterness I held for him for so many years has evaporated, and instead, I…I don’t hate him. I don’t think I ever hated Deacon Cross.

He said he loved me back in the kitchen, and while I couldn’t tell him yet, I gave him my heart, body, and soul.

I let him mark me.

I let him bound me to him, knowing the repercussions.

To answer Deacon’s question, my finger draws a map across his chest, and I love the feel of his muscles underneath the tip of my fingers.

“So sore. You said the round we had two hours ago was the last round.”

We’ve gone at it almost seven times. And those seven times are the ones I could count when he wasn’t going too fast and rough. We might have done more.

“You couldn’t stop begging me to fuck you, Winter,” Deacon chuckles.

“That’s the mark’s fault. You said it yourself.”

I can't even begin to distinguish if it was the mark that wanted him to make love to me that many times or myself. The bottom line is I don’t regret any of it, and if I’m being honest, I would let him mark me all over again if I was given the chance.

My mate marked me, and the pain was minimal compared to the pleasure brought about by feeling every single one of his rough thrusts in my womb.

The feel of his fangs on my neck, on the other hand, was shocking and so…so much, but combining that with the pleasure from his kisses, his hands on my breasts squeezing them, was something unworldly—something too powerful. The thought of it makes desire leak out of me like a broken faucet.

Deacon’s fingers trace my mark, and I wince a little.

It’s still throbbing enough to feel a little pain and pleasure intertwined.

“Pain level? On a scale of one to ten?”

“A two?”

His fingers are replaced with his tongue, and Goddess, I can feel the pool of tension between my thighs as if I haven’t been fucked enough tonight, or is it today? I can’t tell if it’s already past midnight yet.

“And now, baby?”

The feel of his tongue on my mark, so intimate, so warm, and the gruff sound of his voice, so sexy, so damning, it undoes me.

“Z-zero. It’s a zero. No pain… at all.”

Sucking my mark again, his hand cupping my neck, he whispers against the shell of my ear, “The mark will sting a bit but once it heals, you’ll barely see it because this little neck will have a beautiful flower-like tattoo right here.”

That much I know.

My mother’s mark had presented itself as a rose with thorns tattooed on her neck. Dad always said it was because she was feisty and pretty as hell, a deadly combination.

“What do you think the tattoo will be?”

I can’t wait to see what it’ll look like.

Deacon grips my chin and adds another small kiss on my lips before saying, “A tiger lily. Stubborn and resilient as you are.”

I’m not stubborn. But resilient? That, I am.

I want to ask so many questions. Will I still be his assistant?

What about us? He marked me, so there's no going back. I’m his now. No man can have me.

But I don’t ask those questions.

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