Page 101 of Sacrifice
"You look like mine. Like everything I never thought I'd have." He pulls me back onto his lap. "I love you."
"I love you too." I trace his jaw. "Even when you're stubborn and reckless and get yourself infected."
"Very specific complaints you have there."
"I have a list. Want to hear the rest?"
"Later. Right now, I need to show my old lady how much I appreciate her saying yes."
"You're injured?—"
"Don't care."
He kisses me with intent, and I melt into it. But when his hands start wandering, I pull back.
"No. You're still recovering. But hold that thought for when you're not held together by stitches and antibiotics."
He groans but doesn't push. "You're going to be a bossy old lady, aren't you?"
"The bossiest. Better get used to it."
"Looking forward to it." He toys with the edge of the cut. "We should tell people. Make it official."
"Now?"
"Why wait? Unless you're having second thoughts..."
"No second thoughts. Just didn't think you'd want an audience while you're still recovering."
"I want everyone to know you're mine. Have wanted it for months." He stands carefully, steadier than before. "Come on. Let them see my woman wearing my name."
A knock interrupts whatever I might say next. "Come in," I call.
Mom peeks in, sees the cut, and immediately tears up. "Oh, baby."
"Mom—"
She's across the room, pulling me into a hug. "I'm so happy for you. Both of you."
Dad appears behind her, taking in the scene.
His eyes go to the cut, to Emil, back to me.
Something passes over his face—pride, maybe, or satisfaction.
"About time," he says simply.
"That's what everyone keeps saying," I mutter.
"Because it's true." He extends a hand to Emil. "Welcome to the family. Officially."
They shake, and something passes between them.
Male understanding I'll never fully grasp.
The passing of responsibility, maybe.
Or just recognition between two men who'd kill for the women they love.
