Page 88 of Hunted to the Altar
She doesn’t answer me right away. Just stares. Her eyes roam over me like she’s remembering all the ways I failed and weighing whether I’ve truly changed. I don’t move. I don’t breathe. I just wait.
Then she moves closer, turns her palm upward, and offers me her hand.
"Then do it," she says, her voice low. "Say your vows."
I take her hand like it’s sacred. I press a kiss to her knuckles. “I vow to be your shield, not your shackle.” Another kiss, to the inside of her wrist. “To love you with open hands, not closed fists.” I move to her elbow. “To listen before I lead.”
She blinks, and I swear her lips twitch.
“I vow,” I continue, kissing her collarbone, “to see you clearly, especially when you can’t see yourself.”
I lower myself again, hands on her waist now. “To serve this love like it’s holy.”
I drop to both knees. “To worship you, even when you think you’re unworthy.” I look up. “Especially then.”
Nina’s breathing changes. I see it in her chest, the rise and fall. The tremble she hates showing.
I reach for her waist, kiss the fabric of her dress over her stomach. “To ask before I take.” Another kiss. “To build you a world where you never have to raise your voice to be heard.”
She swallows. Her eyes shimmer, but the tears don’t fall. Not yet.
“I vow,” I whisper, “to love you every day like I’m still earning the right to say your name.”
My hands tremble as I kiss the inside of her palm again. “So say yes, Nina. Say yes again. I know I don’t deserve it. But I want to spend every day proving I might someday.”
She pulls my face to hers.
And she kisses me.
Not softly. Not gently. But with heat. With choice.
"I hate how good you are at this now," she mutters against my lips.
"It’s your fault," I breathe. "You taught me how."
That night, I carry her to bed—not as a man proving a point, but as a man grateful to be allowed to. She rests her forehead against mine before I lay her down.
"Don’t disappear in the dark," she whispers.
"Never again," I vow.
We move through the night like we’re rediscoveringeach other from scratch. My hands never leave her skin—trailing down her spine, circling her wrists, tracing every scar like it’s scripture. I kiss her like prayer: softly, slowly, reverently. She breathes my name into my mouth like forgiveness.
"You’re not a monster anymore," she murmurs, chest to chest.
"Only yours," I whisper back.
I undress her like I’m unwrapping something holy. I whisper compliments against her shoulder, her belly, the bend of her knee—places no one else knows to worship. She watches me through half-lidded eyes, letting me love her like I was made to. Letting me earn it, again and again.
I press a kiss to her ankle, then to the inside of her thigh. "You are everything I never knew how to deserve."
"Then be worthy now," she breathes.
So I do. I make love to her like it’s the first and last time I’ll ever get the chance. Like the world has narrowed down to the hitch in her breath, the tremble in her legs, the quiet whimper she makes when I whisper, "Mine."
I don’t rush. I don’t dominate. I follow her lead.
"Tell me what you want," I murmured.
