Page 89 of Hunted to the Altar
"You," she says.
And that one word unravels me.
I move inside her slowly, gripping the headboard above her, trying to hold back, to stretch this out forever. She threads her fingers through mine and pulls me down until there’s no space between us, only breath, heat and heartbeats.
"I love you," I say between each kiss to her jaw, her throat, her mouth.
"I love you," I say again when she arches into me.
And again when she falls apart under my hands.
We lie together, breathless, bodies tangled, hearts pounding in sync.
Later, when she’s draped over me, skin to skin, I stroke her back with my fingertips.
"You make me gentle," I murmur into her hair. "You make me soft."
"You weren’t. Not at first," she says. Her voice doesn’t carry judgment—just memory. "You broke my body, Samuel. I still wake up remembering how it felt when my knee shattered, when I thought the pain would swallow me whole. But you changed. You crawled your way back from the monster I used to know. That softness? You bled for it. And I see it now."
"Then I’ll never be anything else again."
We fall asleep like that—her pressed into me, my arms around her like armor I never want to take off.
And in the morning, I’ll kiss her awake.
I’ll make her tea.
I’ll dance with her barefoot in the hall until her laughter fills the air.
Because loving Nina isn’t a task—it’s a privilege.
And I will spend every day of my life proving it’s one I deserve.. Not because she can’t wheel herself—she’s stronger than ever—but because she lets me. Because she allows it. Because I begged once to be the kind of man who could hold her without hurting her. And now she reaches for me in the dark.
She lets me undress her slowly, kissing every scar. Every memory. She lets me worship her body like it’s the altar I was reborn on. She lets me whisper her name like gospel until we both forget where I end and she begins.
We’re not ready for a child. She told me that two weeks ago. Said she still wakes up sometimes wondering if she made a mistake trusting me again.
I didn’t try to fix it. I didn’t argue. I nodded.
Then I told her I’d get a vasectomy tomorrow. Hell, today. That I’d burn down every plan I ever made for legacy, power,lineage—if it meant she could breathe easier. That I didn’t need her body to carry anything except her own peace.
She cried then.
And when she crumbled into my chest, sobbing with the kind of grief only safety allows, I held her tighter than I ever had.
Because I knew?—
It took losing our child, watching her bleed in that hospital bed, watching the light fade from her eyes, to realize the cost of my love. The cost of my control. I thought I could protect her by owning her. I thought obsession looked like loyalty.
I had to lose everything to see the thing in front of me was the only thing that ever mattered.
Now she sleeps with her head on my chest, fingers curled into my shirt, breathing steady like she finally believes I won’t disappear in the night.
And I don’t.
I stay. Every night. Every hour. I sleep light in case she whimpers in her sleep. I wake early in case she wants help brushing her teeth. I memorize the sound of her wheels on the stone floors, just so I can tell when she’s getting closer.
I stare at the ceiling and thank whatever force gave me a second chance. And whatever devil didn’t let me die before I earned it.
