Page 103 of Princess Redeemed
He lifts me then, his strong arms holding me like a vise, and shoves his cock into me with one smooth thrust.
The time for gentle exploration is over, and I’m good with that.
As Rogan’s movements grow more insistent, I match his pace, losing myself further in the rhythm of our bodies.His grip on me tightens, tightens, tightens, as he fucks me harder and faster.
Our moans get lost in the rush of water around us.
I cling onto him as a powerful wave of pleasure crashes over me.It breaks against the walls of my senses and washes away horror-filled memories of death and bloodshed.
“Rogan,” I whisper against his lips, my voice shaky with need.
“Shh,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead.“I’ve got you.”
But it’s more than that—he hasme.All of me, every scarred piece and ruined fragment.And in his arms, I’m whole again.
When he growls into me, releasing, I swear we’re one body, complete in each other.
When we finally emerge from the shower, our skin pink from the hot water and the raw passion, I feel lighter.The harsh reality of my situation still lingers, but for now, it’s muted, pushed to the background.
In this moment, I feel only the power of Rogan’s love.
Rogan wraps a soft towel around me, his touch gentle as he rubs the fabric against my damp skin.He doesn’t utter a word as he leads me to our bed, tucks me under the covers and slides in beside me.
I turn to him, curling against his side as he wraps an arm around me.His heartbeat is steady beneath my ear, and though I hear his delicious blood flowing through his veins, the sound is more of a comfort than a craving.
For now.
Because tonight, I don’t want to feed.
I want to feel.
But the hunger is always there.Just beneath the surface.Coiled.Quiet.Waiting.
Rogan traces slow patterns on my back, soothing and calming.
“I can’t promise that things will be easy,” he whispers, “but I’ll be right here, through every storm, every scar, every moment you want to run.”
I close my eyes.
Let myself surrender to the feelings for this man.
Because tomorrow…
Tomorrow comes the storm.
And I will not run.
64
She’s standingat the edge of the garden again.
The flowers are in bloom, and the air smells like summer and cinnamon, like her kitchen always did.I know it’s a dream—my grandmother has been dead for a long time—but still, I walk toward her.Because how can I not?
“Hannah,” she says, just like always, like the years and the grave and my blood don’t matter.Her voice is warm as she picks string beans from the vines and places them into a basket.Her name is Theresa, which means harvester, and she is my mother’s mother.Even in my dream she reminds me that the harvest gives us hope—that nothing is truly lost, only carried into the next season.
My throat tightens.I forgot how soft her eyes were.How she looked at me like I was good.
“I’ve missed you.”My voice breaks.“So much.”
