I pushed off the door, my bare feet sinking into the thick carpet.
The crash was coming. I could feel it, the inevitable chemical drop after the dopamine high of the performance. But this time, I didn't want to curl up under a weighted blanket and hide untilthe world went away. I didn't want to retreat into the dark to lick my wounds.
The adrenaline in my veins was transmuting. It was turning into heat. It was turning into a sharp, clawing need to be anchored, to be marked, to be made real in a way that words on a page couldn't achieve.
"I don't want to talk about metrics," I said, the words cutting through the air.
The room went still. The energy shifted instantly, snapping from professional victory to something primal.
I walked toward them. I kicked off my heels, letting them thud onto the carpet, discarding the armor of the successful author. I unbuttoned my blazer and let it slide down my arms to the floor, leaving me in just the silk camisole and slacks.
"Anders," I said.
He stopped pacing immediately. He went rigid, his posture snapping into that familiar, controlled alignment. His icy blue eyes locked onto mine, assessing, calculating, and then heating. As I neared him, the air filled with the scent of bourbon and crisp winter air, sharp, expensive, and bracing.
"I'm here," he said, his voice dropping an octave.
"You sat in the front row," I whispered, closing the distance until I was standing right in front of him, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his chest. "You watched me."
"I never looked away," he vowed, the regret of a decade ago ghosting across his expression before vanishing under resolve. "Not once."
"Then don't look away now."
I grabbed his hand, the large, capable hand that had signed contracts, protected my digital life, and cleaned my fevered skin, and I placed it on my shoulder.
"Make it permanent," I commanded.
Anders’ breath hitched, a sharp intake of air through his nose. He knew what I was asking. In the world I wrote, the bite was everything. It was the structural integrity of the pack. It was the physical promise that the walls wouldn't fall, that the roof wouldn't cave in.
"Tessa," he warned, his thumb digging into my collarbone, testing the fragility of the bone. "If I bite you? If we mark you? There’s no going back to the glass house. You are claimed. Publicly. Privately. Biologically."
"I burned the glass house," I reminded him, my gaze unflinching. "I don't need a fortress of solitude anymore. I need a foundation."
I pulled the strap of my camisole down, exposing the pale curve of my shoulder, the place where the weight of the world usually sat.
"Bite me, Anders. Be the structure."
The control he usually held himself with snapped.
He made a low, guttural sound in his throat and crowded me against the window, blocking out the city lights. His hands gripped my waist, bruising forces that I welcomed, grounding me in the physical reality of his touch, as he leaned down, his breath hot against my skin, inhaling the scent of blackberries and sea salt that clung to me.
"Iron doesn't break," he growled against my skin, a promise and a threat.
He sank his teeth into the muscle of my shoulder.
"Ah!"
I cried out, gripping the front of his dress shirt, my knees buckling.
It wasn't a playful nip.
It was a puncture. Sharp and white-hot, creating a singularity of sensation that was followed instantly by a rush of endorphins that flooded my system.
He bit down hard, grinding his jaw, marking me as his responsibility, his asset, his to protect against every threat he had failed to stop before.
Anders held the claim until I stopped shaking, until the fight left my muscles and I melted into him. Then he licked the wound, his tongue soothing the sting, sealing the pact with saliva and intent.
He pulled back, his mouth wet, his eyes wild and blown.
