"Mine," he rasped, looking at the reddening mark on my skin. "My weight to carry."
I was panting, leaning against him for support, but I wasn't done. The circuit wasn't closed.
I turned my head, looking toward the bed.
"Simon."
The artist scrambled off the mattress. He moved like a shadow, silent and fluid, slipping into the space behind me. He wrapped his arms around my waist, his chest pressing into my back, burying his face in my hair. He smelled of dark chocolate, burnt sugar, and graphite, the bittersweet scent of obsession and late-night creation.
"I see you," Simon whispered into my ear, his voice trembling with the intensity of his gaze. "I see the mark Anders left. It’s beautiful. It changes the composition of everything."
"You watched," I said, leaning back against him, letting his wiry strength support me. "You drew me from the bleachers. You drew me in the mirror. You've been watching for years."
I swept my chaotic black hair up, exposing the nape of my neck, the most vulnerable place on the body. The place you can't protect. The place where the eyes land when you turn your back on the world.
"Claim the view," I told him. "Don't just sketch it. Own it."
Simon groaned, a sound of pure, artistic agony mixed with desire.
"I'm going to ruin you for anyone else," he warned, his calloused fingers tracing the vertebrae of my neck, mapping the anatomy he knew so well. "If I mark you here, everyone will know. Every time you wear your hair up. Every time you turn around."
"Good," I said. "Let them look."
Simon didn't wait. He struck.
His teeth clamped onto the nape of my neck, right over the spine. It was possessive, desperate, a visual claim that saidI was here. He bit deep, tearing a sob from my throat that mingled with a moan.
I clutched Anders’ arms in front of me as Simon claimed my back. I was surrounded by them, encased in their scents and their strength.
Simon released me slowly, pressing a reverent kiss to the bleeding mark, then resting his forehead against it.
"My muse," he breathed, the words vibrating against my skin. "My masterpiece."
I turned in the circle of their arms, trembling, my skin stinging and alive.
Daniel was waiting.
He stood like a mountain in the center of the room, silent and immense. He hadn't moved. He watched us with hazel eyes that held a tempest of emotion, held in check by sheer, terrifying will. He was the anchor, the warm center of the storm.
I walked to him. I felt heavy, anchored by the two bites, but incomplete.
I stopped in front of him. I reached up and placed my hands on his chest, feeling the slow, powerful thud of his heart beneath the soft flannel of his shirt.
"You read to me," I whispered, looking up into his kind face. "You filled the silence when I couldn't."
"I will never let it be quiet again," Daniel rumbled. His voice, that deep, resonant baritone that soothed thousands of strangers, vibrated against my palms. It was the frequency of safety. It was the sound of home. "Not when you need to be heard."
I tilted my head back, exposing my throat.
The collarbone. The gateway to the voice. The place where breath becomes sound.
"Give me my voice," I begged him. "Mark it. Make sure I never lose it again."
Daniel’s large, warm hands came up to cup my face. His thumbs brushed my cheeks, wiping away tears I hadn't realized were falling. He smelled of warm spiced chai and fresh bread, a scent that promised comfort, nourishment, and safety.
"You found your voice, Tessa," he said softly, his thumbs tracing my jawline. "I'm just the echo that makes it carry."
He lowered his head. He didn't rush. He kissed the pulse point in my throat, sensing the frantic beat of my heart, the life fluttering beneath the skin. He nuzzled the hollow of my throat, inhaling the scent of pack.
