Page 42 of North’s Claim

“Am I still in trouble?”

She smirks. “Only a little.”

That laugh again, rich, unfiltered, real.

And I don’t say it out loud, but right then? It feels like the best fucking birthday gift I’ve ever had.

Chapter 15

Nyxa

There’s something freeing about knowing no one expects you to crumble anymore.

Morning finds me tangled in the sheets, my body still heavy with the memory of him. Last night lingers in the quiet places and for once, the memories don’t make me want to disappear. They make me feel real.

I don’t know if that means anything to him. But it meant something to me.

It’s not love. He made that clear. But it’s something, and right now, something is more than I’ve ever had.

The days start to fall into rhythm.

I help the Candies with errands and even get pulled into the clubhouse’s book club by Eve and Maeve. They’re loud, nosy, and full of stories I didn’t ask for, but I like it. I crave it.

Belonging.

Sometimes, I catch myself laughing. Like I used to before the world stole all the air from my lungs.

New prospects came in, young, eager, and cocky. One of them tries to flirt with me while I’m helping Soul carry some inventory into storage.

“Need help with that, sweetheart?” one says, throwing on a smile that’s all teeth and no substance.

Before I can answer, Soul chimes in from the other end of the hallway. “Careful, Prospect. That one bites.”

The prospect just laughs. “She can bite me anytime.”

I shoot Soul a look. He’s grinning like a damn fool.

“I’m Prez’s property,” I say, loud enough that it echoes.

Dead silence. The prospect stiffens, color draining from his face. Soul lets out a bark of laughter.

“Oof. Rookie mistake. You’ll learn.”

The poor guy stammers out an apology, fumbling to back away like I just turned into a grenade with the pin pulled.

Saying those words out loud hits different. Because I didn’t say it to get them off my back. I said it because part of me wants it to be true.

I want to be his.

Even if he doesn’t believe in love, even if he won’t say it back, I’d wear his name like armor.

Later, while folding laundry in the room, I find myself holding one of his shirts again. The one that says President’s Property across the back in bold white letters.

It’s soft and worn and smells like him.

Maybe it’s time to wear it again. So no one else tries to claim what isn’t theirs and maybe to remind him I already know where I belong.

My phone buzzes and I smile before I even answer. “Hey, trouble.”