Page 124 of Glitched Fates & Stolen Mates

Back in the bedroom, I found Felix exactly where I’d left him, sprawled across my sheets like he belonged there. His hair was a mess, his eyes soft and drowsy, and there was my purple mark proudly on his throat.

Mine.

“Come on, sweetheart.”

I scooped him up before he could protest, one arm under his knees, the other supporting his back.

“For God’s sake, I can walk you know!”

“Hush.” I carried him down the hallway, his head tucked against my shoulder. “Let me take care of you.”

In the bathroom, steam had already fogged the mirror, and the tub was nearly full, overflowing with bubbles. I’d always felt a bit ridiculous about the fancy clawfoot tub when I’d renovated this place—too indulgent for someone like me. But watching Felix’s eyes widen as I lowered him into the warm water, I was grateful for every penny I’d spent.

His reaction was immediate. Eyes fluttering shut, lips parting on a soft gasp as the heat enveloped him. His whole body seemed to melt into the bubbles, tension I hadn’t even noticed draining from his shoulders.

“Oh my God,” he breathed. “This is heaven. My shower only ever reaches lukewarm.”

I knelt beside the tub, reaching for a washcloth, then hesitated. He looked so content, so blissful, I almost didn’t want to disturb him.

“Get in with me.”

“That would be nice, but I won’t fit. I’m too big.”

Felix cracked one eye open, a wicked smile playing at his lips. “That’s what I said half an hour ago.”

I splashed his face. “Oh, stop.”

But then he resorted to giving me those puppy-dog eyes, all dark lashes and soft pleading, and my resolve crumbled like wet paper. I found myself climbing carefully into the tub on top of him.

Water sloshed everywhere. It cascaded over the sides, splashing across the tiles in great waves, and we both burst into laughter. I settled my much larger frame around his smaller one, Felix’s legs tangling with mine.

“See, this is cozy,” he said, wiggling against me.

“I’m going to have to use every single towel,” I grumbled. I wrapped my arms around him, chin resting on his shoulder. “You feeling sore?”

“I’m fine.” He tilted his head back. “Better than fine.”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

The words stuck in my throat for a moment. For giving me something I never thought I’d have. For trusting me with your body. For forgiving me for being such a complete bastard. For giving me a chance to prove myself to you.

“For being here,” I said finally. “For being here with me.”

Felix brought his hand up to my face, eyes widening. For a moment I thought he was going to say something, but instead, he leaned forward to kiss my other cheek.

When the water cooled and our skin started to prune, I forced him out of the bath, then wrapped him in my largest, fluffiest dressing gown. It swallowed him completely, the sleeves hanging past his fingertips, the hem pooling around his feet.

I lifted him once again, ignoring his half-hearted protests, and carried him to the sofa, setting him down and tucking the enormous dressing gown around him. “Stay put here while I change the bed.”

But of course he didn’t listen. He followed me into the bedroom and started ripping the sheets off with me. We worked in comfortable silence, tucking corners and smoothing fabric. The domesticity of it hit me square in the chest. Felix in my dressing gown, hair still damp from the bath, helping me make the bed we’d just thoroughly destroyed.

When we climbed back under the fresh covers, I pulled him against my chest without thinking. He settled there like he belonged, head on my shoulder, one leg thrown over mine. Neither of us mentioned me calling him an Uber, which is what I usually did at the end of our dates here—he’d never stayed the night before. But there was no way I was letting him leave this time. Or ever again, if I got my way.

I held him close, breathing in his scent until it saturated my lungs.

Felix’s fingers traced the scars scattered across my chest, and I held my breath. I’d spent years avoiding mirrors, hating the roadmap of violence carved into me. These weren’t the kind of marks you got from training accidents, they were too deliberate, too cruel, crossing my skin like a violent constellation. I waited for him to pull back, to ask questions I couldn’t answer. Instead, he pressed his palm flat against the worst of them, right over my heart. His touch was warm and steady, like he was claiming every damaged inch. The careful way he explored each raised line—not with horror or curiosity, but with something like tenderness—made my wolf settle, calm completely. For the first time in years, the scars felt like just skin. Just part of me that someone could love.