Page 93 of Roaring Spell

“Forever.” The word is a promise. A vow. “That works for me.”

We stay like that as the stars come out—tangled in his bed, claimed and claiming, finally where we both belong.

For the first time in my life, I’m not afraid of the morning.

I’m not afraid of anything.

TWENTY

TORIN

Iwake to sunlight and warmth and the weight of a woman curled against my chest.

For a moment, I don’t move. Don’t breathe. Just lie there, letting the reality of it sink in—Sakura, in my bed, in my arms, wearing nothing but the claiming mark on her shoulder and a peaceful expression I’ve never seen on her face before.

She snores.

Tiny, delicate sounds that she would deny making if I mentioned them. Her hair is tangled across my pillow, black silk with that distinctive silver streak catching the morning light. One of her hands rests over my heart, possessive even in sleep.

Mine.

The thought rises with quiet certainty. No longer a desperate hope or a patient waiting. Just fact. She is mine. I am hers. The claiming marks on our shoulders prove it—hers like storm clouds, mine like bear tracks, both still healing into permanent scars.

I reach for my journal.

The movement is careful, slow, designed not to wake her. The notebook lives on my nightstand now—always within reach, because the poetry never stops even when I’m sleeping. Especially when I’m sleeping. Dreams give me the best material.

Sakura stirs against me, making a small sound of protest at the movement. Her hand tightens on my chest, nails scraping lightly over skin.

“Too early.” Her voice is sleep-rough and adorable. “No writing. More sleeping.”

“It’s almost noon.”

“Still early.” She burrows closer, pressing her face into my neck. “You kept me up late.”

“You kept me up late. I was prepared to sleep after the third time.”

“Third time was your idea.”

“Third time was your suggestion. There’s a difference.”

She laughs against my throat—warm breath, soft lips, the vibration traveling through me in ways that make my bear rumble with satisfaction. My arm tightens around her, pulling her closer because I can. Because she’s mine and I’m allowed to hold her now, openly, without restraint.

“I love you.” The words slip out easy now. Natural. Like I’ve been saying them for years instead of hours.

“I love you too.” She tips her head back to look at me, those bright dark eyes soft with emotion. “Even though you write poetry about my snoring.”

“How do you know I wrote about your snoring?”

“Your pencil makes a specific scratching sound when you’re being romantic.” She pokes my chest. “And you were definitely being romantic. You had the face.”

“What face?”

“The soft, tender, ‘I’m writing about my mate’ face.” She mimics an expression of exaggerated devotion. “Very obvious. Very adorable. Completely ruins your stoic reputation.”

“I don’t have a stoic reputation.”

“You absolutely have a stoic reputation. The entire town thinks you’re this strong, silent, emotionless protector type.” She grins. “If they could see you now, writing poetry before noon⁠—”