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I curse under my breath, closing my eyes for a second as I rest my forehead against hers.

“Please forgive me for all the situations I put you through, kitten,” I murmur, full of regret.

When I open my eyes, tears are already slipping down her cheeks as she looks straight into mine.

“I fucking love you. And I’m sorry.”

Everything about this feels so right—the intensity, the way she’s woven herself into every part of me in such a short time. And still, I wouldn’t change any of it.

Except the parts where I hurt her.

I hate her parents for what they did to her, and I made sure they paid for it.

But I hurt her too.

She kisses me slowly, making me forget about my thoughts, one hand sliding into my hair, the other curling behind my neck, pulling me closer.

“I love you too,” she whispers between soft kisses and quiet breaths.

“Thank God,” I exhale against her lips, relief loosening the ache in my chest. “Now ride me before we’re impossibly late.”

FIFTY-NINE

Ethan

One hour later, just shy of one in the afternoon, we stand at the top of the stairs, about to step down into the living room.

It’s obvious everyone’s awake by now, and I’m certain they’re all down there. I don’t have a problem with that.

But Thalia?

I can feel the faint tremor running through her as I hold her hand, and even though she hasn’t said a word since we walked out of the bedroom, I know exactly what’s going on beneath the surface.

She’s nervous.

I don’t care what the others think or say, but she’s never liked being the center of attention.

The downside is that once the world finds out she’s my woman, attention will follow her everywhere—whether I’m by her side or not. And I need her to get used to it, because there’s no turning back from this.

She’s mine. I know it. I feel it.

End of story.

We said we’d let things unfold naturally, see where it all leads.

Well, it’s perfectly clear to me where it leads—Thalia stays mine. Always. Forever.

“You good, kitten?” I ask, stopping her for a moment as I brush a kiss over her forehead.

“I’m nervous,” she admits with a soft laugh, the sound fragile, warm, and just a little unsteady.

“Then let me talk. Let me answer for us,” I tell her.

I already know what’s awaiting downstairs—surprised looks, disbelief written across faces, questions coming from every direction. I don’t mind answering any of them.

“It’s okay, I can talk too,” she says, trying to reclaim a bit of control. “Just… stay close and hold my hand,” she adds, almost pleading. “It’s easier like this.”

And she’s right.