We stay like that, tangled together, gasping for air, his forehead pressed against mine.

He kisses me—not rough, not punishing— but slow and aching and reverent.

“I love you, favorite,” he says against my mouth. “I’ll never stop loving you.”

Chapter 28

Alex Sebring

Magnolia lies across my chest, her fingers tracing slow, lazy circles against my ribs. She’s quiet, lost in that hazy place between exhaustion and contentment. Her warm breath whispers over my skin, her body relaxed, melted into me like she belongs here.

Because she does.

My arms tighten around her, an unconscious, possessive act, like my body is afraid she’ll slip away if I don’t hold on tight enough.

I stare at the ceiling, my mind still reeling.

I was rough with her. Desperate. I can still hear the way she gasped my name, feel the way her body arched beneath mine.

She took everything I gave her––every ounce of anger, frustration, and grief. But also every tangled, ugly thing I’ve carried since the day he stole her from my life.

Magnolia Steel is the only person who’s ever understood me without words. She always knows what I need.

Always.

I press a kiss to the top of her head, breathing in her soft, feminine scent. She smells of barely there vanilla and cherry blossoms.

It’s been months since I held her like this, and yet it doesn’t seem that long ago. It’s as though I never let her go. Like time bent around us, refusing to move forward until we were back together.

Where we belong.

She shifts, her cheek pressing deeper into my chest. My fingers skate across the curve of her bare back, a lazy caress. There’s peace in this––in the quiet after the storm.

The wreckage of the night lingers around us, but it’s distant, unimportant. Because she’s in my arms now.

And Magnolia Steel is my home.

I tighten my hold on her, letting my fingers drift over her spine, tracing the delicate dips and ridges. My body still hums with the remnants of adrenaline, the echoes of everything that’s happened tonight.

The fight.

The fury.

The way I took her like I was claiming her all over again.

A thought gnaws at the edges of my mind, clawing its way forward before I can shove it down. “Was I too rough?”

She shifts against me, tilting her chin up so our eyes meet in the dim light. There’s no hesitation when she shakes her head. “No. I needed that just as much as you did.”

Relief washes through me, but it’s tangled with something heavier—regret for the chaos of the night, for the destruction left in our wake. I don’t have to be looking at the wreckage to know it’s there. I can hear it in my head. The crash of furniture. The shatter of glass.