He chuckles, his fingers moving to the nape of my neck, settling on the tattoo he finally inked into my skin. It took us some time to adjust to our new schedule of caring for the twins at all hours of the night, and it didn’t come without its struggles. Judge still shudders every time he refers to that period as the ice age because I was hormonal and, quite frankly, overwhelmed. I cried often and took out my frustrations on him even more often, but through it all, he was there. He talked me through the rough nights, held me through the worst ones, and put up with enough to make him look like a saint. And for that, I love him even more.

It took some time for us to come back to ourselves and figure out how to navigate parenthood with marriage. At times, it felt like we were both fumbling around in the dark, but we got through it. We’re still getting through it. And when it felt like we’d finally weathered the worst of the storm, I asked Judge to do what he’d set out to the night he married me.

So in a courtyard full of our family and friends, and a horde of guards with weapons this time, I kneeled before him and let him ink his family crest into my skin. Honestly, I don’t think there’s ever been anything hotter, and he thought so too, if the way he spent the rest of the night inside me is any indication.

Now, every time he touches it, I feel that possession. His claim on me. And maybe it’s an antiquated tradition, but I like having his brand on me. I love it, in fact. It’s almost ironic, considering I spent my whole life trying to escape these customs. Now, I’m in it for the long haul. But it doesn’t scare me the way it once did. There’s something freeing about being with Judge in this capacity. He’s still the same bossy, domineering man who boils my blood at times. And with my temper, there’s never a lack of passion between us. But I love my life. I love my husband. Our babies. Our beautiful, dysfunctional family. We have more than any two people should have, and I’ll never stop being grateful for it. Not for one second.

Yet sometimes, I still can’t help myself. I have to keep Judge on his toes. Which is exactly what I intend to do when the deckhand makes an appearance. He’s a young, handsome Frenchman who’s charming as hell. Of course, he doesn’t hold a candle to Judge, and he never will. But that’s beside the point.

“It feels hot outside today, doesn’t it?” I ask Solana.