The construction crew had been dismissed for the day, and the boys of Section E had vanished into the media room, sensing the atmosphere was too thick for their usual teasing.
I was standing in the center of our bedroom, my heart still racing from the way Keifer had stood up to my father. Before I could even turn around, the door was locked, and the "Do Not Disturb" light hummed to life.
Hubby?" I whispered.
He didn't speak. He crossed the room in three long strides, his hands reaching for my waist and lifting me until I was pressed against the closed door. His eyes were dark, swirling with a mixture of obsession and a desperate need to reclaim me once more.
He called you his daughter," Keifer rasped, his forehead dropping against mine. His breath was ragged. "He acted like he still had a claim on you. But he doesn't. You're mine, weify. Every beautiful inch. Every breath. You are a Watson."
The Reclamation
I wrapped my legs around his waist, my fingers digging into the expensive fabric of his suit jacket. "I'm yours, babe. Always yours."
He kissed me then, and it wasn't the gentle, "Green Forest" kiss from earlier. It was a claim. It was deep, demanding, and tasted of the fire he had been holding back all morning. His hands moved with a feverish intensity, sliding under my robe, his palms hot against my skin.
He carried me toward the bed, but we didn't make it that far. He set me down on the edge of the mahogany vanity, sweeping the expensive perfumes and brushes to the floor with a single, careless motion. Crystal shattered against the rug, the scent of jasmine filling the air, but neither of us cared.
Babe, the floor—" I gasped, my head falling back as his lips found the sensitive cord of my neck.
"I'll buy you a thousand more," he groaned against my skin. "Right now, I just need to feel you. I need to know you're here, honey. That you're safe. That you're mine."
The Worship of a Watson
He stripped away his jacket and shirt, his powerful, scarred chest heaving. When he looked at me, I saw the man who had killed for me, the man who had rebuilt a kitchen just to see me smile, and the man who currently wanted to worship me until I forgot my own name.
He moved slowly now, intentionally, making me wait for every touch. He knelt between my legs, his large hands guiding my knees apart.
You are so beautiful, weify," he whispered, his voice vibrating through me.
He worshipped me with a slow, agonizing precision. His tongue traced the fading marks on my skin, replacing the memories of pain with a heat so intense I felt like I was melting into the wood of the vanity. I arched my back, my fingers clutching at his shoulders, my voice crying out his name in a broken, desperate rhythm
Keifer... hubby... please," I sobbed, my eyes fluttering shut.
"Look at me, baby," he commanded, his voice a low growl. "I want to see your eyes when I take you. I want you to see exactly who is loving you."
The Peak of the Storm
When he finally joined us, it was a slow, deep surge that made the world tilt on its axis. I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him as close as humanly possible, my heart drumming against his. Every movement was a silent vow, a reclamation of my body and soul.
The room was silent except for our ragged breathing and the soft sound of the rain starting to hit the windows. We moved together in a rhythm that was ancient and hungry, a storm of silk and skin.
"You're my weify," he whispered against my lips, his pace quickening as we reached the edge of the cliff. "Tell me."
"I'm your wife," I cried out, my voice breaking as the release finally shattered through me, a million sparks of light behind my eyelids. "Only yours, babe! Only yours!"
He followed me a heartbeat later, his body tensing, his grip on me so tight I felt like we were becoming one person. He buried his face in my hair, his breath hot and heavy, as the world slowly settled back into place.
The Aftermath
He didn't pull away. He stayed right there, holding me on the vanity, the shattered crystal and spilled perfume forgotten. He tucked a damp strand of hair behind my ear, his eyes now soft, filled with that protective, Green Forest light again.
"I love you, honey," he murmured, kissing my nose.
"I love you too, hubby," I whispered, leaning my head on his shoulder.
Downstairs, my father was gone, and the kitchen was being rebuilt. But here, in the quiet of our room, the only thing being built was a bond that no Mariano or Hanamitchi could ever break.