The charcoal breathes. Smoke curls into the crisp autumn air. I watch it twist and vanish. My hands rest on the heavy swell beneath my shirt. Six months. Six months of hunger. Six months of him. Six months of being claimed.
The tailgate hums around me. Boos ring out. Laughter echoes. Someone cracks open a cold beer. The smell of grease and spice hits my nose. I press my back against the brick wall of the stadium. I need a minute. My knees ache. My lower back screams. My nipples throb through the thin cotton of my top. I’m swollen. I’m sore. I’m his.
He’s at the grill.
He always stands by the grill. He controls the fire. He controls the food. He controls me.
I watch him flip a thick burger with one hand. The other rests on his hip. His black t-shirt clings to his broad shoulders. His sleeves are rolled to the elbows. Veins trace his forearms. Sweat beads at his temple. His jaw is set. His eyes scan the crowd like a predator. He’s hunting. He’s always hunting. For me.
I shift my weight. The baby kicks. A sharp roll against my ribs. I gasp. My fingers dig into my stomach. He’s already moving.
He doesn’t look at me. Not yet. He just slides a plate off the grill. Sets it on the metal table. Wipes his hands on a towel. Turns.
His gaze locks onto mine. Dark. Heavy. Possessive.
“Come here,” he says.
His voice cuts through the noise. It’s not a request. It’s an order. I don’t hesitate. I push off the wall. My steps are slow. Deliberate. The crowd parts for me. They know. They all know what I carry. They know who owns me.
He doesn’t smile. He never does when he’s claiming me. He just stands. Waiting. Grounded. Unmoving.
I reach him. He doesn’t touch me yet. He just looks down. At my belly. At my face. At the way my chest rises and falls too fast.
“You’re lagging,” he says.
“I’m heavy,” I whisper.
“You’re perfect,” he corrects.
He steps closer. The heat from the grill radiates between us. The smell of seared meat wraps around us. He reaches out. His palm slides over my stomach. Firm. Grounding. Heavy. I shiver.
“Sit,” he says.
I look down. He’s already shifting. Lowering himself onto the cooler beside the grill. He pats his thigh. The space on his lap. Open. Inviting. Dominant.
I don’t ask. I never ask. I step between his knees. I turn. I sink onto his thighs. My belly rests against his stomach. Our bodies press together. Solid. Warm. Real.
He wraps his arms around me. One hand locks at the small of my back. The other slides up. Cradles the side of my face. His thumb strokes my cheekbone. Rough. Possessive.
“Mine,” he murmurs.
I nod. I don’t speak. My throat is too tight. My heart is too loud.
He leans in. His lips brush my ear. Hot. Wet. Certain.
“You carry my seed,” he says. “You carry my name. You carry my future. You’re not going anywhere.”
I close my eyes. I lean back against his chest. I let his weight anchor me. I let his voice fill me.
The baby kicks again. Harder this time. I gasp. My fingers dig into his forearms.
He chuckles. Low. Dark. Amused.
“He’s strong,” he says.
“He’s yours,” I say.
“I know,” he says. “That’s why I’m keeping you.”
His hand slides down. From my cheek. To my neck. To my shoulder. To my arm. To my waist. To my stomach. He presses his palm flat over the baby. He feels it. He always feels it. He knows every shift. Every flutter. Every violent roll.
He’s been here since the first positive test. Since the tears. Since the panic. Since the way I looked at him like I’d ruined everything.
He just took my face in his hands. Kissed my forehead. Told me to get on my knees.
Told me he’d breed me again. And again. Until there was no doubt. Until there was no escaping him.
Until I was his forever.
I remember the way he gripped my hair. The way he pinned me to the mattress. The way he told me to take it. The way I did. The way I begged for more. The way I came so hard I saw stars. The way he filled me. Deep. Thick. Unforgiving. The way he whispered my name like a prayer. Like a vow.
I open my eyes. I tilt my head back. I look at him.
His jaw is tight. His eyes are dark. His mouth is set. But I see it. The softness. The pride. The absolute certainty.
He’s never let me go. Not since. Not ever.
“You’re trembling,” he says.
“I’m cold,” I lie.
He doesn’t call me on it. He just adjusts me. Lifts me slightly. Settles me deeper. His arms lock around me. His chest presses against my back. His chin rests on my shoulder. He smells like smoke. Like salt. Like him.
“Warm enough?” he asks.
I nod. I rest my cheek against his. I close my eyes. I breathe him in.
The crowd cheers. A field goal. The horns blast. The music thumps. But it’s all distant. Muffled. Irrelevant.
There’s only him. Only this. Only the weight of him. Only the heat of him. Only the steady beat of his heart against my spine.
He shifts his hand. Slides it lower. Over my stomach. Down. To my hip. To my thigh. He grips me. Firm. Unyielding.
“Look at you,” he murmurs. “Swollen. Glowing. Perfect.”
I smile. I can’t help it.
“You’re staring,” I say.
“I’m claiming,” he says. “There’s a difference.”
I shiver. I always shiver when he says that. When he reminds me what I am. What I’ll always be.
His fingers trace my hip bone. Light. Deliberate. Possessive.
“You think I’m letting you walk away from this?” he asks.
I shake my head. “No.”
“Good,” he says. “Because I’m not letting go.”
He presses a kiss to my neck. Right where my pulse jumps. Right where he’s marked me before. Right where he’ll mark me again.
“I’m keeping you,” he says. “In my house. In my bed. In my life. In my bed until you’re carrying our third. Until you’re carrying our fourth. Until you’re too full of me to remember your own name.”
I whimper. I can’t help it. My body responds to him. Always. Even now. Even with a life growing inside me. My nipples tighten. My core flares. My breath hitches.
He feels it. Of course he feels it. His hand slides up. Back to my stomach. Back to my chest. Back to my jaw. He turns my face. He makes me look at him.
His eyes are black. Heavy. Hungry.
“You want me,” he says.
I nod. I don’t lie. I never lie to him. Not about this.
He smiles. Just a fraction. Just enough.
“Good girl,” he says.
The words hit me like a wave. Like a brand. Like a promise. I melt against him. I let his strength hold me. I let his voice wrap around me. I let his claim sink into my bones.
He shifts. Just slightly. Adjusts my weight. Settles me deeper. His arm locks around my waist. His hand rests over the baby. He feels it move. He always feels it move. He knows. He’s been counting. He’s been planning.
“We’re getting married,” he says.
I freeze. Just for a second. Just long enough for him to notice.
He doesn’t miss it. He never does.
“You heard me,” he says. “No more waiting. No more pretending. You’re wearing my ring. You’re taking my name. You’re carrying my babies. You’re staying.”
I turn in his arms. I face him. I look up at him. My hands rest on his chest. I feel his heart. Steady. Strong. Unbreakable.
“I’m yours,” I say.
“I know,” he says. “That’s why I’m putting a ring on your finger. That’s why I’m booking the venue. That’s why I’m telling my family you’re coming home. That’s why I’m never letting you doubt it again.”
He reaches into his pocket. His fingers close around something. He pulls it out. Slides it onto my finger.
Gold. Heavy. Custom. The diamond is large. Cut perfectly. Set in platinum. It catches the sunlight. It catches my breath.
I stare at it. My throat tightens. My eyes burn.
He sees it. He always sees it. He doesn’t let me hide. He never lets me hide.
He grips my chin. Hard. Gentle. Certain.
“Say it,” he says.
I swallow. I look at him. I look at the ring. I look at the baby. I look at the life we’re building.
“I’m yours,” I say. “Completely. Permanently. Irrevocably.”
He exhales. Long. Slow. Satisfied.
“Good,” he says. “Because I’m keeping you. In my bed. In my house. In my future. In my arms until you’re too full of me to walk. Until you’re begging me to fill you again. Until you’re carrying our last. And still telling me you need more.”
I laugh. It’s wet. It’s shaky. It’s happy.
He smiles. Really smiles. I’ve only seen it twice. Once when I came the first time. Once when the ultrasound showed the heartbeat.
He leans in. He kisses me. Hard. Deep. Claiming. His tongue sweeps my mouth. His teeth graze my lip. His hand locks at the back of my neck. He holds me there. He doesn’t let me pull away. He doesn’t need to. I never want to.
When he finally breaks it, we’re both breathing hard. My lips are swollen. My heart is racing. My body is humming.
He rests his forehead against mine. His eyes stay open. Dark. Possessive. Absolute.
“You’re not leaving this tailgate,” he says. “You’re not leaving me. You’re not leaving the baby. You’re staying. You’re mine. You’ve always been mine.”
I nod. I press my lips to his. Again. Softer. Slower. Surer.
He melts into it. Just for a second. Just long enough to let me feel it. The softness. The pride. The devotion.
He pulls back. His hand slides down. Back to my stomach. He feels the baby kick. He feels it rise. He feels it stretch.
“He’s going to be a fighter,” he says.
“He takes after you,” I say.
He chuckles. Low. Dark. Amused.
“Good,” he says. “I want him loud. I want him strong. I want him to know exactly who owns him.”
I smile. I rest my hand over his. I let our fingers intertwine. I let his weight hold me. I let his voice wrap around me. I let his claim settle into my skin.
The game continues. The crowd cheers. The horns blast. But it’s all background noise. Irrelevant. Temporary.
There’s only him. Only this. Only the heat. Only the weight. Only the promise.
He shifts. Just slightly. Adjusts me. Settles me deeper. His arm locks around my waist. His hand rests over the baby. He feels it move. He always feels it move. He knows. He’s been planning. He’s been preparing.
“We’re going home,” he says.
I nod. “Okay.”
“Yeah,” he says. “No more waiting. No more pretending. You’re wearing my ring. You’re carrying my babies. You’re staying. You’re mine. Forever.”
I close my eyes. I lean back against his chest. I let his strength hold me. I let his voice fill me. I let his claim sink into my bones.
The sun dips lower. The sky turns gold. The smell of smoke wraps around us. The baby kicks. He feels it. He always feels it. He smiles. I feel it. I always feel it.
He presses a kiss to my shoulder. His hand slides up. Cradles my face. His thumb strokes my cheekbone. Rough. Possessive. Certain.
“You’re home,” he says.
I open my eyes. I look at him. I look at the ring. I look at the future. I look at the life we’re building.
“I’m home,” I whisper.
He smiles. Really smiles. I’ve only seen it twice. But it’s enough. It’s always enough.
He adjusts me. Settles me deeper. His arm locks around me. His hand rests over the baby. He feels it move. He always feels it move. He knows. He’s been planning. He’s been preparing.
“Rest,” he says. “I’ve got you. I’ve always got you. I’m never letting go.”
I nod. I close my eyes. I let his weight hold me. I let his voice wrap around me. I let his claim settle into my skin.
The crowd cheers. The horns blast. The game continues. But it doesn’t matter. None of it matters.
There’s only him. Only this. Only the heat. Only the weight. Only the promise.
I’m pregnant. I’m claimed. I’m his. And I’m never leaving.