# Chapter 9: Building

Morning light cuts through the half-fitted blinds, striping the bare concrete floor in gold and shadow. I wake to the sound of his boots on the porch, the heavy tread that never fails to send a traitorous shiver straight down my spine. Ten years of silence, of pretending I didn't still memorize the exact weight of him, the exact pitch of his voice when he said my name like it was a vow he couldn't keep, and now he's here. Not leaving. Not vanishing into the fog of whatever ghost he's been running from. Here. Building.

I swing my legs over the edge of the mattress, the new frame Cole bought me last week creaking in approval. The room is still a work in progress. Paint cans line the baseboards. A half-unpacked box of books sits in the corner. But the sheets are clean. The air smells like him—sandalwood, cold smoke, and that sharp, clean scent of soap he uses like he's trying to wash off the past.

I pad into the hallway. The floorboards groan under my bare feet. He's in the kitchen, back to me, shoulders broad enough to block out the window light, moving with that slow, deliberate efficiency that belongs to someone who's spent years reading a room like a battlefield. He's wearing faded gray sweatpants and nothing else. The scars map across his spine, a topography of violence and survival I've only been allowed to trace in the dark. Now, he lets me. Now, he arches into my touch like he's starving for it.

"Coffee's brewing," he says, voice rough with sleep. "Yours first. Black. Two sugars like you always take it. Even when you tried to pretend you didn't."

I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching the way his hands move. Calloused. Scarred. The knuckles split from old fights, the tendons thick from years of gripping weapons, ropes, steering wheels. He turns, and his eyes lock onto mine. Dark. Heavy. Possessive in a way that used to scare me, that used to make me pack my bags and run. But fear is a luxury we can't afford anymore. Not when he's standing in my kitchen, making me coffee like he belongs here.

"Morning," I say.

"Morning, Emma." He says my name like it's something solid. Something he's claiming back. He pours the coffee, hands it to me, and his fingers brush mine. A spark. A promise. He doesn't let go immediately. His thumb drags across my pulse point, feeling the beat. "You sleep?"

"Enough." I sip. Perfect. He's learned. Or maybe he's always remembered and just never let himself show it until now. "You fix the sink yet?"

"Later." He steps into my space. Close. Too close for strangers, but we're not strangers. We're survivors. "Gonna keep you right here."

His hand settles on my hip. Heavy. Grounding. I lean into him, pressing my chest to his bare torso. His skin is warm. Rough. I can feel the ridges of old burns against my collarbone. He exhales, a low sound that vibrates through both of us.

"Good morning," he murmurs against my hair.

"Good morning."

We stand like that until the coffee cools. He doesn't rush me. He never does. That's the thing about Cole now that I'm still getting used to: he's still gruff. Still commands a room like he's expecting a threat. Still tracks my movements with that quiet, feral intensity that makes other women step back and men straighten their spines. But the edge has softened. The roughness is still there, but it's directed. Focused. On me. Protective. Devoted. He left me a decade ago because he thought he was poison. Because he thought his bloodline, his training, his violent reflexes would taint me. Turns out, he was wrong. I didn't want pristine. I wanted him. Even when I didn't admit it. Especially when I didn't admit it.

He pulls back just enough to look at me. His eyes drop to my mouth. I know what he's thinking. I've seen it in the mirror. The hunger. The need to mark. To own. And God, I want him to.

"Breakfast?" I ask, brushing past him to the pantry.

"Whatever you want." He follows. Always follows. "Just tell me."

"Scrambled. Toast. Fruit." I start pulling things out. He stands behind me, chest brushing my back, hands settling on my waist. He doesn't touch my skin. Not yet. Just the fabric of my sleep shirt. A boundary he respects, even when his body begs to cross it.

"You gonna let me help or just stand there looking pretty?" I ask, cracking eggs into the bowl.

He huffs a laugh. Low. Dark. "You know I'm gonna stand here until you tell me to move."

"Stubborn."

"Mine." The word slips out before I can stop it. He says it like it's a fact. Like gravity. Like the sun rising. My fingers still. The fork hovers over the bowl. I turn in his arms, and he's already looking at me. No hesitation. No shame. Just that raw, unfiltered certainty.

"Yours," I say back. "Always was."

His jaw tightens. The muscles in his neck cord. He dips his head, pressing his forehead to mine. "Don't ever doubt that again."

"I won't." I reach up, cup his cheek. The stubble scrapes my palm. "I'm done doubting things."

He catches my wrist. Holds it. Presses his lips to my inner wrist. A kiss. A claim. A seal. When he pulls back, his eyes are blazing. "Good."

We cook in silence for a while. He chops tomatoes. I whisk eggs. Our shoulders brush. Our hips bump. It's domestic. It's mundane. It's everything I've ever wanted. He plates the food, hands me my bowl, and we carry it to the small table by the window. We eat slowly. He watches me eat. Always watches me. Like he's making sure I'm real. Like he's memorizing the way my throat moves when I swallow, the way my eyes crinkle when I smile, the way my knees tuck under me when I shift in the chair.

"Water heater's acting up again," I say after a while. "I think the thermostat's shot."

"Fix it." He doesn't even look up from his plate. "After shower."

"I thought you were gonna let me shower."

He finally meets my eyes. "You gonna shower." A pause. "With me."

The air thickens. I set my fork down. "Cole."

"Emma." He says my name like a command. Like a prayer. "Don't make me ask twice."

I stand. He stands with me. We don't speak. We don't need to. I walk down the hall. He follows. The bathroom door clicks shut behind us. I turn on the tap. Cold at first. Then warm. Then hot. Steam begins to curl into the air. I strip off my sleep shirt. Drop it. Unbutton my jeans. Step out. I don't turn around until I hear the water hit skin.

He's behind me. Close. His chest presses to my back. His hands slide around my waist. His mouth finds the junction of my neck and shoulder. He bites. Not hard. Just enough to leave a mark. A claim. I gasp. Arch into him. His hands grip my hips. Pull me back against him. I can feel him. Hard. Throbbing. Already. Just from standing in the steam. Just from being this close.

"Turn around," he murmurs.

I do. Water drums against the tile. Slides down our legs. I look up at him. His eyes are dark. Fierce. Possessive. I reach up. Touch his chest. Trace a scar. He catches my wrist. Holds it. Presses my palm flat against his heartbeat.

"Feel that?" he asks.

I nod.

"It's yours." He leans down. Kisses my collarbone. Then my jaw. Then my mouth. Hard. Hungry. His tongue slides against mine. I open for him. He tastes like coffee and salt and home. I wrap my arms around his neck. Pull him closer. He groans. Low. Rough. His hands slide up my back. Under the water. Over my skin. Calloused palms against my ribs. My waist. My thighs. He lifts me. I wrap my legs around his hips. He carries me to the shower bench. Sets me down. The water rains over us. He steps between my knees. Looks at me. Really looks at me.

"Tell me to stop," he says. Voice rough. Throat working. "Tell me now and I will."

I don't. I never would. I pull his mouth down to mine. Kiss him like I'm starving. Like I'm finally drinking after years of drought. He groans against my lips. His hands grip my thighs. Lift me. I cling to him. His cock slides against my core. Wet. Hot. I whimper. He curses. Low. Feral.

"Look at me," he demands.

I do. His eyes are blown wide. Pupils swallowing the gray. He's trembling. Just slightly. Not from fear. From restraint. From wanting to take me right here, right now, and not caring about the water or the noise or the neighbors. But he won't. Not unless I give him permission. Not unless I ask.

"Please," I breathe.

He doesn't hesitate. He lowers me onto the bench. Kneels. Hands on my hips. I spread my legs wider. He doesn't rush. He never does. He looks at me. Studies me. Then his mouth drops to my stomach. Kisses. Bites. Licks. He drags his tongue down to my navel. Then lower. To my thighs. To my center. I arch. Gasp. His hands grip my hips. Hold me still. And then his mouth is on me.

God. His mouth. I've dreamed about it. Night after night. Ten years of silence, of pretending I didn't ache for it, of telling myself I'd rather die than beg, and now he's here. Kneeling in my shower. Tongue flat. Slow. Deliberate. Circling. Pressing. I throw my head back. Water sluices over my shoulders. My fingers tangle in his hair. He grips my hips harder. Pulls me closer. I whimper. He hums against me. The vibration goes straight through me. I'm already wet. Already dripping. He slides two fingers inside me. Thick. Calloused. Stretching. I gasp. He curls them. Hits that spot. Again. Again. My breath hitches. My thighs tremble. I look down. Watch him. Watch his jaw work. Watch his eyes lock on mine. Possessive. Devoted. Fierce.

"Cole," I gasp.

"Say it," he murmurs against me. "Say whose you are."

"Yours," I cry. "Always yours. Only yours."

He groans. Rises. Steps back. I follow with my eyes as he undoes his sweatpants. Slides them down. Kicks them away. His cock springs free. Thick. Veined. Already leaking. He doesn't give me time to look. He grabs my waist. Lifts me. I wrap around him. He's so big. So hot. So hard. I gasp. He grips my thighs. Holds me up. And then he's inside me.

God. The stretch. The fullness. The heat. I cry out. He groans. Bites his lip. Eyes shut. For a second. Just a second. He's fighting it. Fighting not to take me too hard. Not to claim me too fast. But I'm right. I'm wrapped around him. I'm his. And he knows it.

He opens his eyes. Looks at me. Nods. Starts to move.

Slow at first. Deep. Deliberate. Each thrust knocks the breath from my lungs. The water drums against our backs. Slides down our sides. His hands grip my hips. Pull me down. Meet him halfway. I gasp. He curses. Picks up the pace. Harder. Deeper. Faster. The bench creaks under us. I wrap my legs tighter. Cling to him. His mouth finds my neck. Bites. Sucks. I arch. Whimper. He groans. Drives deeper. Hits that spot. Again. Again. My back bows. My fingers dig into his shoulders. He's so strong. So controlled. But I can feel it. The tension. The need. The hunger.

"Cole," I gasp. "Cole, please."

He doesn't stop. He never does when I ask. He just grunts. Low. Rough. And drives harder. Faster. The water masks the sound. But I feel it. In the bench. In the tile. In my bones. His grip on my hips tightens. Marks my skin. I know he'll leave bruises. I don't care. I want them. I want everyone to know. I want him to know. I'm his. I've always been his. Even when he left. Even when I pretended otherwise. Even when I told myself I'd never take him back.

He leans down. Kisses me. Hard. Hungry. His tongue slides against mine. I moan into his mouth. Swallow the sound. He groans. Pulls back. Looks at me. Eyes blazing.

"Look at me," he demands.

I do. He's thrusting faster. Harder. Deeper. I'm trembling. Clenching around him. He feels it. Groans. Low. Feral.

"Come for me," he growls. "Now. Let me feel it."

I break. Like glass. Like water. Like breath. My back arches. My thighs clamp around him. My fingers dig into his shoulders. He holds me. Takes it. Takes every pulse. Every spasm. Every shudder. I cry out. He curses. Bites his lip. Thinks he can hold it. But I feel it. The tension in his thighs. The tremor in his hands. The way his breath hitches.

"Let go," I whisper. "I've got you."

He does. Groans. My name. A broken sound. A prayer. His cock pulses. Hot. Thick. Inside me. He holds me. Takes it. I feel it spill. Deep. Claiming. Filling me. I cling to him. Shake. Whimper. He holds me. Presses his forehead to mine. Breathes. Slow. Rough. His hands rub my hips. My waist. My back. Grounding me. Holding me. Keeping me.

The water keeps falling. Steam rises. Clings to our skin. He doesn't pull out. Not yet. He just stays. Deep. Inside. Warm. Heavy. Real. I wrap my arms around his neck. Hold him. Press kisses to his jaw. His throat. His chest. He catches my hand. Kisses my palm. Then my wrist. Then my pulse.

"Mine," he murmurs. Voice rough. Throat working. "Always mine."

"Yours," I breathe. "Only yours."

He finally pulls out. Gently. I whimper. He catches me. Holds me. Turns me under the spray. Rinses us. Washes the water from our skin. From his mouth. From my thighs. He cups my face. Looks at me. Eyes soft. Fierce. Devoted.

"You okay?" he asks.

I nod. "Never better."

He huffs a laugh. Low. Dark. "Good." He steps back. Shuts the water. Reaches for a towel. Wraps it around me. I don't fight it. I lean into him. Let him dry me. Let him touch me. Let him care for me. He wraps the towel around my waist. Secures it. Then he steps back. Looks at me. Really looks at me.

"Bedroom?" he asks.

I nod. "Bedroom."

He takes my hand. Squeezes. Leads me out. The house is quiet. Morning light spills through the hallway windows. Stripes the floor. We walk to our room. He pulls back the sheets. Lifts me onto the mattress. Lies beside me. Pulls me against his chest. I rest my head on his shoulder. Listen to his heartbeat. Steady. Strong. Real.

He runs his fingers through my hair. Down my arm. Over my ribs. My waist. My hip. He doesn't rush. Doesn't need to. We just lie. Together. Breathing. Existing. Building.

"You gonna paint the trim today?" I ask after a while.

He huffs. "Gonna watch you paint the trim."

"Lazy."

"Mine." He presses a kiss to my hair. "Gonna watch you. Gonna make sure you eat. Gonna make sure you don't overdo it. Gonna keep you safe."

I smile. "You think I need keeping?"

"I know it." He turns. Looks at me. Eyes dark. Fierce. Possessive. "I left you. Ten years. Thought I was doing you a favor. Thought I was protecting you. I was wrong. I was running. From myself. From what I am. From what I'd do if someone threatened you. If someone hurt you. I'd kill them. And I'd sleep soundly. And I'd hate myself. And I'd do it again. That's not a life. That's a cage. For both of us."

He cups my face. Thumbs my cheekbone. "I'm back now. Not running. Not hiding. Staying. Building. With you. For you. Because you're mine. And I'm yours. And I'm done pretending otherwise."

I reach up. Touch his chest. Trace a scar. "I know."

He leans down. Kisses me. Slow. Deep. Sure. "Good."

He pulls back. Smiles. Small. Real. "Now get up. Paint the trim. I'll watch."

I laugh. Push him. He catches me. Holds me. Doesn't let go. "You're impossible."

"Yours," he says again. Like it's a fact. Like gravity. Like the sun rising. "Always yours."

I kiss him. Again. Deeper. Slower. "Always yours."

We get up. I shower. He dries my hair. I put on jeans. A shirt. He watches. Doesn't look away. Never does. I grab a brush. A can of paint. He hands me a drop cloth. I lay it down. He steps back. Crosses his arms. Watches.

I start painting. Slow. Deliberate. He doesn't speak. Doesn't move. Just watches. Like he's memorizing. Like he's making sure I'm real. Like he's finally home.

And I am. I'm home. With him. In this house. In this life. Building it. Brick by brick. Day by day. Together.

He walks over. Stands behind me. Hands settle on my waist. Pulls me back against his chest. Kisses my shoulder.

"Good girl," he murmurs.

I smile. "Shut up and paint with me."

He huffs. Grabs a brush. Stands beside me. Starts painting. Doesn't rush. Doesn't speak. Just works. Beside me. For me. With me.

The trim takes hours. The sun moves. The house fills with light. With dust. With paint fumes. With us. Two people. One life. Building it. Together.

When we're done, he cleans the brushes. Wipes the edges. I make coffee. He pours it. Hands it to me. I take it. Sip. Look at him. He looks at me. Smiles. Small. Real.

"Good day," he says.

I nod. "Yeah."

He steps closer. Arms around me. Pulls me in. Kisses my forehead. My jaw. My lips. "Tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow," I say. "We keep building."

He tightens his hold. "Always."

I rest my head against his chest. Listen to his heartbeat. Steady. Strong. Real. I close my eyes. Breathe. In. Out. His arm stays around my waist. His hand stays on my hip. His presence stays in the room. In the house. In my bones.

He's gruff. He's scarred. He's possessive. But he's mine. And I'm his. And we're building. Together. Exactly where we're supposed to be. Exactly where we've always been.

I smile. Against his chest. "Yeah," I whisper. "Always."