Ronan
It takes three tries to sit up.
Not because I’m injured, though everything from my hips to my ribs feels like it’s been through a war, but because my legs refuse to believe it’s over.
The rut broke sometime during the night. Not with a roar, but with a sigh. One last knot buried deep, one last growl against Eli’s throat as he shivered and clenched around me like he never wanted it to end.
And maybe I didn’t either.
Eli is curled beside me, bare and bruised and smug as sin. He smells like s*x and sleep and satisfaction. Like me. Like mine.
I study the curve of his back, the bite marks along his shoulder, the way his fingers twitch in dreams. He should look wrecked. He does. But not broken. Not even close. He’s humming with some secret victory that makes something primal in me ba
