Scars of the Crown

CHAPTER 2: COMING HOME TO YOU

Ward POV

I kiss the top of Elara’s head again, the downy softness of her hair a balm to my soul. Then, I lean in to press a slow, warm kiss to Casey’s temple, my lips lingering against her skin. The scent of her, a mix of warm milk, clean baby, and that uniquely Casey essence, fills my senses.

“Take your time with her,” I murmur, my voice rough with a wanting that’s been building, simmering beneath the surface, for months now. It’s a deep, soul-aching need that goes beyond the physical, a need to reconnect, to feel whole again. “Once she’s settled and asleep, come back to bed. I’ll be waiting.”

Casey glances up at me, her eyes, usually so vibrant, are soft and heavy-lidded with a tiredness that’s both physical and emotional. A faint flush rises on her cheeks, and her gaze darkens with a knowing spark. She knows. She’s felt the shift in me over the past few weeks, the way I’ve been holding her just a little tighter, touching her just a little longer, my gaze lingering on her with an intensity that’s more than just appreciation. It’s a hunger.

“I’ll be there soon,” she whispers, her voice a low, breathy promise that sends a shiver down my spine.

I force myself to turn away, to break the spell of the nursery, to leave the warm, milky scent and the gentle glow of the nightlight. Walking back into our bedroom feels like stepping into a different world, one filled with a quiet, simmering anticipation. Closing the door softly behind me, I lean against it for a long breath, listening to the pounding of my own heart against my ribs.

It’s been three long, agonizing months since Elara was born. Three months since Casey went through hell, bringing our daughter into the world while I was powerless to be there, the memory of her pain a raw wound I still carried. Since then, my only focus has been on her healing, on her comfort, on giving her all the time and rest she needed to recover. I’ve been gentle, patient, a constant presence but always careful not to push. But now… now the waiting is becoming unbearable. I need her. I need to feel her against me, to taste her, to lose myself in her.

And more than that – a deep, gnawing desire stirs within me. A desire to give her what she never got last time. To be there, truly there, from the very first moment, if we’re lucky enough to create another life together. To plant my seed deep inside her, to feel it take root, and to be there to witness the miracle of our next child growing, knowing I was present from the very beginning, not just a spectator but a participant. To feel that primal connection, that merging of our bodies and souls in the most fundamental way.

I strip off my shirt, the rough fabric grazing my skin, and kick off my boots, leaving them by the door. The cool air of the bedroom raises goosebumps on my bare skin. I lie back against the pillows, the sheets cool against my skin, and wait. The room is dim, lit only by the slivers of moonlight spilling through the curtains, casting long, dancing shadows on the walls. Every minute feels like an eternity, each tick of the unseen clock amplifying my anticipation.

When the door creaks open, a soft, tentative sound, I sit up instantly, my breath catching in my throat. Casey stands silhouetted against the faint light of the hallway, a shy, hesitant figure. She’s wearing nothing but a thin cotton nightdress that falls to her knees, the fabric clinging subtly to her form. She closes the door behind her with a soft click, securing it with the lock, and then walks slowly toward the bed, her bare feet making no sound on the rug.

I reach for her the moment she’s close enough, my hands finding her waist, my thumbs brushing against the curve of her hip through the thin fabric. I pull her between my legs, drawing her down until she’s kneeling on the bed, facing me. I look up at her, my gaze tracing the soft lines of her face, her throat, the gentle swell of her breasts beneath the nightdress.

“You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this,” I say, my voice low and thick, a gravelly testament to my need. “For you.”

She leans down, her hands coming to rest on my shoulders, her fingers finding the muscles there, already starting to loosen the tension I’d been holding. She kisses me slow and deep, a kiss that speaks volumes of shared history, of hardship, and of a love that has only deepened with every trial. I can taste her, warm and sweet, and I groan against her mouth, my hands sliding up her back, pulling her closer, molding her body against mine. I kiss her until we’re both breathless, my lips moving from her mouth, down her jaw, to the delicate skin of her throat. I taste every inch of skin I’ve missed so desperately, inhaling her unique scent, letting it ground me. My fingers find the hem of her nightdress, fumbling slightly with the fabric as I slide it down her shoulder, a whisper of silk against her skin. She shivers when my palm covers her breast, soft and full now, heavy with the milk she’s been giving our daughter. I’m careful, gentle, my touch reverent as I brush my thumb over her n****e until it hardens and she gasps, arching into my touch.

“Ward,” she breathes, her fingers tangling in my hair, a silent plea or a sign of surrender.

“I’ve got you,” I murmur, my voice a low rumble against her skin. I gently guide her to lie back against the pillows, my body following hers, supporting my weight on my elbows so I don’t crush her. I cover her body with mine, my gaze never leaving hers, memorizing her face, her eyes, the way she looks at me. I kiss her again and again—her lips, her throat, her collarbone, lower still, tasting the faint saltiness of her skin. I take my time, moving with a deliberate slowness, worshipping every scar, every soft curve, reminding her how beautiful she is, how much I want her. I want this to be about more than just s*x; I want it to be about connection, about pleasure, about rebuilding the intimacy that was so brutally interrupted. I want her to feel safe, to feel cherished, to know that this is about us, about everything we lost and everything we found again.

When I finally push inside her, it’s slow, deliberate, the initial friction a delicious ache. We both still for a moment, our eyes locked, lost in the profound sensation of being joined. I can feel how warm and tight she is around me, a perfect fit, and it feels like coming home – like nothing has ever felt so profoundly right. This is where I belong.

“God, Casey,” I groan, my voice thick with emotion as I start to move, slow, deep strokes, keeping my gaze fixed on hers. “So perfect. Only mine.”

“Only yours,” she echoes, her voice a husky whisper. Her hands grip my shoulders, her fingers digging in just slightly, and her legs wrap around my waist, pulling me closer, drawing me deeper.

I kiss her hard then, a kiss that claims and promises, picking up the pace but never rushing, always mindful of her. I pour all the hunger, all the love, all the regret for the lost time into every movement. And as I move with her, as she meets every stroke with her own soft cries and gasps, I think about what I want most in this moment: to fill her completely, to give her another piece of us, and this time, to be right there beside her from the very start. No separation. No fear. Just us, completely intertwined.

When she comes undone beneath me, her body arching, her cries of my name filling the room, I follow her right over the edge. My release is deep, intense, a total surrender, spilling deep inside her, holding her so tight it feels like we’re melding into one single entity. I stay there, pressed close, my face buried in the curve of her neck, our hearts hammering in unison, a shared rhythm of release and deep satisfaction.

I kiss her skin, soft and slow, and whisper against her ear, my voice still ragged with post-orgasmic haze: “Let me give you another one. Let me be there this time. Every single day. From the first moment to the last.”

Casey holds me tighter, her fingers brushing the damp strands of hair from my forehead, and a soft smile breaks through the tears that have welled in her eyes. “Yes,” she breathes, the word a soft, certain vow. “Always yes.”