Page 57 of Anton

Marcie moaned, the sound echoing in the quiet room, and I pulled her up, my hand moving to her throat, not tight enough to hurt, but just enough to make her gasp. The pulse beneath my fingertips told me how much she wanted this, how her body responded to every move I made.

I slammed into her again, my name falling from her lips like a prayer, tightening my chest in a way that made me ache. She was mine, in every sense of the word, and I wasn’t going to let her forget it.

Her hands gripped the saddle rack, her body trembling with each push. The rhythm was frantic now, each thrust bringing us both closer to the edge. My hand fisted her hair, the grip tightening as I pulled her head back, exposing her throat. I leaned in close, brushing my lips against her ear.

“So fucking good,” I whispered, my words coming out in a harsh pant.

“Please, Anton… harder.” She spurred me on.

Thrusting fiercely, I gave her everything—harder, faster—my body moving with a desperation that matched her need as she cried out for me. The wet slap of skin on skin filled the air, and the world outside disappeared. All that mattered was her—how her body responded to me, how she pleaded for more.

And she did—over and over again. Each time, her body trembled beneath me, breaking apart in a moan that left me breathless. When she finally came, her body shuddered, and I followed, my release crashing over me in waves.

I pulled out slowly, my chest heaving as I watched her catch her breath. Her body still trembled from the force of it all, and I ran a hand over her back, my touch soft and gentle after everything we had shared.

“You’re mine, Marcie. Every inch of you.” I murmured softly.

Marcie turned her head, meeting my eyes with a gaze that held more than just satisfaction—it was relief, connection, and something deeper, something we hadn’t yet named.

I pulled her closer, brushing a strand of her hair from her face. My fingers lingered on her skin, as if I wanted to memorise the feel of her—here, with me at last, despite everything.

The last few days had been hell, and it wasn’t over yet. But through it all, Marcie had been incredible. I was so grateful this beautiful, amazing woman wanted me.

I’d almost fucked it up, almost let fear and pride get in the way of something I knew, deep down, was the best thing I’d ever have.

When this was over, when the dust settled and the danger was behind us, I was going to make her mine, forever. There was no question in my mind. I was never letting her go.

CHAPTER 23

MARCIE

DAY 4 NIGHT – MORNING – BEARING OUR SOULS

The smell of eggs hit me before I was fully awake. For a moment, I thought I was home, waking to the familiar sounds of Claire clattering around in my kitchen, making breakfast as she often did after a night out. Her omelettes were the best. My heart gave a strange little jolt—warmth, comfort, safety.

Then the scratch of the rough blanket against my bare legs and the faint scent of damp hay brought reality crashing back. I wasn’t home. I was hiding. In stables.

But Anton was here. That last thought made me smile.

Sitting up slowly, I stretched, groaning at the ache in my muscles—remnants from last night. Not that I was complaining. Definitely not. In fact, I would be happy to wake up with such an ache every morning. I grinned, looking for the source of my current discomfort. The space around me was empty, the faint sizzle of something cooking drawing my attention to the workshop in the far corner of the stables.

“Anton?”

At the sound of his name, my Mr Sexy soldier strode toward me, a plate in each hand and a lopsided smile on his face.

“Good morning, my lovely,” he said softly, closing the distance between us.

I blinked at the unexpected endearment, my chest tightening despite myself. My voice was rough from sleep, and I cleared my throat. “Morning. You cook? And where did you get eggs?” I asked, eyeing the scrambled eggs piled high on the plates.

“I’ve been out raiding, and yes, I do cook,” he replied, his grin widening as he handed me a plate and fork. “I ran to the nearest farm just before dawn. The chickens were very cooperative.”

“You stole eggs?” I couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled up at his smug expression.

“Desperate times. And lucky for us, there’s a small stove in the workshop,” he said, crouching to sit beside me.

Lifting the plate closer to my nose, I took a tentative sniff. “They smell good, but are you sure they’re safe? I didn’t take you for a cook,” I said, my tone sceptical even as I licked my lips. Food poisoning from eggs once was enough to scar me for life.

He arched a brow, clearly unimpressed by my doubt. “You wound me, Marcie. I’ll have you know my cooking is worthy of a Michelin Star any day. Try them,” he said, feigning indignation.

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