Page 75 of His Fate

That's not part of our routine.

Perhaps my mate is feeling a little better today.

Stretching one last time, I allow my eyes to focus and search the room briefly for any other indication that Posey may be having a better day.

Our clothes from last night are in the basket, something neither of us have bothered with lately but something Posey did obsessively while we were at the cabin. Last night's dishes from dinner, which we ate in the sitting area in our bedroom, are gone, though that could mean my mate simply threw them away or launched them out a window.

I sit up and see that several of Posey's moving boxes have been unpacked, her books on my shelves, photos and artwork set up against walls to be hung, knick-knacks and trinkets on tables. Her suitcases are no longer in the middle of the room and when I swing my legs over the side of the bed and walk my naked ass to the enormous closet, I smile a bit because she has invaded what was once a relatively empty space.

Grabbing a pair of sweats, I hit our en-suite, get half dressed and make my way toward the living room. More of Josephine's personal effects are scattered throughout our wing, throw pillows and blankets, more photos and knick-knacks, and it appears she was cleaning since my mess—my usual mess because my mind runs from one thing to the next far too quickly—has been put back in order. Posey even has the doors and windows open in the other four—empty—bedrooms as well as my office and library, the smell of summer and my mate rich in the air.

I wander back to the living room and debate on whether or not Posey ventured downstairs but my gut says no. Maybe she is feeling better, more like herself today but she is still angry. That I can feel without even trying and since it's so potent, Josephine will avoid her father a while longer.

That thought actually sparks concern because if my Posey is not here—I've been trying very hard these last couple of weeks to avoid tapping into her thoughts, trying to allow her to come to me with what she wants to share—and did not go down to join our family, that really only means she went to the basement because I feel her in the house still. And if my beautiful, angry, bull-headed mate ventured to the basement where Andrej has been keeping and interrogating Ivan, that can really only mean one thing.

Which will most definitely not be good for Ivan.

Especially since one of the things both Posey and Hank have confirmed is my beloved’s affinity for weapons and combat.

Something I both hate and find violently arousing.

Just as I'm about to retrieve my phone to call my eldest brother in order to make sure my mate isn't performing some sort of cruel and unusual punishment on our prisoner, music floats in from the French doors, the ones that lead from our living room to our private balcony.

I follow the sound, the melody a tad haunted, the voice sadly beautiful, then my heart skips a beat as I stop in the doorway.

Josephine is dancing.

Her hair is piled high on her head, the curls shining in the sun, the strands more red under its rays. There is a light sheen of sweat over her entire body, those freckles of gold shimmering so bright each time she moves. Posey's wearing hardly anything at all, a tight sports bra and yoga shorts that reveal every lean and toned muscle, the way they shift and move causing her marking to look alive, as if the dragon and Phoenix are dancing with her.

She isn't dancing the way she was when I picked her up to go to the cabin. Posey isn'ttwerking—a word I despise, though I've come to love the action. No, my beloved is dancing with all of the grace and poise of a prima ballerina, though slightly different from ballet itself.

This is unique. Different. Something my mate has created on her own by combining different styles—I recognize the ballet, modern dance and interpretive from videos on YouTube Posey had me watch—and what appears to be hand to hand combat of some sort. Capoeira, I believe is what she called it. Whatever this is though, it is beautiful and so powerful, so moving, so emotion-evoking that all I can do is stand in the doorway and watch.

It isn't until I really start listening to the lyrics of the song that I realize my mate is crying. Not hard and not all sad, which is probably why it didn't register right away. Words of strength and survival, an anthem of walking through flames to save what remains, a life that is not broken and worth fighting for.

Those words resonate with me so strongly, so intensely as I watch her dance that hope and pride, unwavering love swells in my chest to the point of bursting that a lone tear rolls down my own cheek.

I have my Josephine back.

She is still angry and hurt but the strength inside her, the will to overcome everything that has been and will be put in her path, has finally broken through her melancholy state and she is determined to move forward from this, to grow and to win.

Goddamnit.

Josephine is a queen.

My queen.

My perfect, beautiful, rightful queen.

The song comes to a close and Posey finishes her dance then proceeds to stretch out her gorgeous body, reminding me just how long it's been since I've familiarized myself with it. My cock hardens, grows thick and heavy, my balls ache and the need to mark her, claim her becomes more urgent than it has been over the last ten days.

Which was already pretty fucking urgent because after seeing another male with his hands on her, my instinct to reclaim what is mine has been unbearable.

But I have not acted.

Have not pushed.

My mate will allow for that when she is ready and her well-being is far more important than my primal and carnal needs.

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