Page 39 of Carrick
I trailed my fingers along the line of the cane where it cut diagonally across her upper thigh, already swelling slightly. A red ribbon across the pale. Her hips twitched, a breath catching in her lungs.
Then she whimpered.
Quiet. Not pain. Not regret.
Recognition.
My throat went tight. I swallowed hard against the ache behind it. Because I’d taken her apart, piece by piece, with whip and word and hand—and now she was letting me help stitch her soul back together, one quiet, sacred touch at a time.
She trusted me with that. And there wasn’t a thing in the world more powerful than that gift. Not to a man like me.
“Color?” I asked, my voice lower than it had been all night.
She blinked slowly, lashes damp, lips parted. Her eyes found mine—glassy, dazed, but clear. “Green,” she said, the word barely more than breath.
I exhaled hard, something loosening in my chest I hadn’t realized was wound tight.
She wasn’t just okay. She was here.
And she was mine.
I pulled the comforter out of the basket beside the bed where I’d stored it and laid it over her body, careful not to press too hard on the places I’d struck. Then I slid in beside her, my arm curling under her neck and pulling her in.
She came easily. No hesitation. Just that soft, instinctive movement of someone who knew where they belonged in the moment.
Right there. Pressed into my side.
Her cheek rested over my heart, skin warm, breath syncing with mine in slow, steady beats. I traced circles at the base of her spine, grounding her with nothing but quiet contact. Her body responded—pulse slowing, muscles softening, her weight melting into me like ice to water.
I’d hurt her. Used her. Taken her to the edge and left her shaking. And now she was here, curled against me, trusting me to hold what I’d broken open. No one had ever trusted me like that—not fully. Not after seeing what I was capable of.
But she did.
And I’d never take that lightly. This wasn’t about power. It wasn’t even about the marks I’d left, no matter how much pride I took in them.
It was about this. The stillness. The surrender. The way she let herself be held.
Bellamy—this woman who walked like a blade and wore her armor like skin—had chosenmeto strip it away. She let me take her pain, her control, her composure. Not because she wasweak, but because she was strong enough to fall apart in the right hands.
Mine.
She hadn’t just given me her body—she’d given me her trust. Her need. Her truth. And in return, she let me hold the pieces with reverence.
I pulled her closer, my palm spread low on her back, feeling the tremors still moving through her. Not fear or pain. Something more quiet. More true.
Vulnerability like this didn’t come easy. Not to her. Not to me.
I leaned in and kissed her temple—slow, steady, not soft, but certain. A promise more than a touch.
“You’re perfect,” I whispered.
A sound left her throat then—small and fractured, like it had crawled up from somewhere deep inside. She pressed her face into my chest like she could hide it, like if she curled close enough, she’d disappear into me completely.
And maybe that’s exactly what she needed. Maybe it’s what I needed, too.
Because that sound… that surrender… itguttedme. I’d thought the high would be in the taking—the push, the pain, the scene. And yeah, that had been good. Better than good. Watching her arch into every strike, begging with her body for more, her moans wrecked and glorious. It had been intoxicating.
But this? This was the moment that claimed me.
