Page 65 of Possessed By the Mountain Man
He squeezes the ring between our fingers. “Marry me, witch. Make my life as insane as yours. Laugh at me every morning, curse at me every night. Stay. Be my chaos.”
Tears flood my eyes. Hot. Immediate. Unstoppable.
I look at him—this brutal man who howls instead of prays, who doesn’t know gentle but knows loyal so ferociously it hurts.
This is the moment. My moment. Ours.
“Yes,” I whisper, voice cracked open completely. “Yes, Thorne. I’ll marry you.”
He exhales like I just cut chains from his lungs—and then his mouth is on mine again, fierce, grateful, relieved.
He slides the stupid little plastic ring onto my finger, and it fits horribly. But somehow—it fitsperfectly.
I laugh through tears, clutching his face. “You realize this means I’m staying, right?”
He grins—wolfish, wicked, mine. “Good.”
“And I’m redecorating everything.”
“Over my dead body.”
“And I’m painting your nails black when you sleep.”
“You try, I’ll tie you to the bed.”
Heat curls through me. “Promises.”
He growls.
We don’t stop kissing. Not for a long time. The storm howls outside, and his arms hold me like he never intends to let go. I don’t want him to.
Eventually, he pulls back just enough to look at me again.
“You’re not running anymore,” he says.
“No,” I whisper. “I’m exactly where I want to be.”
He presses his forehead to mine. “Good. Because I already warned the mountain—you’re mine now.”
I laugh into his mouth.
“I was always yours,” I whisper.
And he kisses me—slow and reverent and full of quiet, devastating truth.
The kind of kiss that feels like a promise.
The kind that lasts forever.
Epilogue
Aspen
One Year Later
If you had told me a year ago I’d be getting married on a mountain in a haunted Halloween wedding, wearing combat boots under my black velvet gown, holding a bouquet of blood-red roses and raven feathers, I would’ve assumed I had finally snapped and entered my villain era.
Yet here I am—wrapped in onyx lace and fall sunlight, surrounded by pumpkins, flickering lanterns, and the faint sound of polka music because apparently that’s what happens when you let Zane Warner control anything.
