Jurin watched her come to him.

The hall was filled camp girls, the most beautiful women in the whole of the waterlogged world by any definition, and yet they all seemed like shadows to him. All he saw, all he’d seen for nine months now, was Melyssa.

She walked toward him, her gaze locked to his, and he assumed she was coming to pick up the fight where it had left off in her cottage. And he felt sorry for her, he really did.

Because none of this was going to go the way she thought it would.

Not that he gave a fuck. Because he’d tasted her now, and he wasn’t holding back any longer. He was done waiting for her to see what was right in front of her face.

He’d told her so.

Jurin stood where he was, next to Eiryn and his king as they told the story of Wulf’s stint undercover as a weakling prisoner in evil King Athenian’s winter palace in the western highlands to a throng of awed clan members. But he wasn’t listening to the story, which was already one of his favorites and would go down as part of Wulf’s legend. He watched Melyssa approach instead.

Because he thought it was a sight he would never tire of, no matter how many years he had left on this cursed, ruined earth. His woman, soft and sweet, looking as if she’d been fucked hard and well for hours. His cock twitched at the memories, because one afternoon with Melyssa barely scratched the surface of the powerful need he had for her.

He let his gaze fall to that baby on her chest, cuddled up tight, eyes closed and mouth open, as if Rhiannon was trying to fight her mama for space in Jurin’s heart.

His, he thought. Both of them.

End of discussion.

When she drew close to him, he saw that there was expression in her eyes that he’d never seen before. Part of him instantly went into battle mode. Tactics and strategies to make her stop fighting this. Him.

Because he didn’t think she wanted to fight him. He thought she didn’t know how not to fight. It wasn’t the same thing.

“I’m not fighting about this anymore,” he told her, his voice rougher than he would have liked. Especially in public.

“Did you ever fight about it?” she asked mildly. “I thought you just made pronouncements.”

And Jurin was a man who’d been born to swing a blade. He was big and he was tough, built to brawl. He knew how to take a hit and he knew how to storm a castle wall. He laughed in the face of his enemies and he feared no man.

He had never realized how weak he could be until now.

When one tiny woman, all curves and big dark eyes he couldn’t read, held his heart in her hands.

And he thought he’d prefer to take a few bullets from some asshole’s waterlogged Uzi or a jagged blade to the gut before he’d either admit that to another living soul.

Or worse, to her.

“I don’t want to fight anymore either,” she continued, and even her voice was different.

He hated it. This was Melyssa. His Melyssa. Jurin had made a study of her. If asked, he could have written a book about what she thought, what she felt, what she needed, what she feared.

The fact he couldn’t read her now made him tense up, everywhere.

But Melyssa reached up, stretching up on her tiptoes so she could place her hand along the side of his jaw, and then she held it there.

Right here, in the middle of the hall where everyone could see.

And everybody did see, because the brothers were mighty warriors who loved nothing more than a good gossip, like a bunch of little bitches.

Jurin heard the whispers all around. He could feel everyone turn to look, because everybody knew. They’d always known, right from the start, that this woman was the one he wanted most and couldn’t bring himself to claim in the old school raider fashion, with a good kidnapping or a nice abduction to set the mating off on the right foot.

Not that Jurin didn’t have that shit in him, because he did. But he knew his woman.

She’d needed these nine months. She’d been a mess when she’d gotten here, and though she might think she still was one, he knew better. She was tough and she was brave. She was a great mother and a good sister. He had no doubt she’d be a terrific mate.

And he didn’t think he was flattering himself to think that whatever else she was here, she’d also be happy.

“Baby, I really hope you know better than to play games with me.” Jurin’s voice was tight. A real threat this time. “I’m done being nice and sweet and safe.”

But Melyssa didn’t crumple into a heap on the ground at that. She kept her hand where it was, and she made it worse when she swayed off balance—then righted herself by putting her palm against his chest.

“But you are,” she whispered. “You’re all of those things. Who would have imagined that the biggest, scariest, loudest raider of them all could ever be nice? Or sweet? Or the safest thing of all?”

He decided he would let her live because she’d said that so softly. Because he wouldn’t have to fight his brothers when they inevitably quoted it back to him in battle if they hadn’t heard it in the first place.

But he also wasn’t sure he’d really mind if they did.

“Melyssa.” He gritted it out, tight and dark, like he was pissed. When he wasn’t. Not exactly. What he was, he thought, was greedy. For the rest of their life to start once they got through the last of this shit. “What do you want?”

“I’m just wondering, Jurin,” she said.

But she wasn’t whispering any longer. She wasn’t keeping her voice low and quiet, the way she usually did. She was loud enough to be heard in every corner of the hall, and Jurin might have enjoyed that more if he hadn’t felt caught tight and the harsh grip of whatever the hell was happening here.

Even when she smiled. “Are you ever going to claim me?”

And from a distance, Jurin heard his brothers cheering. He heard his king from beside him, as loud as all the rest.

Finally, roared that bright thing in him that had always been hers.

It was a brilliant fire. And it was theirs.

And he intended to make sure it burned in them forever.

He could see her smile dim a little bit at the edges, almost as if she doubted him.

Jurin was a man of honor. He was a warrior and better still, a brother of the clan. He wasn’t built to give his woman any cause to doubt him. He vowed she never would again.

He reached up and took her hand in his, then kept it where it was against his face. He looked down into her soft, dark eyes. He lost himself in her smile.

And then he said the words.

“I claim Melyssa as my own,” he belted out, loud enough to shake the windows. Deep enough to rival the stone walls. Certain enough to earn a mark on the clan sigil that hung above the fire. “Let no hand touch her without my blessing.”

The clan roared.

And Jurin made Melyssa his at last.

For good.