Page 21 of Knotted By The Irish

Small. Soft. Warm. My fingers swallow hers whole, scars and busted knuckles around smooth skin. My wolf hits the inside of my ribs so fucking hard I see white!

MINE.

I hold him. I don’t know how. I lock every muscle I’ve got, and the only thing that moves is my thumb, stroking once over her knuckles. Her breath catches. Her scent goes thick and sweet, and she squeezes my hand like she knows exactly what it’s costing me to stand still.

“By the authority of the state, this bond is recognized and entered.”

Permanent. One signature each, her neat handwriting next to my scrawl. Cillian signs like he’s endorsing his own death warrant. Walsh signs.

The registrar stamps the page. “Bonded visitation is authorized for two hours. Beginning now.”

* * *

The bonded room’s down a corridor I’ve never been allowed in. One door. No window. A bed bolted to the floor with clean sheets, a sink, and a chair. No camera. I check every corner before I believe it.

The guard takes off the rest of my chains in the doorway.He looks at me, looks at her, shuts the door, and we hear the lock turn.

I’m standing in the middle of the room with my hands hanging at my sides, Zahra’s standing by the bed in her beautiful dress, and neither of us moves.

“Declan,” she says softly.

and that’s all it takes.

I cross the room in two steps, get one hand around the back of her neck and the other on her waist, put my face in her throat, and breathe.

Fucking hell.

Warm skin. Shea butter. Vanilla and brown sugar. And under all that, her. Omega. Mine. No vent holes. No bleach. Just my woman, pouring into me, filling up places that have been empty so long I forgot I had them. I drag my nose up her neck. Behind her ear. Along her hairline, where her curls tickle my face. I pick up her wrist and scent the inside of it, the soft skin over her pulse, then the other one. I rub my jaw along her throat, her shoulder, the top of her chest, until she smells like me everywhere I can reach. My hands are shaking like a kid’s. I don’t fucking care.

And Zahra’s gone soft against me. Head tipped back, eyes closed, making a little sound in her throat every time my beard drags over her skin.

“Shit,” she breathes. “Yes, like that.”

“My beard?”

she nods, making me smile. “Mm-hm. Do it again.”

I do it again. Slower. She shivers all the way down.

Then she opens her eyes, reaches up with both hands, pulls my head down, presses her face into my neck and breathes me in. She rubs her soft cheek along my jaw, my throat, the scar under my collar. Fucking marking me. This classy little lawyer, putting her scent on me like she’s staking a claim in the wild.

My vision goes gold. My claws punch out. And there’s a sound coming out of my chest I’ve never made in my life, low and rumbling. It takes me a second to figure out what it is.

Shit, I’m purring.

Forty-five years old. I’ve killed men with my hands. I run the biggest crew on this side of the country. And I’m standing here purring like a damn tiger because my woman rubbed her face on my neck.

Zahra pulls back, eyes wide. Then her face lights up.

“You have no idea,” I shake my head, grinning.

I put a forearm under her ass and pick her up. Fuck, she’s soft in all the right places, and she weighs fucking nothing. She yelps and grabs my shoulders.

“Declan! Put me down, I’m too…”

I chuckle. “Too what?”

She stares at me, lips parted.