Firestone Hot Springs [m] newly

eiginmaður.

the sound of it pulled a low, rumbling growl from deep in his chest, something primal and possessive. his wife—his wife—claiming him in ways that no others could.

mine, he rumbled, his voice rough, frayed by the hunger that simmered just beneath his skin. the word was simple, but it carried the weight of his every thought. the mountains, the fields, the blood—she spoke of them, yet all sólhárr could focus on was her. the way her body leaned into his, the warmth that radiated from her like a flame he couldn’t resist.

he drew her closer, the tension in his body coiled tight, ready to spring. his teeth brushed the curve of her ear, his voice low and hungry. you speak of sharing blood—then let’s begin now. his lips curled into something between a snarl and a grin, the fire in his veins demanding more of her, all of her.

callyope, his everything, his always. the mountains could wait, the fields could wait. but her? never.