Chapter 10: Claiming at Dawn
The first thing he was aware of was the weight of her. Not just the physical warmth of Souline curled into his side, her head nestled in the hollow of his shoulder, but the profound, staggering weight of what they had done. The pale dawn light filtered through her sheer curtains, painting the room in soft, blurred shades of gray and gold. It caught the dust motes dancing in the air and the subtle, lavender scent of her skin.
He didn’t move. He barely breathed. His arm was pinned beneath her, gone numb, but he would have let it rot off before he disturbed her. He watched the slow, even rise and fall of her chest, the flutter of a pulse in her throat, the way her dark lashes fanned against her cheeks. In sleep, all her guarded softness was completely undefended. It made his own chest feel too tight, a strange, aching vulnerability.
His gaze drifted lower, to the faint, bluish marks his fingers had left on the smooth skin of her hip in the frantic heat of the night. A possessive, primal satisfaction coiled low in his gut. His. The word was a silent, thunderous echo in his mind. His thumb, resting on her ribcage, stroked back and forth in a slow, unconscious rhythm.
She stirred with a soft, sighing breath, nuzzling deeper into his neck. The movement sent a jolt of pure, sharp awareness through him. Her eyes fluttered open, blurred with sleep, and found his immediately. He saw the moment memory returned, a slow dawning that warmed her gaze and brought a faint pink to her cheeks.
"Hey," she whispered, her voice rough with sleep.
He didn't answer with words. He shifted, the muscles in his arm screaming in protest as he rolled onto his side, looming over her. The sheet pooled around their waists. He pinned her wrists gently to the mattress on either side of her head, his thumbs pressing into the delicate bones. Her breath hitched, but her eyes didn't leave his, dark and wide and trusting.
"Sire?" Her voice was a question, a whisper.
He lowered his head, his lips ghosting over hers. "Mine," he breathed against her mouth, the word a low, rasping claim.
Then he was moving into her, a slow, deliberate push that made her arch off the bed with a sharp, gasping cry. There was none of last night's hesitation, only a deep, aching familiarity. He set a languid, relentless rhythm, each thrust a measured, soul-deep possession. The room was silent except for their ragged breathing and the soft, wet sound of their joining.
He watched her face, every flicker of sensation. The way her eyes would screw shut, then fly open, unable to look away from him. The way her lips parted on a silent moan. He buried his face in her neck, inhaling the scent of her skin and their night together.
"Mine," he gritted out again, the word punched from his lungs as he drove deeper.
She was trembling, her body clamping down around him in waves of sensation that were too much, too soon after the intensity of the night. "Sire… I can't…" she whimpered, her head thrashing side to side.
"You can," he growled, his pace unwavering, his gaze locked on hers. "You take every part of me, Baby. You already have." He drove the point home, a deep, perfect angle that made her cry out, her body bowing off the bed. The overstimulation tipped into a shattering, overwhelming climax that ripped through her, leaving her boneless and shuddering beneath him. Only then, feeling her convulse around him, did he allow his own control to shatter, spilling into her with a guttural groan, his forehead dropping to hers.
He collapsed on top of her, his full weight a crushing, welcome anchor. For a long time, they lay like that, tangled and spent, listening to the city beginning to wake up outside her window. The honk of a taxi, the distant whine of a garbage truck. Ordinary sounds for a day that felt anything but.
Eventually, he rolled off her, pulling her with him so her back was tucked against his chest, his arm a heavy band across her stomach. He nuzzled the messy crown of her hair. "Swol's gonna know," he murmured, his voice a rumble against her ear.
She stilled. "How?"
"He just will. The man has a sixth sense for when I'm… happy." He said the word like it was foreign, dangerous.
A slow smile spread across Souline's face. "Are you? Happy?"
He tightened his arm around her. "Don't get used to it." But the gruffness in his voice was a lie, and they both knew it.
The moment was shattered by the violent, sudden buzzing of his phone on the nightstand. It skittered across the wood, vibrating with an urgency that felt like an intrusion. Sire groaned, his body tensing. He made no move to answer it.
"Aren't you going to get that?" Souline asked quietly.
"It's Swol," he said, as if that explained everything. The phone went silent, then immediately started buzzing again, more insistently.
"He's persistent."
"He's a pain in my ass." With a sigh of pure irritation, Sire disentangled himself from her and snatched the phone. "What?" he barked into the receiver.
Even from her side of the bed, Souline could hear the deep, agitated rumble of Swol's voice on the other end. Sire's expression darkened, his free hand clenching into a fist on his bare thigh.
"Yeah. I'm here… No, I'm not at home… None of your fucking business where I am… What do you mean, now?" He listened, his jaw working. "Fine. Ten minutes." He ended the call without a goodbye and slammed the phone back on the nightstand.
"Trouble?" Souline asked, propping herself up on her elbows.
Sire raked a hand over his short dreads. "Something's up with a supplier. He needs me down at the garage." He turned to look at her, his gaze traveling over her naked body, the sheets tangled around her legs, the marks he'd left on her skin. The possessiveness in his eyes was a live thing. "Don't move."
He swung his legs out of bed and stalked naked into her bathroom. She heard the shower turn on. A few minutes later, he emerged, steam curling off his muscular frame, a towel slung low around his hips. He dressed quickly, efficiently—black jeans, a clean black t-shirt, his heavy boots. The transformation was jarring. The soft, vulnerable man of the dawn was gone, replaced by the edged, volatile Saint brother.
He came back to the bed, bracing his hands on either side of her, caging her in. He smelled of her soap and his own clean, sharp scent. "I have to go."
"I heard."
His eyes scanned her face, committing it to memory. "I'll be back tonight."
It wasn't a question. She nodded. "Okay."
He kissed her, hard and quick, a brand of ownership. Then he was gone, the apartment door clicking shut behind him with a finality that left the room feeling too large, too quiet.
Souline lay in the wreckage of her bed for a long time, the scent of him and their sex still heavy on the sheets. She traced the faint bruise on her hip, a smile touching her lips. Mine.
The silence he left behind was a physical presence. It expanded to fill the room, pressing against her eardrums. Souline traced the faint, bluish impression his fingers had left on her hip, a tangible echo of his possession. Mine.
A slow, dazed smile spread across her face. She stretched, her muscles aching in brand new ways, a delicious soreness that radiated from her core. The scent of him, of them, clung to the sheets—a mix of clean sweat, his faded cologne, and something else, something uniquely Sire. She buried her face in his pillow, inhaling deeply.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand, shattering the quiet. Reina’s name flashed on the screen, a lifeline to the world outside this room. Souline snatched it, her heart hammering against her ribs. "Hey," she answered, her voice husky.
"Hey? Just 'hey'?" Reina's voice was a crackle of energy. "I've been texting you since last night. You totally ghosted me. Spill."
Souline pulled the sheet up to her chin, a nervous gesture. She could feel the heat in her cheeks. "Something… happened."
"Oh my god. What happened? Did you finally let that fine, crazy ass Sire hit it? Tell me you didn't let that man leave without—"
"I did." The admission rushed out of her, quiet and definitive.
The line went dead silent for a full three seconds. Then, a shriek so piercing Souline had to hold the phone away from her ear. "NO. WAY. Souline! Your virginity? You gave it to him?"
"He was… different." Souline’s fingers worried the edge of the sheet. "It wasn't what I thought it would be. It was… more."
"More how? Details, woman! I need details! Was it all aggressive and rough? Did he like, pin you down and—"
"He was careful," Souline interrupted, the memory softening her voice. "He stopped when I told him. He watched my face the whole time, Reina. Like he was… I don't know. Making sure."
Another silence, this one contemplative. "Wow. Okay. That's… not what I expected from Mr. 'Fuck Around And Find Out'. So, what does this mean? Is he your boyfriend now? He has to be. A man doesn't get that careful with your first time and then just walk away."
"I don't know." Souline glanced at the empty space beside her. "He said he'd be back tonight."
"He said he'd be back tonight?" Reina's voice jumped an octave. "That's it! That's boyfriend behavior! You realize you've basically tamed a feral animal, right? You've unlocked a whole new level of Sire Saint. I'm honestly in awe."
A laugh bubbled out of Souline, tight with nerves and giddy relief. "He's not tame. He's just… different with me."
"Different is good. Different is great! I'm so happy for you. You finally let it go. And to someone who obviously is completely obsessed with you. This is the best news." Reina's tone shifted, becoming practical. "Okay, so what are you wearing right now? Please tell me it's his shirt."
Souline looked down at her bare shoulders. "It's… nothing, actually."
Reina sighed dramatically. "Even better. He's a lucky bastard. Don't move. I'm bringing over ice cream and all the gossip you missed. We need to debrief properly."
After the call, the room felt different. Lighter. The weight of her secret was gone, replaced by a buzzing, anticipatory energy. She hugged her knees to her chest, replaying Reina's words. Boyfriend. The term felt both impossibly foreign and strangely right. Sire, with his volatile temper and possessive hands, someone's boyfriend.
Her eyes fell on the small, worn teddy bear perched on her nightstand, a relic from a childhood spent hiding from giants. A faint smile touched her lips. The giants didn't seem so scary anymore. Not when her protector whispered "mine" into her skin like a vow. She touched the mark on her hip again, a secret sigil in the quiet morning light.
She touched the mark on her hip again, a secret sigil in the quiet morning light.
The shower’s hot water stung pleasantly against the tender skin. She watched the suds slide down her legs, carrying the lingering scent of him, of them, down the drain. It felt like a ritual, washing away the night but sealing the memory deep within her muscles.
Her phone buzzed on the sink, cutting through the steam.
Sire: You good?
A simple question. She typed back, her fingers clumsy and wet.
Souline: I’m good.
Three dots appeared, then vanished. Then:
Sire: Swol’s being a pain in my ass. Thinking about you.
The doorbell rang just as she was wrapping herself in a towel. Reina stood on the welcome mat, holding two pints of ice cream and wearing a conspiratorial grin. “Okay, start talking from the top. And don’t leave anything out.”
They settled on the floor of the living room, the ice cream between them. Souline talked, her words tumbling out in a hushed, excited rush. She described the view from the hill, the careful way he’d laid out Swol’s blanket, the terrifying, thrilling ride on his motorcycle.
“He asked if I was scared,” Souline said, digging her spoon into the chocolate chunk. “And I told him I was scared of how much I didn’t want him to leave.”
Reina’s eyes widened. “You said that? To his face? Souline!”
“He kissed my palm,” Souline whispered, the memory warming her more than the towel. “He didn’t say anything. He just kissed my palm.”
Her phone buzzed again.
Sire: How do you feel.
Not a question, but a demand for a status report. A demand for access to her interior world.
Souline: A little sore.
Sire: Good.
“Is that him?” Reina asked, craning her neck. “What did he say?”
“He said ‘good’,” Souline replied, a slow smile spreading across her face.
Reina snorted. “Of course he did. The man is literally marking his territory. I respect it.”
The nervous energy wouldn’t leave her. Souline stood, suddenly needing to move. She grabbed a spray bottle of vinegar cleaner and a rag. “I can’t just sit.”
“So clean,” Reina said, settling back against the couch to watch the show. “Tell me about the actual… event. Was there talking? Was there candlelight? Was there a soundtrack?”
Souline scrubbed at a smudge on the windowpane, the action calming her. “No candles. Just the city lights. And he talked. He said… ‘Look at me.’ He made me look at him the whole time.”
“Damn.” Reina was quiet for a moment. “That’s intense.”
“It was.” Souline moved to the kitchen counter, wiping down surfaces that were already clean. “It was the most intense thing that’s ever happened to me.”
Another text chimed.
Sire: What are you doing.
Souline: Cleaning my apartment. Reina’s here.
Sire: Tell her I said hi.
She showed the phone to Reina, who faked a swoon. “He’s checking in. He’s being domestic. I’m witnessing a miracle.”
The cleaning became a purge. She attacked the baseboards, dusted the top of the fridge, organized the spice rack. Each completed task felt like laying down a new, stable floor over the shifting ground of her emotions. Reina followed her from room to room, a commentary track of encouragement and gossip about people from the gas station.
Sire: Still thinking about you.
The text came as she was on her hands and knees, scrubbing a seemingly invisible spot on the floor. The words, so blunt and unadorned, hit her with a physical warmth. He wasn’t just checking on her; he was with her, a constant presence in her pocket.
Once the entire apartment gleamed, smelling sharply of lemon and order, a different impulse took hold. She went to the fridge and pulled out a chuck roast, its weight solid in her hands. She seasoned it heavily, searing it in a hot pot until a rich, meaty fragrance filled the air.
“You’re cooking him dinner?” Reina leaned against the doorway, impressed. “You’re really leaning into this whole ‘nurturing’ thing, huh?”
“It needs to simmer all day,” Souline said, not looking up from the sizzling pot. She added onions, carrots, and a generous pour of red wine. The cloud of steam that erupted smelled like patience, like anticipation. It smelled like home.
She placed the lid on the pot, turning the heat down to a low whisper. The rest was just waiting.
Reina finally grabbed her purse as the afternoon light began to slant through the clean windows. “Okay, I’ve overstayed my welcome. He’ll be back soon.” She pulled Souline into a tight, vanilla-scented hug. “I’m really happy for you,” she whispered fiercely. “Don’t overthink it. Just let it be good.”
The door closed behind her, leaving Souline alone in the spotless, silent apartment. The only sound was the gentle, persistent burble of the roast simmering on the stove. She stood in the center of the room, the clean lines and the cooking smells a testament to the day’s passage.
Her phone remained quiet in her hand. She didn’t need it to buzz to feel him there, a current running beneath the silence, pulling her toward the evening.
The silence in the clean apartment felt different now, thick with the rich, meaty scent of the simmering roast. It was a patient smell, a promise of a night that had not yet arrived. The energetic purge of cleaning had left her buzzing, her skin still humming with the ghost of his touch and the adrenaline of her confession to Reina.
She needed to wash it all away, to reset. The shower spray was hot and needling, stinging the faint bruises on her hips, making her breath catch. She didn’t linger, scrubbing quickly with the jasmine-scented soap until her skin was pink and steaming. The water pooled at her feet, carrying the last remnants of the night down the drain.
Stepping out, she avoided the foggy mirror. She didn’t need to see the girl in the glass, the one with the changed eyes. The plush towel was a rough comfort. From a drawer, she pulled a large, soft t-shirt, one of her own, its faded band logo a relic from a simpler time. She slipped it on, the hem brushing mid-thigh. Then, the impracticality of the thong, a tiny scrap of black lace, a secret against her skin beneath the casual drape of the shirt.
The couch embraced her with the familiar sag of its cushions. She flicked the TV on, some forgotten comedy streaming into the room as background noise, a cheerful, meaningless drone. Her phone was a more compelling distraction. She scrolled through a blur of curated lives on social media—vacations, brunches, achievements—all of it feeling distant and oddly flat.
Her thumb paused. A text from Sire illuminated the screen.
Sire: Roast smells good from the parking lot.
A laugh, short and surprised, escaped her. He was close. Her eyes flicked to the window, but she couldn’t see down to the street. She opened the camera app, switching to the front view. The screen showed her face, clean of makeup, her damp hair curling wildly. She tilted her head, the collar of the big t-shirt slipping off one shoulder. She snapped the picture.
It was a quiet rebellion. The girl in the photo was softer, more exposed than the one who’d put on the tight jeans and perfect curls for him last night. This was just her. She typed a simple caption—Slow Sunday—and posted it before she could overthink it.
Her phone buzzed in her hand almost instantly.
Sire: You trying to kill me, Baby?
She smiled, tucking her feet underneath her. The movie played on, unwatched.
Sire: Shirt looks better on my floor.
The messages were a low, constant thrum beneath the mundane afternoon, each buzz a touch, a reminder of the current pulling her toward the evening. She typed a reply, her thumbs moving slowly. It’s waiting for you to… She deleted it. Too much. She started again. The door is…
Her eyelids were suddenly heavy, the lack of sleep from the night before and the emotional whirlwind of the day crashing down on her all at once. The warmth of the apartment, the steady hum of the TV, the comforting aroma of the cooking roast—it all conspired to pull her under. The phone grew heavy in her hand, its screen glow the last thing she saw.
Her thumb rested on the screen, the text unfinished. The door is unlocked.
She didn’t hit send. Sleep took her, swift and deep, mid-thought. The phone slipped from her loosened grip, tumbling into the couch cushions beside her, the unsent message a silent beacon in the quiet, waiting room.
The phone vanished into the deep crevasse of the couch, its screen winking out. Down in the parking lot, Sire leaned against his bike, the engine cooling with soft metallic pings. He stared at his own phone, the text thread stagnant. No response. He’d given her ten minutes.
His thumb stabbed the call button. He listened to the ring, then her voicemail, her soft voice telling him to leave a message. A jolt of something cold, entirely foreign, twisted in his gut. It wasn’t like her. Not after last night. Not after this morning.
He took the stairs two at a time, the sound of his boots echoing in the concrete stairwell. The climb did nothing to burn off the sudden, sharp energy coiling in his muscles. He found her door unlocked. The knob turned easily in his hand. His temper, a live wire on a good day, sparked.
He pushed it open, the silence in the apartment a physical wall. The rich, savory scent of the roast hit him first, a stark contrast to the tension tightening his shoulders. Then he saw her. Curled on the couch, one hand tucked under her cheek, lost in a deep, unmoving sleep. The TV cast a blue glow over her bare legs, the hem of her t-shirt riding high.
The frantic energy in him drained away, replaced by a profound, unsettling stillness. He closed the door softly, the click of the lock finally rousing her. Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused, finding him standing there. She started, a quick intake of breath, pushing herself up on her elbows.
“Sire? What’s wrong?”
He didn’t answer. He crossed the room in three long strides and sank to his knees in front of the couch. His hands, which could be so harsh, framed her face, his thumbs stroking her sleep-warm cheeks. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against hers, his eyes closed. He just breathed her in, the jasmine soap, the sleep, the clean scent of her skin.
“You didn’t answer,” he murmured, the words rough, stripped bare.
“My phone… I must have fallen asleep,” she whispered, her hands coming up to rest on his wrists. “I was just… waiting for you.”
He pulled back just enough to look at her, his gaze intense, searching. “Door was unlocked, Souline.” The statement was flat, a warning and a fear bundled together.
“I know. I was going to text you. I guess I didn’t send it.”
He kissed her then, a hard, desperate press of his mouth against hers that was more about affirmation than passion. It was a seal. A claim renewed. When he broke away, his eyes dropped to the neckline of her shirt, to the faint, bruising evidence of his mouth on her skin from the morning. His jaw tightened.
His hand slid from her face, down her arm, his fingers brushing over the corresponding marks on her hip through the thin cotton. The possessiveness in his touch was a tangible force. He looked from the bruises to her eyes, his own a storm of conflicting emotions—fierce protection and a dark, simmering anger that the world was a place where an unlocked door could be a problem.
“Don’t do that again,” he said, his voice low and gravelly. “This ain’t that kind of neighborhood, but still.” He was scowling, but his hands were gentle, still tracing the patterns his hands had left there just hours before.
“Okay,” she breathed, her heart hammering against her ribs. The intensity of his reaction, the sheer speed with which he’d moved from controlled to this raw, exposed state, left her dizzy.
He stayed there, on his knees before her, for a long moment, just watching her, as if memorizing the fact of her safety. The smell of the roast began to shift, the rich scent tipping toward burning. Souline’s eyes widened. “The pot—”
He was up in an instant, moving to the kitchen with a predator’s grace. He grabbed a towel, flicking the stove off and moving the pot to a cold burner with a grimace. “Bottom’s scorched,” he said, peering in. “But the top’s salvageable.” He looked back at her, the domestic absurdity of the moment seeming to cut through the last of his tension. A slow, real smile touched his lips. “You cooked.”
“I wanted to,” she said, pulling the t-shirt down over her thighs as she stood. “It felt… right.”
He watched her walk toward him, his gaze hot and heavy. “The shirt looks better right where it is,” he said, his voice dropping back into that familiar, rough register.
She stopped just in front of him, the kitchen tile cool under her bare feet. “You’re always trying to get my clothes off.”
“You’re always wearing them,” he countered, reaching out to hook a finger in the collar. “It’s a problem.” He didn’t pull her closer, just held the fabric, his knuckle brushing her clavicle.
The air between them, which had been thick with his sudden fear, now crackled with a different kind of energy. The closeness of the morning on the bed, the memory of his weight and his whispered words, was back, a palpable force in the space between their bodies. He was here. The door was locked. The world was outside.
He tugged gently on the collar, a silent question. Her answer was to step into the space he offered, her body aligning with his, her hands coming to rest on his chest. She could feel the frantic beat of his heart begin to steady under her palm. He dipped his head, his lips finding the sensitive spot just below her ear.
“Mine,” he breathed, the word a warm vibration against her skin. It wasn’t a question anymore. It was the only thing either of them knew for sure.