Chapter Thirty: Mornings Are Dangerous Too
I blinked awake to soft, honeyed sunlight. It painted the room in gentle stripes, warm and quiet. Peaceful.
Too peaceful.
My senses snapped online, one by one, and with them came the terrifying inventory.
My leg was not my own. It was hooked possessively over a solid, muscular thigh.
My arm was flung across a broad, warm chest, my hand splayed as if claiming the territory of his heartbeat.
And that heartbeat—slow, steady, powerful—thumped against my cheek, a relentless drum insisting here, here, here.
Taehyun.
We were a tangled mess of limbs and linen. He was curled around me from behind, his front to my back, an immovable fortress of sleep-warm skin and solid muscle. One of his arms was a heavy, inescapable bar across my waist, pinning me to him. His face was buried in the nape of my neck, his breath a soft, rhythmic tide against my skin.
No. This was not acceptable.
I jerked, a sudden, panicked spasm to break free.
The arm around my waist merely tightened, a sleepy, instinctive reflex of pure ownership. He made a soft, contented sound against my neck and pulled me infinitesimally closer, eliminating what little space remained.
"Let. Go." I hissed the words into the pillow, shoving at the iron band of his forearm.
He didn't. He mumbled something incoherent, his lips brushing my skin, and his hand splayed wider over my stomach, anchoring me.
This man had the survival instincts of a brick.
Fine. If gentle persuasion failed, I would escalate.
I twisted my head and sank my teeth into the firm curve of his shoulder.
Not a love bite. A sharp, definitive warning.
His body tensed, a full-body flinch of surprise. Then, a low, sleep-roughened chuckle vibrated through his chest and directly into mine.
"You bite like a kitten," he murmured, his voice a gravelly rasp that did treacherous things to my spine. "I can't tell if you're trying to hurt me or mark me as yours."
"You wish," I snarled, renewing my efforts to wriggle free. It was like trying to escape a sleeping anaconda.
His smile was audible. "I don't have to wish. You're already in my arms."
Frustration flared. I drove my elbow backward, aiming for his ribs.
He grunted, the laugh turning breathless but no less amused. "Feisty this morning."
"Let me go, or the next one finds a softer target," I threatened, my face burning with a mix of fury and humiliation.
He shifted then, rolling slightly so he could look down at me. His eyes were still heavy-lidded with sleep, but that infuriating, knowing smirk was already in place. "Go ahead," he dared, his voice dropping to a intimate whisper. His bare shoulder, with the faint red imprint of my teeth, was right there. "Mark me. Make sure everyone knows who you belong to."
I stared up at him, trapped by his gaze and his body. The sheer, arrogant certainty of him. The way his sleep-softened features somehow made him more dangerously appealing. The way a traitorous part of me thrilled at the possessive challenge in his words.
I hated mornings.
I especially hated mornings that began wrapped in the arms of a man who made confusion feel like a heartbeat.
---
His arm flexed again, a deliberate, sinuous movement that molded me even more perfectly against him. "Stop squirming," he murmured, his lips now dangerously close to my ear. "You'll only make me hold on tighter. It's a reflex."
"That's called unlawful restraint," I gritted out, twisting in his hold.
Bad move.
The friction only served to highlight every hard plane of his body against my softer curves. His grin turned wolfish.
"Interesting," he mused, his breath a warm caress on my skin. "Because the only one putting up a struggle is you. I feel perfectly… settled."
He could feel my heart. It was hammering against my ribs, a frantic bird against the cage of his embrace. His smirk softened into something more contemplative, more deeply possessive.
"You hear that?" he whispered, his thumb drawing a slow, idle circle on my stomach. "Your heart is racing. For me."
"It's called a stress response," I retorted, my voice tighter than I intended. "Fight or flight."
"Then choose," he countered, his voice dropping to that low, velvet register that seemed to bypass my ears and resonate straight in my bones. He tightened his hold until there was no space for flight, only the undeniable reality of the fight—and him. "Fight me… or stay right here."
I drove my elbow back again, with more precision. He let out a soft oomph but his embrace didn't loosen; it became more focused, more deliberate.
"God, you're stubborn," I muttered, a note of helplessness seeping into my anger.
"And you're mine," he stated, as simply as noting the time. "No amount of biting, kicking, or glaring is going to rewrite that particular truth."
I managed to twist enough to glare up at him. "You don't get to unilaterally decide truths!"
His eyes locked on mine, the morning amusement burning away to reveal the bedrock of steel beneath. "Sweetheart, I decided that truth the moment you fell asleep trusting me enough to not let go."
I sputtered, heat flooding my cheeks. "I did not fall asleep in your arms! You… you annexed me in my sleep!"
"Is that what we're calling it?" he teased, the wicked curve of his lips returning. "Because the little sighs you let out around midnight told a different story."
My jaw went slack. "I do not sigh—"
"You do," he interrupted, his voice a lazy, lethal purr. "And you blush, exactly like you are now. And you make the softest, most adorable sounds when you dream. I hear all of it. Every sigh, every shift. Because you're here. In my bed. In my arms."
The air left my lungs. His words were an assault—ridiculous, overbearing, terrifyingly gentle. I shoved at his chest with both hands, a final, desperate bid for freedom and sanity.
He caught my wrists, one in each of his hands, pinning them gently but immovably to the mattress on either side of my head. He hovered above me, his gaze intense, all traces of sleep and laughter gone.
"Maybe I am insufferable," he conceded, his voice barely a whisper. "But you will stay right where you are."
I opened my mouth, a retort ready—
He leaned down, his lips brushing against mine in a whisper of a touch—a taunt, a promise, a test. Not a kiss, but the ghost of one, more intimate than any full possession.
"Because mornings," he breathed the words against my mouth, "are mine."
---
♡ Butterfly with Fangs
Later, I sat in the exact center of the vast bed, a small island of seething indignation. My legs were folded beneath me, my back ramrod straight. My arms were crossed tightly over my chest. My hair was a wild, sleep-tousled halo. My eyes promised silent, creative vengeance.
I was a storm cloud in silk pajamas. A butterfly with fangs, poised mid-tornado.
And he… he was putting on a suit.
A crisp, charcoal grey suit, after everything. He stood before the full-length mirror, his fingers making minute adjustments to his tie with an infuriating, practiced ease. As if he hadn't just spent the night as my personal, human-shaped straitjacket. As if my teeth weren't imprinted on his skin beneath that pristine white shirt.
He was fresh from the shower, droplets of water still glistening at the damp ends of his hair, tracing the strong column of his neck. He looked every inch the ruthless kingpin—polished, powerful, untouchable.
Shameless.
He caught my reflection staring. Slowly, as if he had all the time in the world, he turned his head. His lips curved. That damn smirk.
"You're staring," he observed, his voice like smoke and silk.
"I'm conducting a threat assessment," I shot back, my tone sharp enough to slice glass.
He turned fully, slipping his hands into his trouser pockets, and began walking toward the bed with a predator's lazy grace.
"You're very loud for someone who participated in accidental cuddling all night," he mused.
I rolled my eyes so hard I saw my own brain. "It was non-consensual proximity."
"Was it?" he asked, stopping at the edge of the mattress, looking down at me as if I were both a complex equation and a favorite line of poetry.
I snatched a pillow and hurled it at his smug, beautiful face.
He sidestepped with barely a shift of his weight, the pillow hitting the wall with a soft whump. A low, genuine laugh escaped him.
He now stood right before me, his gaze traveling over my furious, cross-legged form. "You're dangerously beautiful when you're angry," he murmured, tilting his head.
"I'm always angry," I stated flatly. "You just have a remarkable talent for surviving it."
His grin was sudden, bright, and utterly disarming. "That's because a part of you," he said, leaning in just a fraction, "doesn't truly want me to stop breathing."
I glared, pouring every ounce of my will into it.
But I said nothing.
Because he was right.
And that truth made me hate him with a fiery, passionate intensity.
What am I supposed to do with you? I screamed inwardly. I'm stuck with you. And your babies… My treacherous mind flashed to the cubs—Leo's proud, clumsy pounce, the tiger cub's chaotic, striped curiosity. They were ridiculous. They were chaos incarnate.
And they were, undeniably, heart-stoppingly cute.
Maybe… just maybe… I was starting to love them, too.
The realization was a quiet explosion in my soul, more terrifying than any of his threats. Because if I could love the wild, dangerous things he brought into my life, what did that say about my feelings for the wild, dangerous man himself?