His hands are already working the laces of my dress, fingers moving with purpose. The fabric loosens, slides down my shoulders. Cool air hits my skin, but I'm burning everywhere he touches.
"Mairead." He breathes my name against my collarbone, his mouth tracing patterns that make my vision blur. "Tell me if I'm going too fast. Tell me if—"
"Don't stop." I pull his shirt free from his trousers, desperate to feel skin against skin. "Please stop talking and take me already."
The shirt comes off. I press my palms against his chest, feeling his heart racing under my hands. He's all hard muscle and heat, and the sight of him—the reality of him here, now, finally—makes something tighten low in my belly.
He walks me backward until we're against the desk. Papers scatter. I don't care. His hands slide up my thighs, beneath my chemise, and when his fingers find the heat between my legs I gasp against his mouth.
"So ready for me." The words come out rough, possessive. "Have you been thinking about this? About me touching you like this?"
"Yes." The admission costs me nothing. "Every night. I've thought about—"
He drops to his knees before I can finish. His hands grip my thighs, spreading them wider, and then his mouth is on me and I forget how to form words entirely.
He works me with his tongue, his fingers, deliberate and devastating. I grip the desk edge behind me, trying to stay upright, but my legs are shaking. The pleasure builds and builds until I'm gasping his name, begging him not to stop, not to…
I shatter. The orgasm crashes through me so intensely I would have fallen if his hands weren't holding me steady. He doesn't stop until I'm trembling, oversensitive, pulling at his hair to make him ease back.
He stands, mouth glistening, eyes dark with want. "I need you. Now."
"Yes." I reach for the fastenings of his trousers, hands clumsy with urgency. "Yes."
We barely make it to the floor. Cushions from the reading chair land beneath us—I don't know who grabbed them, don't care. He settles over me, his weight perfect and overwhelming, and I wrap my legs around his hips.
"I need to be inside you." His voice is wrecked. "I've needed this for weeks."
"Then take me." The words come out breathless. "I'm yours."
Something in his expression shifts. Goes darker, more intense. He grips my wrists, pins them above my head with one hand.
"Say that again." It's not a request, it's a command.
"I'm yours." I meet his eyes, unflinching. "I've been yours since Carvenmoor. I'm yours now. Always yours."
He enters me in one smooth thrust. We both gasp. The stretch, the fullness, the overwhelming rightness of it—I've dreamed about this, but reality is so much better.
He doesn't move at first. Just stays buried deep, his free hand gripping my hip hard enough to leave marks. "Mine."
"Yours." I arch beneath him, trying to get him deeper. "Domnall, please…"
He starts moving. Not gentle. Not slow. The dominance I glimpsed in his threats to Lord Garrett, the darkness Elspeth warned about—it's all here now, focused entirely on claiming me.
This is different from Carvenmoor. Seven years ago, he was gentle, careful, making sure I was comfortable at every step. Now he's possessive, demanding, taking what he wants while giving me exactly what I need.
I should be frightened, should remember Elspeth's warnings about hidden depths and dangerous currents.
But I'm not frightened. I'm exhilarated.
"Harder." The word comes out on a moan. "I won't break."
He groans, releases my wrists to grip my hips with both hands, and drives into me with a force that makes me cry out. It's overwhelming, intense, perfect. I rake my nails down his back, leaving marks I know will show tomorrow.
"Is this what you wanted?" His voice is rough against my ear. "To be claimed like this? To be mine?"
"Yes." I'm gasping, meeting him thrust for thrust. "Yes, yes—"
His hand slides between us, fingers finding the sensitive bundle of nerves, and the dual sensation makes my vision white out. I'm close again, so close…
"Come for me." The command is absolute. "Now."
I do. The orgasm rips through me, intense enough that I can't breathe, can't think, can only feel. He follows moments later, his whole body shuddering, my name torn from his throat like a prayer.
We collapse together on the floor, breathing hard, hearts racing against each other.
Neither of us moves for long minutes. Just lie there tangled together, his weight pressing me into the cushions in a way that feels grounding rather than suffocating.
Eventually, he rolls slightly to the side, taking his weight off me but keeping me pulled tight against him. His hand traces lazy patterns on my hip.
"I didn't hurt you?" The question is quiet, careful. The dominance has ebbed, leaving tenderness in its wake.
"No." I press my lips to his shoulder. "That was... perfect."
"You bring something out in me." His voice is contemplative. "Something I've kept buried for years. The need to possess, to claim, to…" He stops. "Does it frighten you? Seeing that side of me?"
I think about Elspeth's warnings. About the servants' whispered conversations. About the darkness everyone else seems to fear.
"No." The answer is honest. "It doesn't frighten me. It makes me feel... chosen. Claimed. Like I matter enough for you to lose control."
He's quiet for a moment. Then: "You matter more than anything. More than thrones or titles or my mother's plans. You and the children—that's what matters."
The mention of plans pulls me back to reality. To the fact that this stolen moment exists inside a larger, more complicated situation.
"What are we going to do?" I ask quietly. "The wedding is ten weeks away. Your mother is getting more suspicious. Elspeth knows something is happening between us."
"I'm going to end it." His voice is steady, certain. "The engagement. I'll break it publicly within two weeks."
I pull back to look at his face. "Domnall, you can't just…"
"I can. And I will." He sits up, pulling me with him until we're facing each other on the floor. "I've been planning. Gathering allies who will support my decision. People who owe me favors, who have their own reasons to want my mother's influence diminished."
"She'll destroy you."
"She'll try." He takes my hands. "But I'll acknowledge the children first. Publicly claim Tavish, Lachlan, and Fenella as mine. That gives them protection—makes them visible in a way my mother can't easily erase."
"And me?"
"If necessary, I'll reveal your true heritage. Prove you're Orlaith Carraig's daughter. Show the world that my mother orchestrated the murder of a noble house to clear my path."
His grip tightens on my hands.
"It's risky. It could backfire. But it's the only way to protect all of you from her retaliation when I break the engagement."
I'm shaking my head. "You'd lose everything. Your claim to the throne, your position, your…"
"I already lost seven years with you." He cuts me off, voice fierce. "Seven years of watching my children grow up. Seven years of you raising them alone because my mother's men dragged me away. I won't lose any more."
The words settle into my chest, warm and certain.
"Are you sure?" I need to hear him say it. "Because once you do this, there's no going back. Your mother won't forgive it. Society won't forget it. You'll be choosing us over everything else."
"I'm sure." He pulls me closer, until our foreheads are touching. "I've never been more sure of anything."
We sit like that for long minutes, just breathing together, letting the weight of the decision settle around us.
Eventually, exhaustion pulls at both of us. We gather scattered cushions, make a nest of them on the floor. He pulls me against him, my back to his chest, his arm secure around my waist.
"We should go to our own rooms," I murmur, already half-asleep.
"In a minute." His breath is warm against my neck. "Just... give me a minute."
But we don't move. We lie there in the locked schoolroom, tangled together on the floor, pretending morning won't come and shatter this perfect, stolen peace.
The last thing I feel before sleep takes me is his lips pressing against my shoulder, and the whispered words: "Mine. You're mine, and I'm never letting go."