Reject me twice (Kira and Theron) novel Chapter 72

[Malik’s POV]

I watched her sleep the way a man watches a miracle he doesn’t trust to last.

Every inhale was a prayer answered. The healers said she was recovering—toxins clearing, magic reasserting itself, the children stable.

But I couldn’t stop counting her breaths. Couldn’t stop pressing my fingers to her pulse just to feel her heartbeat against my skin.

She woke slowly. Her eyes found mine immediately, as though even in sleep some part of her had been tracking me.

Fear lived in those silver eyes. Not the calculated wariness of a queen. Something rawer—the terror of a creature dragged to the edge of oblivion and pulled back.

She reached for me, and her fingers trembled.

I took her hand. Pressed my lips to her knuckles. “What do you need, Kira? Whatever it is. Name it.”

“I was chained in that cell for weeks, Malik. Alone. Poison burning through my veins, my magic stripped away, my body failing a little more each day. I couldn’t shift, couldn’t fight, couldn’t do anything except lie on cold stone and wait—for rescue, for death, for whatever came first.”

Her fingers tightened around mine.

“The only thing that kept me from breaking was the thought of you. Your scent—cedarwood and frost. Your voice, the way it sounds when you say my name in the dark. I replayed every moment we’d had together, over and over, like a rope I could hold to keep from drowning.”

Her eyes glistened, but her voice didn’t waver.

“But memory wasn’t enough. In that cell, with the poison eating through me and the chains cutting my wrists—memory was all I had, and it wasn’t enough.

I need more, Malik. I need something permanent. Something no one can take from me, no chain can suppress, no distance can erase.”

She held my gaze.

“I want you to mark me.”

I went still.

“Kira. You know what that means. The court will know—they’ll scent it the moment you enter a room. The council will rage. Every noble who wanted you matched to their son will see a mating mark as a declaration of war against everything they—”

“I don’t care.” Her eyes were fierce and wet, tears balanced on lashes that refused to let them fall. “I don’t care about the court, Malik. I don’t care about protocol or politics or what Lord Ashworth will say over his wine tomorrow morning. I almost died in that cell. Our children almost died.”

She sat up, and the effort cost her—pain flickered across her face before determination buried it.

“The entire time, the one thought that burned hotter than the poison was that I was yours and no mark on my body proved it. No wolf in this realm could scent what we are to each other. I was chained and poisoned and dying, and the woman they found in that dungeon could have been anyone’s mate, anyone’s queen. And I don’t want to be anyone’s anymore.”

“I want to be yours. Completely. Permanently. I want every wolf in this realm to scent you on me and know I chose this—chose you—and nothing will ever undo it. Not councils, not politics, not chains or poison. I want it burned into my skin so deep that even death can’t erase it.”

My voice came out rough. Broken in places I didn’t know I had. “I have wanted to mark you since the first night I held you. Every time I stood behind you in that council chamber and watched those lords look at you like you were unclaimed territory—every time I walked you back to your chambers and left without touching you because the politics demanded distance—I was burning, Kira. Burning with the need to make you mine in a way no wolf could question.”

Her hand found my jaw.

I traced my mark on hers—still raw, still red. “Yours.”

She leaned into my touch with a smile that held no fear at all. Just certainty. Just peace.

“The children felt it,” she said softly, pressing my hand against her belly. I held my breath—and then I felt it.

A flutter beneath my palm, then another. Two tiny pulses of movement, as if the lives growing inside her had sensed the bond deepen and responded with their own small declaration of belonging. “They know their father.”

My vision blurred. The Commander, the strategist, the man who’d led soldiers into battle without flinching—undone by two heartbeats the size of whispers pressing against his hand.

“They know their father,” I repeated, and my voice cracked on the word in a way I would never have allowed anyone else to hear.

“No more hiding,” she said.

“No more hiding,” I agreed. “Let them come.”

“Let them come,” she echoed, and pressed her lips to the mark she’d made. “And let them see exactly what they’re dealing with.”

His. Hers. Forever.