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Later, the house is quiet—very quiet. I lie tangled beneath a sheet, warm and boneless. Rhett is asleep on his stomach. Malakai’s hand rests against my thigh.

Ezra is awake.

Of course.

I turn my head. “You’re thinking.”

“So are you.”

“I asked first.”

“You didn’t ask anything.”

“Don’t be difficult.”

His mouth curves and I move closer. His fingers trace the faded mark around my wrist. KEEPER.

“Does it ever bother you?” he asks.

“What?”

“This.”

“No.”

“Never?”

“Sometimes.”

He waits.

I look toward the window as moonlight spills across the floor.

“I used to think it meant I belonged to the Harvest.”

“And now?”

I look at him. “It belongs to me.”

His expression changes.

Not fear. Something darker. Warmer.

“That’s terrifying.”

“Good.”

He kisses my forehead.

I close my eyes. Then I feel his hand slowly crawl down my spine making me shiver. I bite my lip to stay silent.

Rhett’s breathing is heavy beside me, his arm thrown over the pillow, face buried in the dark. Malakai’s hand is still on my thigh, fingers loose, dead to the world.

Ezra is always the only one awake when I need him to be. His fingers reach the small of my back.

Pause.

Then I feel him shift behind me, the sheet sliding down my hip, the cool air kissing my bare skin. He doesn’t ask permission. Ezra stopped asking permission months ago—he reads me in the dark like scripture, knows when I want gentle and when I want to be taken.