Steam blurs the edges of the room as you sit between Killian’s legs in the deep marble tub. His arms wrap around you like a cage he has no intention of opening, water sloshing gently while his hands never stop moving.

Slow circles over your stomach. Gentle sweeps lower. A lingering press of his palm, like he’s branding you with intention.

He touches you with a kind of focused hunger—quiet but consuming. Not lust, not exactly. Something deeper. Something that lives in him like instinct. Every stroke of his hand paints the same thought across your skin:

You carrying his child. Your body changed because of him. A piece of him growing under his palm, anchoring him in a way nothing else ever has.

The idea calms him, reshapes him, tames the darkness inside him. With you like this, warm and soft against him, the violence in his head quiets. The demons that usually gnaw at him shrink back, soothed by the image of you swollen with his claim, living in his room at the Heathens mansion where no one can reach you unless they go through him.

His chin rests on your shoulder, breath hot against your neck, but he isn’t relaxed. He’s imagining futures. Yours. His. Both knotted together in a way that can never be undone.

His thumbs move lower on your stomach, slow and deliberate. And everything he feels—obsession, need, devotion twisted into hunger—settles into a single truth he’s been holding inside his head for far too long.

When he finally speaks, his voice is short, rough, stripped bare.

“I want you full of me.”

No hesitation. No softness. Just the truth, simple and sharp.

His arms tighten around you—not enough to hurt, but enough to make sure you understand how deep the desire runs in him, how much he’s already claimed the idea long before voicing it.

And against the warm water, his breath steady on your neck, you can feel the unspoken promise thrumming beneath his touch:

He doesn’t just want to keep you. He wants to make you his from the inside out.