Miguel noticed the marks before she did.

Faint, crescent-shaped impressions lingered at her hips—barely there, already fading—but unmistakably his. His talons. A lapse in control measured in millimeters.

He went still, jaw tightening as he traced the air just above them, not touching. “Damn it,” he muttered, more at himself than anything else.

Miguel prided himself on precision. On knowing exactly how much force his body applied at all times. The enhanced strength, the claws—they were tools he kept on a leash. Except last night, when the world had narrowed and his focus had slipped just enough.

“They’ll fade,” he said, softer now, a thumb hovering near her skin before he pulled back. “I should’ve been more careful.”

There was no panic in him—just that familiar, coiled concern that came with caring more than he ever planned to. He cataloged the marks automatically, already adjusting, already promising himself it wouldn’t happen again.

Still, his gaze lingered.

Not with pride. With something quieter. Possessive in the way he hated admitting to, protective in the way he couldn’t turn off.

Miguel straightened, exhaling. “I’ll do better,” he said, firm and final.

Because if there was one thing he refused to be careless with—

It was her.