Brutal Prince (Brutal Birthright)

Fergus Griffin comes to pick us up, even though we have the Jeep parked outside.

“Two hospital visits in one week,” he says, giving Cal and me a stern look through his horn-rimmed glasses. “I hope this isn’t becoming a hobby for you two.”

“No,” Cal says, wrapping his arm around my shoulders in the backseat of the Beamer. “I don’t think we’re going to do anything too crazy next week. Except maybe look for an apartment.”

“Oh?” Fergus pauses, before putting the car in reverse. He glances back at us in the rearview mirror. “You want to get your own place together?”

Callum looks down at me.

“Yeah,” he says. “I think it’s time.”

My heart feels heavy and warm in my chest. I love the idea of finding a place with Cal—not my house, or his, but one we chose together.

“That’s good,” Fergus says, nodding. “I’m glad to hear it, son.”

Funnily enough, when we pull up in front of the Griffin mansion, for the first time it actually feels like home. I get that wash of comfort. I know it’s a safe place to lay my head. And damn am I exhausted all of a sudden.

I stumble a little, getting out of the car. I’ve gotten stiff and sore all over from sitting. Even though I know he’s just as exhausted, and probably more injured than I am, Cal scoops me up in his arms and carries me into the house, like a groom carrying the bride over the threshold.

“Shouldn’t you save that for our new apartment?” I tease him.

“I’m going to carry you everywhere like this,” Cal says. “For one, I like it. And for another, it will keep anybody else from snatching you.”

“You got snatched too, one of those times,” I remind him.

He carries me all the way up the stairs.

“You’re goin

g to break your ribs again!” I tell him.

“Oh, they’re still broken right now,” he assures me. “They didn’t do much about it at the hospital. Didn’t even tape me up. Just gave me a couple Tylenol.”

“Did that help?”

“Not a fucking bit,” he says, puffing and groaning as we finally reach the top of the stairs.

Then he does set me down. I go up on tiptoe to kiss him softly on the lips.

“Thank you,” I say.

“I’m not done taking care of you yet,” he says. “You still need to get cleaned up.”

“Oh nooooo,” I moan, remembering that I’m utterly filthy. “Just let me go to bed. I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“Go brush your teeth,” he says. “Or you’ll hate yourself in the morning.”

Grumbling, I head into the bathroom to brush and floss. By the time I’ve finished, Cal has the shower running and fresh, fluffy towels waiting for us.

He soaps my whole body, lathering me up until the suds running down the drain switch from black to gray to while. His fingers knead into my stiff neck and shoulders. Together with the hot water, he works out all tense and knotted bits, until I feel like a wet spaghetti noodle instead of a folded-up pretzel.

By the time we’re both completely clean, I’m not tired anymore. Actually, parts of me are very much awake.

“My turn,” I say, rubbing Cal down with his towel. I run it down the curve of his broad back, down over his perfect ass, the bulges of his hamstrings and calves.

He’s covered in bruises, scratches, welts, as well as the deeper cuts from the Butcher. Yet I’ve never seen a more flawless body. This man is perfect—perfect for me. I love the shape of him, his smell, the way his arms feel, wrapped around me.

I turn him around and start drying the front side of him, starting down at the feet and working my way upward. As I pass the thighs, I come to that thick, swollen cock, warm and clean from the shower. I take it in my hand, feeling it expand inside my grip. The skin is phenomenally soft. I stroke my fingertips down its length. His cock strains toward my hand, almost as if it has a mind of its own. I squeeze the shaft right below the head, making Cal moan.