Tangled in love

Tangled in love
I tilt my head up and whisper to him, “There. You have me.”
And he smiles like that was everything. Does he love me? He loves me! Of course he does, i think he must’ve said it before. it’ll be nice to hear it again but  won’t push it.
I will not look desperate, i might be lost but i am not desperate.
Here I can relax and not make hasty actions but fun ones.
This really was everythimg! Not the mansion, not the pack, not the blood he spilled to keep me breathing.
Just me—curled in his lap, phone forgotten, ocean humming outside like it’s singing backup.
His hand slides from my neck to the small of my back, fingers splayed like he’s mapping every vertebra.
“Good,” he murmurs, voice low, rough, home.
“Because I’m greedy, ma louve.
I want all of you.
Every laugh.
Every sketch.
Every brand name you whisper at 3 a.m.”
I laugh—soft, startled.
“You heard that?”
“Heard you pacing last night,” he says, thumb tracing the shell of my ear.
“Muttering ‘Mon Éloïse’ like it was a spell.
Thought you were hexing me.”
I swat his chest—playful, warm.
“I was brainstorming.”
“Naked?” he teases, brow arched.
I blush—hard, fast, guilty.
“It helps me think.”
He growls—low, approving.
“Then brainstorm naked more often.”
I roll my eyes, but my heart does that stupid flip again.
We shift—slow, lazy—until I’m straddling him, knees on either side, hands on his shoulders.
His hands settle on my hips—possessive, gentle.
“Tell me about it,” he says, eyes locked on mine.
“Mon Éloïse.
What does it look like?”
I bite my lip—nervous, excited.
“Leather,” I start, voice soft.
“Butter-soft, gold stitching.
Hidden pockets—for secrets, lipstick, claws.
Tote bags that shift with you—waterproof lining for beach runs, silver-threaded for full moons.
Backpacks with secret compartments—sketchbooks, charcoal, emergency jerky.”
He laughs—quiet, fond.
“Jerky?”
“Essential,” I insist.
“New wolves get hangry.”
He nods—serious, adoring.
“Noted.
What else?”
I lean in—forehead to forehead, breath mingling.
“A line for humans too,” I whisper.
“Subtle wolf motifs—tiny paw prints in the lining, moon phases on zippers.
So they feel the magic without knowing why.
And every piece has a story—mine, ours, the pack’s.
Freedom stitched in leather.”
His eyes go soft—liquid silver, awed.
“You’re going to change the world,” he says, voice rough.
“One bag at a time.”
I smile—small, real.
“With you.”
“Always.”
He kisses me then—slow, deep, claiming.
Not hungry.
Worshipful.
Like he’s memorizing the taste of hope.
I melt—hands in his hair, hips rolling without thinking.
He groans—soft, helpless—and pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against mine.
“Phone,” he says, voice strained.
“Now.”
I laugh—breathless.
“Bossy.”
“Efficient,” he corrects, smirking.
I reach for it—still on the couch, facedown—and unlock it with shaking fingers.
“What do I say?” I ask, suddenly small.
He takes the phone—gentle, sure—and types with one thumb while his other hand traces lazy circles on my thigh.
@moneloise_official
Coming soon.
Freedom. Stitched. Golden.
Pre-orders open when the moon is full.
#MonÉloïse #GoldenWolf
He hits post before I can panic.
I stare—wide-eyed, heart racing.
“You just—”
“Launched your empire,” he finishes, grinning.
“You’re welcome.”
I squeal—loud, unladylike—and tackle him back onto the couch.
“Damien LaCroix, you are impossible!”
“And you, mon Éloïse,
are unstoppable.”
We tangle—laughing, kissing, breathless.
His hands slide under my shirt—warm, calloused, perfect.
I arch into him—needy, happy, his.
“Wait,” I gasp, pulling back.
“One more thing.”
He groans—dramatic, long-suffering.
“You and your phone.”
I giggle, grab it again, open the camera.
“Smile,” I say, angling it above us.
He smiles—slow, wicked, mine—and kisses my cheek just as I snap.
Click.
The photo:
Us—tangled, sun-kissed, laughing.
His lips on my cheek.
My eyes closed in bliss.
Mating mark glowing.
Couch cushions askew.
Ocean in the background.
I caption it:
Soft launch: complete.
Hard launch: him.
#MonÉloïse #MyAlpha #Forever
I hit post.
He watches—eyes soft, proud.
“Happy?”
I nod—tears pricking, smile wide.
“Terrified,” I admit.
“But happy.”
He cups my face—thumbs stroking.
“Good,” he says.
“Terror means it matters.”
We stay like that—phone forgotten, world outside, just us.
His fingers trace my skin—slow, reverent.
“When the moon is full,” he murmurs,
“We launch. You design. I fund. Dante handles logistics. The pack wears your bags like armor.”
I laugh—wet, joyful. “And if the world hates it?”
He shrugs—casual, lethal.
“Then we burn it down and build a better one.”
I kiss him—soft, grateful, forever.
“Deal.”
Later—sun low, sky bleeding gold—I’m curled against his chest, phone buzzing with pre-order notifications.
He’s half-asleep, arm heavy across my waist.
I whisper into the quiet:
“Mon Éloïse…
It’s not just a brand.
It’s me—reborn.”
He tightens his hold—instinctive, protective.
“And I’m the luckiest wolf alive,” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep,
“Because I get to carry it.”
I smile—tear-streaked, sun-kissed, fearless.
Tomorrow, we run.
Tonight, we dream.
Mon Éloïse is just the beginning.