CHAPTER 323

CHAPTER 323
WINTER

Zion’s arm was slung low across my waist, fingers loosely tangled in my hair even in sleep—like he was afraid I’d disappear if he let go completely.

I shifted just enough to see the ring on my left hand.

It sparkled in the soft morning light pouring through the bedroom windows—simple platinum band, single diamond catching every ray like it was showing off.

He’d proposed.

On the beach.

Under the moon.

I pressed my lips to his chest—soft, reverent—right over the steady thump of his heart.

He stirred instantly.

Arms tightened around me, pulling me closer, a low, sleepy sound rumbling in his throat.

“Morning, Snowflake,” he murmured, voice gravel-rough from sleep and the hours we’d spent tangled in each other last night.

“Morning, fiancé,” I whispered back, smiling against his skin.

He groaned—low, pleased—and rolled us in one smooth motion until he was hovering over me, forearms braced on either side of my head, caging me in the best way.

His hair was a mess, eyes still heavy-lidded with sleep, but the look he gave me was wide awake—dark, soft, possessive.

“Say it again,” he demanded, voice dropping to that dangerous, velvet rumble that always made my stomach flip.

“Fiancé.”

Another groan—deeper this time.

He dropped his head and kissed me slow and deep, morning breath and all, like none of it mattered because we were already past pretending.

His tongue brushed mine lazily, tasting like sleep and last night and us, and I melted under him, hands sliding up his back.

“I love you,” he said when he finally pulled back, thumb brushing my cheek.

“I love you too.”

We stayed like that for a long minute—just breathing each other in, foreheads pressed together, noses brushing, the ring on my finger catching sunlight and throwing tiny sparks across his chest.

Then the smell of coffee and bacon drifted up the stairs, followed by Claire’s unmistakable voice shouting from the kitchen.

“Clark! I swear to God if you burn the damn toast one more time, I’m disowning you! How do you even manage to set bread on fire? It’s bread!”

Clark’s voice boomed back completely unrepentant.

“It’s not burning, it’s toasting..."

Zion sighed dramatically against my neck, lips brushing my skin.

“We should probably go down before he sets the kitchen on fire.”

I laughed—

“Or before Claire decides to come up here and drag us out herself with a megaphone.”

He kissed me once more—quick, fierce—then rolled off me, pulling me up with him.

We dressed lazily—me in his hoodie again, him in sweatpants and a black tee that clung to every line of muscle I’d spent the night mapping with my hands and mouth.

He caught me staring as he tugged the shirt down and smirked.

“Keep looking at me like that and we’re not making it to breakfast,” he said, voice low and gravel-rough, eyes darkening as they dragged over my mouth, my throat, the way his hoodie clung to my bare thighs.

I bit my lip, cheeks heating under the weight of his stare—slow, possessive, like he was already undressing me in his mind all over again.

“Tempting,” I whispered, letting the word drip out slow and sultry, just to watch his pupils blow wide.

He groaned—deep, tortured—stepped in close until there was no space left between us, and kissed me hard.

His mouth claimed mine like he was starving, tongue sweeping in, tasting last night and this morning and every promise we’d made in the dark.

One hand cupped the back of my neck, the other slid down to grip my hip, fingers digging in just enough to make me gasp into his kiss.

“Fuck, Snowflake,” he rasped against my lips.

“Now I’m fucking hungry for something else.”

The words were pure sin—low, velvet, dripping with intent.

His thumb brushed the edge of my bottom lip, eyes locked on mine like he was already picturing me spread out beneath him again, already hearing the sounds I’d make when he sank back inside me.

My thighs clenched.

My breath hitched.

Heat pooled low in my belly so fast I almost whimpered.

Before I could reply—before I could drag him back to the bed and say yes, please, now—Clark’s voice boomed up the stairs, loud and obnoxious as ever.

“Are you two fucking coming down or do we wait until she gives birth to your baby before you leave that fucking room?!”

Zion swore under his breath—vicious, immediate—his grip on my hip tightening like he was two seconds from storming downstairs and punching Clark through the wall.

“I’m gonna kill him,” he muttered, voice lethal.

“I’m actually gonna kill him. Slow. Painful. With witnesses.”

I laughed—real, bright, the sound bursting out before I could stop it—and grabbed his hand, tugging him toward the door.

“Come on,” I said, still giggling, cheeks burning.

“Before the teasing gets worse and Clark starts planning our baby shower.”

Zion let out a long-suffering groan but let me drag him forward, muttering threats under his breath the whole way down the stairs.

“Disowning. Murder. Arson. I’m open to all options.”

I squeezed his hand tighter, smiling so wide it hurt.

“Later,” I promised, echoing his earlier words.

“You can kill him later.”

He shot me a look—half glare, half hunger.

“After breakfast,” he growled.

“I want you alone again.”

My stomach flipped.

“Deal.”

We reached the bottom of the stairs just as Clark’s head popped around the corner, grinning like the chaos demon he was.

“Finally! Thought you two were gonna need a crowbar to separate you. Coffee’s hot, bacon’s crispy—mostly—And Claire thinks shes fucking Masterchef..”

Claire’s voice shouted from the kitchen: “I heard that, you little shit!”

Clark cackled and disappeared again.

Zion sighed—long, dramatic—but his hand stayed locked with mine, thumb brushing over the snowflake on my wrist, then the ring on my finger, like he couldn’t stop touching either one.

I leaned into his side, heart full and light in a way it hadn’t been in years.

"Let's go .."

The kitchen was chaos in the best way—pans sizzling, coffee brewing, bacon grease popping, voices overlapping like a badly rehearsed symphony.

Claire stood at the stove flipping bacon, hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun, wearing an oversized band tee and shorts, spatula waving like a conductor’s baton.

Clark was “helping” by stealing strips straight from the pan, dodging her swats with a grin that said he knew exactly how close he was to getting hit.

Ariel sat at the island, coffee mug cradled in both hands, staring into it like it held answers she didn’t want to hear.

Harry leaned against the counter near her—arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes flicking to her every few seconds, but the usual awe wasn’t there.

He seemed pissed. Angry?

Ro sat at the far end of the island, nursing black coffee, watching everything with that quiet amusement he never quite hid.

Claire glanced over her shoulder at Ro, spatula pointed like a weapon.

“Ro, get off your butt and help! The toast is burning because Clark’s too busy stealing bacon to watch it.”

Ro took a slow sip of coffee, then deadpanned, voice flat as asphalt:

“If I help, Clark will just steal the toast too. I’m preserving the food supply. It’s called strategy.”

Claire groaned.

“Strategy my ass. You’re just lazy.”

Ro shrugged—one shoulder lift—and went back to his coffee like he’d won the argument without saying another word.

Zion pulled me into his lap the second we reached the island—strong hands on my hips guiding me down until my back was flush against his chest, his arms banding around my waist like he couldn’t stand even an inch of space between us.

I felt the hard ridge of him against my lower back—still half-hard from upstairs—and my cheeks flamed instantly.

He rested his chin on my shoulder, lips brushing my ear as he spoke low enough for only me to hear.

“Comfortable, Snowflake?”

I squirmed—just a little—and felt him twitch behind me.

“Very,” I whispered back, biting my lip to hide the smile.

Clark sat down beside us, plate piled high with slightly charred toast and bacon, grinning like the Cheshire cat.

“Did you two even sleep, or was it just wall-banging and marriage planning?”

Claire snorted, shoulders shaking.

“From the way the headboard was doing morsecode at 3 a.m. I'm going say sleep was not on the agenda."

Heat exploded across my face so fast I felt dizzy. I mashed my forehead harder into Zion’s shoulder, praying the floor would open up and swallow me whole.

“Sleep?” A soft, filthy chuckle rumbled through Zion’s chest into mine.

“Nah, sleep was definitely not on the agenda. We had better things to do, right… Snowflake?”

My entire body ignited—face scorching, pulse slamming in my throat, a fresh rush of heat pooling low and insistent between my legs even as humiliation crashed over me in waves.

Clark made an exaggerated gagging noise..

“Oh my God—stop. I can literally feel the syrup dripping off you two.” He fake-shuddered, voice pitching up in mock horror.

“You’re so mushy I’m getting cavities just standing here.”

I couldn’t help the tiny laugh that slipped out—

“Keep gagging, man,” Zion said mildly, never taking his eyes off me.

“Doesn’t change facts.”

Clark groaned louder.

“Facts? Z, the only fact here is that I need noise-cancelling headphones and therapy. In that order.”

I glanced at Zion through my lashes. He was smirking down at me—victorious, filthy, completely unbothered.

And stupidly, helplessly, I smiled back.

“Tell me again, how an asshole like you managed to snag a girl like her?” Clark asked Zion, gesturing at me with a strip of bacon.

“She’s way out of your league, man.” Clark leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, grin lazy but eyes sharp.

“I mean—look at her. Gorgeous. Sweet as hell. Badass in ways that should come with a warning label. And you’re… you. Grumpy. Possessive. Brooding like you’re auditioning for a noir film. Walking, talking red-flag factory.”

Zion didn’t even look at him. He just lifted his free hand—the one not wrapped around my waist—and flipped Clark off with slow, deliberate precision, middle finger lingering like punctuation.

I turned toward Ariel, hoping to catch her eye, maybe share a quick “isn’t this ridiculous” look.

She gave me a smile back—small, polite, the kind you give when you’re being nice but your mind is somewhere else.

It didn’t touch her eyes.

Not even close.

My gaze slid sideways to Harry.

He hadn’t moved.

Jaw locked so tight I could see the cord of muscle flicker under his skin. Shoulders rigid.

Hands curled loose at his sides like he was fighting not to make fists. Too still. Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that feels like a storm waiting to break.

“Alright! Enough of this lovey-dovey bullshit.” Clark clapped his hands once.

“Let’s talk wedding. I’m officiating. Got my online ordination locked in. Vows are ready to go: ‘In sickness and in health, in shitty basements and overpriced beach houses—’”

Harry cut him.

“Can't you fucking keep that mouth shut for one fucking second.”

Harry was practically vibrating—fists balled at his sides, knuckles bone-white, jaw so clenched I half expected to hear teeth crack.

Clark blinked, thrown. “Dude, I was just—”

“Shut. The. Fuck. Up.”

Claire’s brows knit together.

She glanced at Ariel, then back at Harry.

“Okay, what the hell is going on? Did something happen between you two? Because this vibe is—”

Ariel pasted on a smile.

Thin. Brittle.

“No. Nothing. Why would you even think that?”

She pushed her chair back an inch.

“Anyway, I need to go home.”

Harry’s jaw ticked again—once, twice—

“Hey. You don’t have to run. Stay. We’ve got the whole damn weekend. Come on.” Claire said.

Ariel shook her head—small, mulish, eyes already on the door.

“No... I’ve got work. Stuff. Gotta go.”

Zion’s voice cut im.

“Harry’ll drop you.”

Harry’s head snapped up so fast it was almost violent.

Eyes blazing, pure venom.

“The fuck I will. I’m busy as shit. Can’t play chauffeur for anyone right now. Ro. You take her.”

I felt Zion’s arm flex around my waist—

Clark leaned in, voice dropping to a stunned whisper that still carried.

“What the actual fuck just happened…”