him a so-what look, to which he added meekly, “with our healing, we can’t get tattoos.”
“And you realize I’m a witch,” I retorted with all the sickly sweet tone sass I could muster, “I can make it happen babe.”
“Okay,” he kissed my shoulder again, then looked indirectly at me through the mirror, “then let it be Property of Jasmine Peterson Carrington,” he said as he gently slipped a ring on my finger.
To say I was surprised would be the understatement of the year. Yes, I was his mate. Yes, we had vowed never to leave one another. Yes, we had made love the day before. But never had we discussed marriage, probably because the mate bond was a bigger deal in the supernatural community.
“I can work with that,” I whispered before leaning back into his loving embrace, slowly melting into him.
