Page 41 of Primal
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CATLIN
Finn presses against a freshly forming bruise I didn’t realize I had, and his voice is pained. “Did I hurt you?”
For a man who has repeatedly left marks on me with his teeth and mouth—insistently keeping me marked as his—he is grossly concerned with the tiny fingertip imprints forming on my bicep. I lift my head from his chest to find his eyes filled with worry and remorse. Cupping his face, I demand his attention. “I didn’t even realize. You didn’t hurt me, Finn. I know that you would never hurt me on purpose.”
He grips my hips, and turns me across his lap so I’m straddling him. His lips are on the little bruises the second he can reach them, tenderly kissing over each mark he left behind.
“If we’re going to continue to play like we did today, you need a safeword,” he informs me, his tone immediately becoming very serious.
“A safeword?” I don’t understand what he’s saying.
“Yes, a safeword,” he repeats himself. “A word you wouldn’t say while we’re playing rough or during sex. It’s your way of lettingme know that you’re not okay. If I hurt you or something makes you feel unsafe, you say it. The moment it passes over your lips, everything is a full stop, and my entire focus is on making sure you don’t feel that way any longer.”
I nod, acknowledging what he’s explaining while simultaneously wondering if he’ll ever push me so far that I actually need to use it.
“I can’t just say, ‘stop?’”
“No.” He shakes his head. “Do you know how many times you screamed for me to stop or let you go this afternoon in the church?”
Silently thinking back and recalling him pinning me to the altar, I begin to realize his point. “A lot.”
“Had you truly needed me to stop, I wouldn’t have known,” he admits. “And I would never forgive myself for going too far. That’s why you need a word that stands out.”
“Okay,” I agree. “What kind of word?”
“People use all sorts of things,” he shrugs. “Pineapple. Oklahoma. Pickles. Derek Jeter?—”
“The baseball player?” I interrupt with a chuckle.
“Yes.” His tone softens, and he smiles. “You can choose whatever word you want. It just needs to be something that you’ll remember.”
Suddenly completely blank on my vocabulary, I stare at him for a minute as I try to think of a word.
“Church.”
“Church?” Finn repeats it back to me with an inquisitive brow.
“Yes, church,” I insist before explaining, “You said the point of it is to bring me from a not-good place to somewhere I feel safe. Centered. That has always been church for me.”
“Then it’s perfect,” Finn praises, palming my face and pulling me close to press his lips to mine.
His eyes still harbor concern when he pulls back and I ask, “What’s wrong?”
“I’ve never hidden from the kind of man I am or the life I lead.” He lets out a heavy breath. “But there are details about how it also affects you that we really haven’t discussed. Things we need to.”
Finn rests his hands on my hips and explains everything that has transpired between the Russian Bratva and his family. The details are so explicit that my heart breaks several times for Quinn and what she has endured to be part of his family.
“Do I need to worry about my safety?” My voice is laced with apprehension and concern.
“Yes,” Finn answers honestly. “I shot the head of the Bratva when we went after Quinn. They’re fucking cowards, and they’d take you because they can’t get to me. But I won’t let that happen. Like Layla and Quinn, any time you aren’t with me, you’ll have guys with you.”
“Like Rory?” I clarify, confirming my recent suspicion that he is definitelymorethan a chauffeur.
Finn nods his answer. “You are safe with me, always. I would burn this city to the ground and walk through hell to keep you from harm. And so would my brothers.”
After having heard what they went through—and that Conor took a bullet—to bring Quinn home, I don’t doubt him. Their family—my family now—are so very close and would clearly do anything for one another.