Breakfast in Kensington

The scent of dark-roast coffee and expensive sandalwood cologne always hits my senses before my eyes even flutter open. It’s the smell of safety, of luxury, of him. But this morning, safety is doing a backflip in my stomach.

I groan, rolling over in the king-sized bed, the weight of my seven-month belly shifting heavily against the silk sheets. My morning sickness has been absolute trash lately. I barely manage to push myself up before the nausea hits, sharp and unforgiving.

Before I can even scramble to the edge of the bed, the heavy bedroom door clicks open. Jungkook is there in a heartbeat, his silk robe hanging open to reveal the ink-stained skin of his chest. He doesn’t walk; he glides, his eyes locked onto me with that predatory intensity that usually makes my core throb, even when I’m feeling like absolute garbage.

"Tae," he rumbles, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that travels straight to my bones. He’s kneeling on the rug beside the bed before my feet even touch the floor. His hands are everywhere, firm and possessive, anchoring me, making sure I don’t sway. "Don't move. You’re overexerting yourself."

"Jungkook, chill," I wheeze, my voice thick with sleep and irritation. "I just need the bathroom. I’m not made of glass, babe."

"You are to me," he counters, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw with a pressure that feels more like a claim than a caress. He lifts me effortlessly—or as effortlessly as one can lift a guy carrying a small human—and carries me toward the en-suite.

I wrap my arms around his neck, my fingers burying into his hair. I’m exhausted, my back is killing me, and my hormones are doing a full-blown rave, but having him hold me like I’m the only thing keeping the earth spinning? It’s addictive. It’s everything.

Once I’m settled on the edge of the marble vanity, he doesn't leave. He never leaves. He kneels between my knees, his hands immediately finding the curve of my belly. He starts rubbing, his palms warm and grounding against my stretched skin. I feel the baby kick—a sharp, insistent thud against his palm.

Jungkook’s eyes darken. He leans forward, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss against the mound. "He’s active today," he murmurs against my skin, his hands spreading wider, his grip tightening just enough to let me know he’s not going anywhere. "Does he know he’s hurting my omega? Does he know I’ll make him pay for making you feel this way?"

"It’s just morning sickness, Kook. Don't be dramatic," I say, though I can't hide the soft sigh that escapes when his tongue flicks out to taste the pulse at my hip.

He stands up, pulling me flush against him so I can feel the hard ridge of his arousal pressing into my thigh. The tension in the air is thick, stifling, and deliciously heavy. He reaches for a silk towel, dampening it to wipe my face, his movements slow and agonizingly intimate. He’s pampering me, but there’s a possessive edge to it—like he’s marking me, claiming every inch of my skin before I start my day.

"Breakfast," he whispers against my ear, his breath hot. "I had the chef prepare the ginger tea you like. You’ll eat, and you’ll rest. You aren't leaving this suite today, Taehyung. The world is far too loud for you right now."

I look at him, at the raw, unadulterated obsession etched into his sharp features, and I feel a shiver that has nothing to do with the cool London morning. It’s perfect. It’s suffocating, and I love it.

He leans in closer, his lips brushing the shell of my ear, his voice dropping to a dangerous, intimate register. "You are my entire world, Tae. My heart, my body, my legacy. You don't exist outside of this, and you never will."

Everything feels perfect, quiet, and entirely his. But as I look at his reflection in the mirror—his eyes tracing my body like he’s memorizing a map—I notice his phone on the vanity light up with a notification. It’s a message from an unknown number. Just a single location pin in the heart of London.

Jungkook’s hand freezes on my waist, his grip turning bruisingly tight for a split second before he swipes the screen away without even blinking. He turns back to me, his smile wide and beautiful, but it doesn't reach his eyes.

"Ready for breakfast, my love?" he asks, the possessiveness in his tone now laced with something sharper, something colder.

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