Chapter 707: Mother’s Influence & Madison’s Acceptance "And you’re mine. My Woman." he said quietly. "Which means I get to protect what’s mine. From bullets. From nightmares. From this stupid mansion bed that’s comically huge for one person. From the ache you’ve been ignoring since before I was old enough to understand why you took those long showers." She made a sound—half sob, half moan—as her thighs clenched involuntarily around his leg, the damp heat of her soaking through both layers of thin cotton, her clit dragging against him in a slow, helpless roll that drew a shaky exhale from them both. "When did my little boy get so damn wise?" she managed, voice husky. "Had an excellent teacher," he said, smiling despite the lump in his throat. "And I’m not going anywhere until you sleep. Real sleep. Not the fake kind where you pretend for twenty minutes then jerk awake to check if we’re all still breathing—only to slide a hand between your legs and pretend it’s not my name on your lips." "Peter—" "Non-negotiable." He shifted them gently, guiding her down until they were lying face-to-face, her head tucked under his chin like when he was eight and convinced the closet held demons. Except now her soft breasts pressed full against his chest, her slick pussy nestled hot and needy against his thigh, one of her legs hooked over his hip like her body had already voted yes even if her brain was still drafting protest letters. "You took care of me for years," he murmured into her hair. "Let me take care of you now. Just let me hold you." She exhaled—a long, surrendering sound—and burrowed closer, fingers curling into his t-shirt, face pressed to the hollow of his throat. The shaking eased, degree by slow degree. Her breathing deepened against his skin. He stayed awake just long enough to feel her body go heavy, to hear the soft, trusting whisper of "love you" against his collarbone, to notice that even in sleep her hips kept the tiniest, instinctive rock against him—like her dreams had finally stopped pretending too. Linda didn’t argue. Couldn’t. The fight had leaked out of her somewhere between the first sob and the moment his arms locked around her like they’d been built for exactly this purpose. Exhaustion, terror, relief, and that low-burning, shameful heat all crashed together and left her boneless. She curled into him like a comma seeking its sentence—one arm flung across his chest, face tucked into the curve of his neck, leg hooked over his hip in a way that was half child-seeking-comfort and half woman-chasing-friction she’d never admit while awake. Her hips gave the occasional sleepy roll, subtle but unmistakable, leaving a warm, slick patch on his cotton pants that would have been comical if it weren’t so heartbreakingly human. Her tears dried on his shirt in salty streaks. Fingers that had been clawing for purchase slowly relaxed, still fisted in the fabric but no longer desperate—just trusting. Peter felt the exact second she slipped under: the deepening of her breath, the final loosening of her shoulders, the way her body went soft and open against his, pussy pressed trustingly to his thigh like it had finally found the one place it was allowed to need something. "I love you too, Mom," he whispered into her hair, the words small and enormous at once. She mumbled something back, already three-quarters gone—slurred and syrupy, but he caught it anyway. Love you... need you... The city murmured outside the windows. The mansion creaked once, like it approved, then settled into true quiet. And then—finally—Peter’s own exhaustion rolled in like a tide he’d been outrunning for seventy-two hours straight. Not because the clock said so. Not because he was horizontal. But because she was here, warm and real and breathing steadily against his chest, her scent the same one that had meant safety since he was small enough to fit entirely in her lap. Because only Linda Carter could flip the off-switch on the relentless supercomputer in his skull and turn a teenage demigod back into just her boy—cock embarrassingly hard against her thigh, heart stupidly soft in her arms. His eyes slid shut. The weight of three sleepless days settled over him like the world’s heaviest blanket, and this time he didn’t fight it. Last coherent thought before the dark took him: He’d burn empires, rewrite reality, conquer galaxies if she asked. But she’d already conquered him the day she chose a scrawny, unwanted kid and loved him so fiercely that every line got blurred forever. And that made her the strongest force he’d ever know. Sleep came—deep, dreamless, safe. The kind you only get when you’re finally, truly home. Downstairs, Madison smiled into Peter’s pillow, cheeks flushed, fingers still lazily circling between her legs. She’d heard the soft shuffle of his footsteps as he left their bedroom, the faint creak of the stairs, and known exactly where he was headed. No jealousy tonight—just a quiet, complicated gratitude. She inhaled the fading scent of him on the sheets, pressed two fingers inside herself, and came again with a soft, shivering moan, picturing Peter curled around the woman who’d built him from scratch—cock hard, heart soft, finally asleep. "Thank you, Linda," she whispered to the empty room, voice husky and sincere. Because Madison understood the math: loving Peter Carter meant sharing him with the one person who’d loved him first and deepest. Linda wasn’t Madison’s competition; she was the foundation everything else about rested on. Madison could be his queen, his partner, the one he came home to most nights. But Linda would always be the home itself. And tonight, that was exactly what he needed. Madison let the aftershocks fade, pulled the blankets up to her chin, and slept—content, sore, and strangely at peace. Tomorrow would bring fresh chaos, new fires to put out, new hearts to win or break. But tonight? Tonight Peter was safe in the only arms that had ever been able to hold all of him. And for now, that was enough for her. Her king was safe; there was nothing else she could ask for.