Chapter 35 - Ella

The door clicked shut behind us.

And the quiet?

Wasn't peaceful.

It was heavy.

Daryl stalked in like a caged animal, hands flexing at his sides, chest still rising and falling like he hadn't taken a full breath since the second Negan opened his mouth.

I turned toward the living room.

Ian came running the moment he saw us, little arms outstretched.

"Mommy!" he cried, barreling into my legs.

I scooped him up, hugging him tight.

"I'm okay," I whispered against his curls. "I'm right here, baby."

He sniffled into my shirt. "He was mean to you."

"Yeah," I said, kissing the top of his head. "But I'm tougher than I look, huh?"

He nodded, still clinging.

Carl was on the couch, arms crossed, eyes flicking between me and Daryl like he couldn't decide whether to say something or punch a wall.

Ruby let out a soft whimper from her place on the floor, and I gently passed Ian to Carl before going to her.

"Hey, sweet girl," I whispered, lifting her into my arms. "I missed you."

She settled instantly, little fingers grabbing at my shirt.

Behind me, I heard Daryl pacing again.

Boots scraping the floor. Breathing heavy. The sound of his knuckles cracking, over and over.

Carl finally spoke.

"What the hell did he say to you out there?" he asked, voice low.

"Carl," I warned, but he didn't back down.

"He had that look. The same one he had when—when he had us lined up. When he—" He cut himself off, jaw locking.

"He made a suggestion," I said evenly. "A disgusting one."

Carl's face twisted. "And you didn't punch him?"

"I had three children inside the house," I said. "And Daryl on the edge of snapping behind me."

Daryl let out a low sound from the corner—half growl, half breath.

"He wanted you," he said quietly.

I turned to him.

He was standing in the middle of the room, fists clenched, blue eyes burning a hole through the floor.

"He talked about you like that," he growled. "In front of me. Like I ain't even fuckin' here."

"Because he wants to rattle us," I said, rocking Ruby gently. "He wants you to snap. That's the game."

Daryl finally looked at me.

And his eyes were wrecked.

Full of fury.

Full of shame.

Full of helplessness.

"I can't protect you from him."

"You are protecting me," I said. "You didn't let him bait you. You didn't let him win."

"I wanted to tear his fuckin' throat out," he muttered.

"I know." I crossed the room slowly, keeping Ruby tucked close. "But you didn't. And that means we're all still alive."

Daryl's hands twitched like he didn't know what to do with them.

So I reached up and took one.

Pressed it to Ruby's tiny back.

She blinked up at him, her little fingers curling in his shirt.

And just like that—his shoulders dropped a little.

His eyes softened.

His jaw unclenched.

"Hey, baby girl," he whispered, voice rough. "Daddy's here."

Carl looked away, arms still crossed—but his lips twitched. Just a little.

Ian tugged on my sleeve. "Is Daddy mad?"

I bent down, brushing his cheek. "A little. But not at you."

"Can I help?"

"You're already helping," I said, smiling. "Just stay close, okay?"

He nodded solemnly.

And for a minute—just one—everything was still.

Safe.

Together.

Even if the world outside was still burning.

The kitchen was dim at dinner time. The table was gone—taken by the Saviors—so we sat around the island, plates on the countertop, trying to pretend this was normal.

I glanced at Carl, who was pushing food around his plate. "You staying here tonight, or heading back to your dad's?"

He shrugged. "I don't know."

Ian, perched on a stool beside me, looked up. "Can Carl stay?"

I smiled. "That's up to him."

Carl gave a small nod. "Maybe. If it's okay."

"Of course," I said, reaching over to squeeze his hand.

We ate in silence for a while, the only sounds the clink of utensils and Ruby's soft cooing from her high chair.

Then Ian spoke, his voice small. "Mommy, are you gonna marry the bad man?"

The room froze.

Daryl's fork clattered onto his plate.

Carl's eyes widened.

I turned to Ian, heart pounding. "What?"

He looked up at me, innocent. "The man with the bat. He said he wanted to marry you."

Daryl stood abruptly, the stool scraping against the floor. Without a word, he stormed out of the kitchen, footsteps heavy on the stairs. A moment later, the bedroom door slammed shut.

I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath.

Carl looked at me, concerned. "Should I go talk to him?"

I shook my head. "No. I'll handle it."

I turned back to Ian, pulling him into my lap. "Sweetheart, I'm not marrying him. I'm already married to Daddy."

He nodded, resting his head against my chest.

I looked at Carl. "Can you finish up here? I need to check on Daryl."

He nodded. "Yeah. I got it."

I stood, carrying Ian to the couch and settling him with a blanket and a toy. "Stay here, okay? I'll be right back."

He nodded again, eyes already drooping.

I headed upstairs, heart heavy, ready to face the storm behind the bedroom door.

The door creaked open.

Our bedroom—if you could still call it that—was cold and bare. No mattress. Just crumpled sheets and a few pillows on the floor. The furniture was gone. The curtains half-ripped. Ruby's toys kicked into corners like trash.

And Daryl?

Daryl was pacing.

Like he'd rather tear a hole in the floor than sit still.

His hands were clenched at his sides. His boots thudded against the wood. His breathing came fast and hard, like he was still trying to chase down the fury burning through his chest.

He didn't even look at me when I stepped in.

"Daryl."

Nothing.

"Baby."

He turned.

And the second our eyes met—he snapped.

Not in anger.

But in need.

He was on me in two strides, hands grabbing my arms, my waist, my face like he couldn't figure out which part of me he needed most.

"Mine," he whispered hoarsely. "You're mine."

"I know," I breathed, fingers curling around his shirt.

His lips found my throat first—rough, messy, frantic kisses against my skin like he was starving for it. Like touching me was the only thing keeping him alive.

"He don't get to talk about you like that," he growled against my neck. "Don't get to look at you like that. Don't get to want you."

His hands slid under my shirt, palms dragging along my waist like he had to feel every inch of me to believe I was still here.

"Daryl—"

"No," he cut in, voice thick with desperation. "I need to—I need—fuck."

He kissed me then.

Hard.

Possessive.

Like he was claiming me all over again.

Like I was a prayer he didn't deserve but would burn the whole world down to keep.

I kissed him back.

Let him pull me down to the nest of blankets on the floor, let him wrap himself around me like he could bury the ache if he just held tight enough.

"I'm not going anywhere," I whispered. "I'm yours, Daryl. I'm always yours."

He pressed his forehead to mine.

Eyes wild.

Voice shaking.

"I almost lost you."

"You didn't."

His hands gripped my hips, his thumb stroking that spot on my ribs like he was checking for proof. "They took our bed. Our table. They talk about you like you're—like you're a thing they can steal. But you're mine, Ella. You're my wife. That word means something."

"It means everything," I said.

And for the first time that day, his breathing slowed.

Just a little.

His mouth was on mine again before I could breathe.

No hesitation.

No build-up.

Just teeth and lips and claiming.

I didn't stop him.

Hell, I didn't even try.

He laid me down on the blankets like they were made of gold and not the last scraps we had left, hands on either side of my head, his body hovering over mine like he was trying to cage me in, keep the whole goddamn world out.

His voice was low and shaking with heat. "Say it."

"Daryl—"

"Say it."

I met his eyes, wide and wild and blue.

"I'm yours."

That was all it took.

He groaned, deep and guttural, like the words hit him square in the chest.

"Again," he rasped, dragging his hands up under my shirt, over my ribs, palms hot and rough and shaking.

"I'm yours," I whispered again.

He kissed me like he needed it to live.

He kissed me like it hurt.

Like he hated that anyone else had even looked at me today.

His hands gripped my thighs, yanked me up into his lap like I weighed nothing, like he needed to be closer.

"I don't care what they take," he growled against my skin. "The food, the house, the goddamn furniture—they don't touch you. They don't talk about you."

"He can't have me," I whispered, breathless.

"He fucking wishes he could," he snarled, dragging his mouth down my neck, biting just hard enough to leave a mark. "But he won't. You're mine. My wife. My woman. My fuckin' life."

His hands gripped my hips tight, pulling me against him, grinding, breath ragged, like he wanted to leave bruises in the shape of his name.

"You feel that?" he hissed. "That's what belongs to you. Always has."

I gasped, arching into him, eyes fluttering shut.

"No one touches you," he growled. "No one thinks about you. You're not for them. You're mine."

"Yours," I breathed, barely able to speak.

He kissed me again—deep and slow and possessive, like he wanted to mark me from the inside out.

And then he did.

Right there on the floor, surrounded by the emptiness the Saviors left behind, he filled me like he was trying to rewrite the story in my skin.

And I let him.

Because there was no one else.

No world.

No war.

No Negan.

Just Daryl.

And the way he whispered mine with every thrust like it was a prayer he couldn't stop saying.

His forehead dropped to mine.

Our bodies still joined.

Our breaths still tangled.

But Daryl didn't move.

Didn't soften.

Didn't let up.

His eyes were open—wide and wild, pupils blown, jaw tight, sweat slicking the strands at his temples.

He looked wrecked.

Wrecked in a way that made something deep inside me ache.

"Say it again," he whispered.

My hands smoothed up his back, still trembling. "I'm yours."

He kissed me—quick, sharp, like he needed it between every heartbeat.

His voice broke next to my ear. "If he looks at you again, I'll kill him."

I shivered.

"Don't care what Rick says. Don't care what it costs. If he touches you—if he touches you—I'll tear him apart."

"Daryl—"

His hand slid up my side, over the scar from the bullet, gentle now—but still burning.

"I almost lost you," he whispered. "Because I fucked up. Because I went lookin'. And he looked at you like he was owed somethin'. Like you were just out there for the takin'."

"You didn't lose me," I said, cupping his face. "You won't lose me."

He dragged his mouth down my throat again, slower now, but no less intense.

~

We were quiet.

The only sound was our breathing—still uneven, still a little too fast, like neither of us had quite come down yet.

Daryl was curled around me, arm slung over my waist, chest pressed to my back. His lips brushed the top of my spine in slow, sleepy kisses that made my heart feel too big for my chest.

His fingers traced lazy patterns over my stomach, soft now, like his hands didn't remember how to not hold me.

And then he pressed his palm flat to my belly.

Still. Warm. Steady.

I glanced back at him. "You okay?"

He didn't answer right away.

Just kissed my shoulder.

Then whispered, "Maybe if you're pregnant again, he'll fuck off."

I blinked. "What?"

He didn't move. "Put another baby in you. Make it real clear."

I snorted, a laugh catching in my throat. "You think a baby's gonna scare Negan?"

"Maybe not," he murmured, dragging his fingers lower, then back up again. "But he'll know. He'll know you're mine. That every part of you's taken."

"Daryl," I laughed again, twisting just enough to meet his eyes, "you are insane."

He didn't smile.

Didn't laugh.

Didn't even blink.

"I mean it."

The breath caught in my throat.

He was serious.

Dead. Fucking. Serious.

My smile softened. "You really want another baby? Ruby's only seven months old!"

He swallowed. "I want... as many babies as you'll give me."

He paused. "And if another baby keeps that bastard away from you? Yeah. I want it. I want you. All of you."

I turned in his arms, kissed his chest. "You already have all of me."

He tucked my head under his chin.

Held me tighter.

We didn't speak after that.

Just breathed.

And somewhere, in that stolen moment of quiet?

The world stopped feeling quite so heavy.

~

The sun was still hours away when I crept into the kitchen.

No table, no chairs, no couch—but Daryl was already up, shirtless and barefoot, staring out the window like he was mentally preparing to fight God.

I leaned on the island.

Smiling.

Watching his shoulders move with every sip.

I tilted my head, voice syrup-sweet. "So..."

Daryl didn't look at me.

I took that as permission to continue.

"Were you serious?"

"'Bout what?"

"Oh, I don't know..." I crossed my arms, let my voice go coy. "Stuffing a baby in me to scare off Negan?"

His grip on the counter tightened.

He glanced at me.

Didn't say a word.

I grinned wider. "Was that dirty talk or a Dixon-level strategic maneuver?"

"Both," he said flatly.

I laughed. "Daryl—"

"You don't think I want that?" he cut in, finally turning toward me, eyes low and burning. "Feelin' the kicks? You carryin' my baby inside you again?"

My breath caught.

He took a step forward.

"You think I wouldn't trade every fight, every bullet, every sleepless night for the chance to watch you waddle around this house again with that little belly, snappin' at me because your back hurts?"

"Daryl," I whispered, but it came out shaky.

"I'd kill to see you that way again," he said, voice low and rough. "'Cause that? That's mine. That's us."

I stared at him.

Speechless.

Absolutely floored.

Then—I snorted.

"Jesus, you are feral."

He raised a brow. "Didn't hear you complainin' a few hours ago."

"I wasn't!" I threw my arms up. "I just didn't know we had a whole impregnation agenda."

He leaned on the island across from me, smirking now. "What? You scared?"

I leaned in too, smiling slow. "You wish."

Daryl didn't back down.

"Then maybe," he said, voice like gravel and sin, "we oughta get started."

I didn't even get to laugh again.

Not a chuckle.

Not a breath.

Because the second I leaned in, playful and smug and so sure I had the upper hand—

Daryl reached across the island, grabbed my wrist, and dragged me toward him like it was already decided.

"Daryl—"

He kissed me before my name could even land, full force, stealing the air from my lungs and the ground from under my feet.

He walked me backward.

Out of the kitchen.

Through the hall.

Up the stairs.

One hand tangled in my shirt, the other gripping my hip like I might vanish if he didn't hold on.

"I was serious," he growled against my neck. "I meant it."

"Daryl, it was a joke—"

"No it wasn't," he snapped, voice low and hot. "You want it too. You always get soft when you talk about babies. You look at Ruby like your heart's gonna fall outta your chest. And when Ian runs up and hugs your legs, you melt. You want it."

I gasped as my back hit the bedroom wall—our empty, bare room with nothing but blankets on the floor and tension in the air.

"And you want to do this now?" I breathed.

His hands slid under my shirt, dragging it up and over my head like it offended him.

He kissed my chest, my ribs, the space just above my navel.

"Right. Fucking. Now."

"Daryl—"

His mouth moved lower. Hot. Desperate. Worshipful.

"You gonna let me fill you up, El?" he rasped. "Let me fuck a baby into you right here? Let everyone hear who you belong to?"

I whimpered.

His eyes were blown wide, pupils swallowing blue, jaw tight like he could barely keep the need in his chest from exploding.

He kissed me—filthy.Teeth, tongue, claiming.Not gentle. Not sweet.

This was a brand.

"Baby," I gasped, already breathless, already reeling.

He dropped to his knees in front of me like it was instinct.

"Gonna make you mine all over again," he muttered, dragging my pants down so fast they nearly tore.

"You're insane," I breathed, but my voice shook.

"Damn right I am," he hissed, mouth dragging across my inner thigh. "Crazy for you. Fucked up for you."

He kissed just above where I needed him.

"Daryl—"

He looked up at me, sweat beading at his temples. Desperate. Ravenous.

"Say it," he demanded, voice wrecked. "Say you want it."

"I—I want it," I breathed.

That was all he needed.

He stood, shoved his pants down just enough, and lifted me—lifted me—like I was nothing but something meant to be claimed.

And when he sank into me?

It wasn't slow.

It wasn't gentle.

It was possession.

"Mine," he snarled against my neck. "This fuckin' pussy—mine. Your love? Mine. Negan don't stand a fuckin' chance."

"He never did," I panted against his neck.

"I want you so bad it hurts," he groaned, snapping his hips hard.

I cried out, my nails digging into his back.

"Please," I gasped, already trembling, already gone.

He drove into me like it was a promise, a vow, a prayer.

And when he came?

It was with a growl of my name, teeth on my throat, hands gripping my thighs like he could keep every drop inside me.

He didn't move right away.

Just stayed inside, panting against my skin.

And when he finally did pull back, his hand went straight to my belly.

His voice was hoarse. Soft. But no less serious.

"Now you're mine again."

Every nerve was still buzzing. My legs refused to move. My thighs trembled with aftershocks I couldn't stop, even if I wanted to.

Which I didn't.

Daryl spread me out on our little nest of blankets, his hands roaming freely over my skin.

My brain? Melted.

My breath? Gone.

My sanity?

Somewhere back on the wall five thrusts ago.

And yet.

He moved.

He fucking moved.

"Daryl—" I croaked, voice raw and shaky.

But he was already kissing down my chest again, lips slow and possessive, tongue flicking just beneath the curve of my breast.

"Thought that was it?" he rasped. "Nah, baby. I ain't done."

My eyes snapped open. "I can't— I can't move—"

"Good," he muttered, dragging his tongue over a bruise he'd left. "Don't want you movin'. Just wanna see you fall apart again."

I tried to sit up.

He pushed me back down.

"Daryl, I'm—"

"Wrecked. Fucked out. I know." He kissed the inside of my knee, then spread my legs again with both hands. "You think that's gonna stop me?"

His mouth hovered over my soaked, used center—already dripping with both of us.

He smirked.

I whimpered.

And then—

He licked.

Deep. Slow. Greedy.

My spine arched off the floor, a ragged sound tearing from my throat.

"Daryl—please—"

He looked up.

Eyes dark. Wild. Gone.

"You wanna stop me?"

I couldn't even speak.

He smirked.

"Didn't think so."

Then he devoured me.

With hands on my hips, fingers digging into my skin, he licked and sucked and feasted like a man on death row begging for one last taste.

And when I broke?

When my back bowed and my legs trembled and my throat cracked around his name?

He didn't stop.

He climbed back on top of me, kissed my lips with my own taste still on his tongue, and slid inside again like he lived there.

His hands pinned my thighs apart, his mouth on my neck, teeth scraping my skin like he wanted to bite his name into me.

"Daryl—" I gasped, eyes rolling back.

"No," he snapped, pulling almost all the way out, then slamming back in so hard the blankets slid under us. "No more talkin'. Just take it."

I screamed.

He was relentless.

His rhythm filthy, unhinged—purposeful.

Every thrust was hard.Every snap of his hips branded me deeper.His hand pressed to my belly again, right over where he wanted his baby to grow.

His hand slipped between us, thumb finding my clit, rubbing tight, rough circles that made me choke on his name.

My back arched. My hands clawed at his shoulders.

"I'm—Daryl—I can't—"

"Yes you can," he snapped, panting hard. "You were made for this. For me."

I shattered.

Loud. Wild. Screaming.

And he didn't stop.

Not even when I went limp.

Not even when my eyes fluttered and my whole body trembled.

He chased his own release through my aftershocks, sweat dripping from his hair onto my throat.

Then—He let go.

A sound ripped from his chest as he slammed in one last time, his whole body shaking, teeth bared.

"Fuck—Ella—take it. Take all of it."

I could feel him pulse inside me.Filling me again.Thick. Hot. Endless.

He collapsed on top of me, still buried deep, both of us soaked in sweat and cum and every filthy promise he'd made.

He didn't pull out.

Didn't move.

Just kissed my cheek, my temple, my lips—soft now.

Possessive still.

"You okay?" he murmured, his lips at the nape of my neck.

I gave him a weak little noise that might've been a yes—or maybe just a plea for mercy.

He chuckled. Low. Filthy. Pleased.

"Fucked you stupid, huh?"

I hummed. "So proud of yourself."

He kissed my cheek. My shoulder. That little bruise under my collarbone he'd put there earlier.

"I meant it, y'know," he whispered. "Everything I said."

"I know." My voice was hoarse.

He grinned into my skin.

"I wanna see your belly grow, little by little. Wanna rub it every night before we sleep. Want Ruby askin' why mama's tummy's gettin' big. Want Ian askin' if the baby's gonna be part dragon."

I laughed, soft and breathless.

"Wanna put you in that old shirt again," he murmured. "The one that barely covers your thighs. Watch you waddle around yellin' at the kids for playin' too rough."

"Daryl—"

His voice dropped lower.

"And when the time comes? I'll be right there. Holdin' your hand. Just like I was for Ruby."

I felt tears prick my eyes.Real ones.

Because for all the filthy, feral madness—this?

This was the part that undid me.

"You want all that?" I whispered.

He kissed the side of my neck.

"I want everything, Ella."

He finally—finally—eased out of me, slow and tender, as if pulling free might undo all the magic he just wove.

He grinned.

And then he pulled me into his arms—blankets half-draped, my body still trembling, his lips brushing my temple like I was something precious.

Knock knock knock.

I froze.

Daryl groaned behind me. "Don't answer it."

"Daryl, it's probably Carl."

"Exactly."

I rolled my eyes, yanked the blanket tighter around me, and half-crawled toward the door—legs still shaking, thighs still throbbing.

When I cracked the door open, only my head and one arm visible—

Carl was standing there.

Holding Ruby.

His grin?

Absolutely diabolical.

"Well," he said, eye twinkling behind that mop of hair. "Look who survived."

I stared at him.

Said nothing.

Just extended my arm.

He held Ruby out, eye flicking to the very obvious nothing I was wearing under the blanket.

"Oh no," he said with faux innocence. "Did I interrupt something?"

"You knocked, didn't you?"

"Yeah," he smirked. "Learned to knock after living with my dad and Michonne."

I took Ruby.

Held her tight against my chest.

Tried not to let the heat crawling up my neck burn a hole through the wall.

"I'll beat you with a hairbrush," I warned.

He snorted.

Then he whistled his way down the hall like he hadn't just emotionally nuked my entire sense of dignity.

I shut the door with my forehead.

Behind me, Daryl was already laughing.