She groans, in playful frustration, as I pull away with a smirk.
“You’re terrible,” she accuses, but there’s no heat in it.
“I’m patient,” I counter, watching her try not to smile.
She leans into me once more, soft and warm, pressing a kiss to my cheek. “You’ll thank me when the rolls are perfect.”
“I already have everything I need,” I murmur into her hair.
She laughs, nudging me toward the sink with her soft, flour-dusted hands, then busies herself with wiping down the counters. I wait until her back is turned, then glance toward the sink.
There it is.
Her ring, flour-smudged and glinting faintly beneath the light. A casualty of her baking chaos.
She deserves more than an arrangement. More than duty.
She deserves to be chosen, every day, in every way.
And sheis.
But this year, I’m going to make damn sure she knows it.
Last year just before the holidays she was almost lost.
The memory flashes sharp, unwelcome. I could’ve found that ring in a pool of her blood.
Could have lostmy everythingin a heartbeat.
She turns around, smiling, and I kiss her one last time, quick, before she can see too much on my face.
“Be right back,” I mutter.
“Where are you going?”
“Just something I need to take care of.”
She hums in response, already distracted by her messy countertop.
I take one last look at her, radiant, humming again under her breath.
My wife.
My light.
My reason.
But I’m still a man at war.
And there’s business to handle before Christmas.
Chapter 2
Evasive Measures
The light annoys me, but what annoys me more is an empty bed.
His spot is cool to the touch.
