Elegant. Untouchable. Mine.
She wears some silky confection in shades of browns and golds, and I like the way it looks against her smooth, soft skin.
I frowned at first when she walked out of our room. Told her it was too sheer. Showed too much.
She laughed out loud and said I was being possessive.
She’s right.
But I don’t give a fuck.
Still, she looks like a goddamn queen, and she’s on my arm, so I suppose I can afford to relent.
Besides tonight, I need them to see everything—her body, her beauty, her confidence—and the fact that I’m out of my mind for her. I need them to see it. To believe it. And to understand that none of her is for them.
Only me. Mine.
I keep my arm around her waist, not loose but claiming.
My ring flashes on her finger every time she lifts her champagne flute. It’s old. Antique. A family heirloom, though I’m not sure she knows it.
Her smile is gracious but reserved.
Just enough charm to keep this civil.
Just enough distance to keep me from snapping necks.
She knows the game.
And she’s playing it like a pro.
“You’re certain this is him?” she murmurs without moving her lips as a thin, silver-haired man steps into the terrace’s edge, flanked by two guards.
“Not the warlord,” I murmur back. “But he speaks for him. Calls himself Shun Li.”
He’s older than I expected, with a patrician nose and a cane tipped in black jade.
But the men around him—young, coiled, armed under their jackets—aren’t here for decoration.
I nod once to my second, who stands by the entrance, and we walk forward to meet him.
“Prince Stavros,” the man says in perfect English. “We’ve heard much about you.”
“I hope some of it’s true,” I answer coolly, extending my hand.
His grip is dry. Measured.
His eyes flick to Cecilia.
“And this?”
“My wife,” I say, flat and final.
His brows lift, and something cold flickers behind his eyes.
“Ah! Congratulations.”
“Thank you, Mr. Li,” Cecilia smiles, making no move to touch the older man.
