His eyes darken, pupils blowing wide to swallow the gray. "I like helping."
"I know you do."
He gives me a dirty smirk and rolling my eyes is the only defense I have, but the tingles between my legs betray me.
"Come here," he commands.
The mattress dips as I scoot to the edge. He pushes the duvet back, scanning my body with a clinical, possessive intensity. His fingers ghost over the skin of my ribs without pressing down, inspecting the damage that’s left.
"They're fading," he decides. "Good. By Christmas, you’ll be back to perfect."
"And if I'm not?" I challenge, tilting my chin to look at him.
"Then you’ll be beautiful and bruised, and everyone will know you’re a survivor," he says, his thumb tracing the line of my hip bone. "But you’ll be standing next to me. That’s all that matters."
He stands, checking the silver Rolex on his wrist. The protective husband recedes just enough for the shark to come forward.
"I have to go into the office," he says. "Finalizing the details for the gala."
"The execution, you mean."
"I do." He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a sleek, heavy card. He drops it onto the nightstand where it lands with a metallic clink.
I stare at it. A black Centurion card.
"What is this?"
"You need a dress," he says. "And shoes. And jewelry. And whatever else you want."
The metal feels cold against my skin as I lift it. A weapon in credit card form.
"Gabriel, I can't?—"
"You can." He cuts me off without hesitation, his voice dropping to that low register that vibrates straight down my spine. "You're my wife. You represent me now. I want you to walk into that ballroom on Christmas Eve and make every single person in that room choke on their envy. Especially Ryder."
He leans down, bracing his hands on the mattress on either side of me, trapping me in his orbit.
"I want him to see exactly what he threw away. I want him to see that while he was playing with toys, I was crowning a queen. Do you understand?"
Gray eyes burn into mine. He’s not asking me to be pretty. He’s asking me to be the spoils of war.
My fingers tighten around the card. I should probably be offended that he’s weaponizing my looks, but honestly? I’m kind of into it.
"I understand."
"Good." He kisses me, hard and fast, a claiming brand on my mouth. "Harper's coming to get you at ten. I cleared her through the gate."
"You called Harper?"
"I figured you’d want backup.”
He straightens, adjusting his cuffs.
"Don't wait up," he says, turning toward the door. "I’m going to be late tonight. I have to make sure the grave is deep enough that neither one of them will ever be able to crawl out."
"So,"Harper says, eyes fixed on the winding driveway of the estate as she navigates her Mini Cooper. "Let me get this straight. You're married. You're pregnant. And you're living in a fortress with one of the richest, scariest men in the Pacific Northwest."
"Yes." Trees blur past the window.
