Her pupils dilate.
"Put it on," she whispers.
I tighten the small screws, locking the gold around her wrist.
"You can't take it off," I tell her, my voice dropping to a rough growl. "You shower in it. You sleep in it. When you look at your wrist, you remember who owns your soul."
"You do," she breathes.
"I do. And you own mine."
I pocket the screwdriver.
"Thank you," she says, lifting her wrist to admire the gold glinting in the lights from the Christmas tree. "It’s perfect."
"Like you."
I stand up, lifting her effortlessly into my arms. Her legs wrap around my waist, the shirt riding up to expose everything I’ve been craving since before breakfast.
"Time to make good on my promise," I announce.
She laughs, a breathless, happy sound that chases away the last of the shadows in the house.
"Merry Christmas, Gabriel."
"Merry Christmas, little bird."
We leave the fire burning downstairs. We leave the news of dead rivals and ruined reputations on the coffee table.
Upstairs, the snow falls harder, burying the world in white.
I lay her on the bed, crawling over her, settling between her thighs where I belong. She reaches for me, the gold bracelet flashing against my skin as her arms wrap around my neck.
I spent my life fighting. I fought poverty. I fought for respect. I fought for control. I fought to make something of myself.
I thought success was the money. I thought it was the fear in other men’s eyes when they look at me.
I was wrong.
Thisis success.
The feel of her under me. The heat of her skin radiating into mine. The reality of a house that is finally, truly a home.
I sink into her, listening to the wind howl outside the walls of my stronghold.
Let it snow. Let them talk. Let the world collapse around us.
I have everything I need right here.
Two years later…
My son has the face of an angel and the destructive instincts of a tactical nuke.
"Rowan!"
My seven-month-pregnant body protests the sudden movement as I waddle toward the corner of the living room. "Drop it. Do not eat the shiny ball."
My son, eighteen months old and already possessing a glare that could level a boardroom, stares me dead in the eye. A shatterproof Christmas ornament is clutched in his chubby fist.
