She groans, her arms soaring out in defeat. “Then I become a desperate woman, obsessing over my timeline and the shortcomings of every prospect, because I also don’t want to settle, which will ultimately lead to analysis paralysis, causing a mental breakdown and eventually a barely there mind. Before I know it, I’ll be in a nursing home, shouting about howI had a long road of dull lovers who were a distant second to a cat. Don’t think I haven’t thought about that.”
I suppress the chuckle bubbling in my throat from that absurd scenario. “Fucking dire. Forget the nursing home. The real travesty is all the sex without ball gags.”
“Shit, that is depressing.” She smirks—a coy tilt to her plump lips. “No need to rub it in on my birthday.”
“Fine, but based on that bite of yours, a gag is such an obvious choice for you, Viper.”
Her head slants to the side, and all her features scrunch as she plays with the cocktail napkins. “You’re going to have to stop calling me that.”
A beastly possessiveness throttles me, and my blood boils so hot that I find myself growling, “The fuck I will.”
Unaffected by my outburst, she forges ahead. “I’ll never meet anyone if they think I’m too intimate with one of the Noire kings. You’re an intimidating cockblock, even without the term of endearment.”
She phrases that as a negative, but it is instantly my new life goal. I don’t know what the hell that means, but allowing Mercy to do any of those things with someone else is never going to happen.
So, I do what I do best—negotiate. “If you want me to stop using the nickname, we’ll need to make a deal.”
Her hand swings out as though I were an exhibition to showcase. “Says the devil.”
“Says the girl who chose to spend her birthday—and most special occasions—with said devil. That’s worse. I am what I am.” My skills are flawless because that backward argument has her chewing her lip, so I press, “Are you in?”
“I think I might miss the nickname.” Her shoulders droop. “But I’m intrigued. Lay it on me.”
“If you aren’t married at thirty-five, we should tie the knot.”
She slaps the bar, more enthusiastic than I anticipated. “You know that saying originated because the couple’s hands were tied together with a cord in a handfasting ceremony, so if we did that, we’d also be working in my proclivity for restraints.”
It figures that an idiom she’s familiar with would be one in which she’s also proficient in its roots. I’m unsurprised by her enthusiasm about a random fact and too enamored by this discussion to tease her about why she knows that tidbit. Her weird homeschooling education is usually the culprit. The home—and resort—education that my siblings are now getting is far more unorthodox, but that’s beside the point.
Regardless, I fuel her vision. “Efficient. Why stop there? We could go a step further and get you a diamond collar.”
“So much better than a veil, which is so archaic.” She snorts, which is her drank-too-much, end-of-the-night tell. “I’ve had just enough champagne to think this is brilliant. How drunk are you?”
“Not drunk enough to forget this.”
“Just in case”—she taps an invisible light bulb in the air before hopping off her stool, scurrying behind the bar, and grabbing a Sharpie and a cocktail napkin—“we should write it down.”
“Let’s do that,” I encourage. “Then it will be binding.”
She cackles as she resumes her seat. “Yep. Don’t get too crafty and slip in the ball gag. I wouldn’t be able to say my vows.”
“Good point.” I take a hefty swig of my warm cocktail and snatch the marker and napkin from her. “We can save that for afterward.”
Her brown eyes widen with excitement. “Yes, sir.”
Jesus.
Diving in, I abandon all caution and write out a simple agreement that fits on the small square.
Mercy Phillips hereby agrees that if she is not wed by her thirty-fifth birthday, she will marry Ryker Noire in a handfasting ceremony on that day.
She clucks her tongue, her good sense clawing through her French 75 haze. “Marrying someone who operates a safe house for criminals would probably tank my career, so I’m not sure this delivers the whole package.”
“Orr,” I argue because I’ve lost my goddamn mind, “you’d have an endless supply of clients who required your services.”
She’s intoxicated just enough to see the wisdom in that, but still, she hesitates. “I’m pretty sure you’re against the whole institution of marriage. But if you’ve changed your mind, you’re a year and a half older than me. Why wouldn’t you be hitched by then?”
“You’re right. I’d never get married”—I pause long enough for her brows to knit together—“to anyone but you, obviously.”
