“That is their first dance song,” Clay advises.
I. Melt.
All around me, the same air of warning and adoration rolls between couples. At the bar, Bronson is now clinging to Shoshanna, speaking only to her—inside jokes, years of understanding, a language that is all their own. When she laughs, his grin is so sudden it borders on scary. And behind them, in a dark corner, Xander and Kaya sway in a slow embrace, nose tonose, eyes locked as they giggle secrets I probably don’t want to know.
Then, a man steps on Kaya’s gown.
Oh, crap.
Clay sighs hard. “This might be interesting.”
Fury flashes across Xander’s face. He thrusts his hand out, closing it around the man’s collar. Suddenly, Bronson materializes at his side—fuck—I bounce my gaze between the empty spot by Shoshanna, and Bronson, wondering how he moved so fast. A friendly clap on the man’s back, followed by a tight grip. Xander releases his hold to pull Kaya closer as they continue to dance alone while Bronson steers the man away from the floor.
“Woah.” My brows hit my hairline, surprised. “Xander has a temper.”
“Indeed.”
The men and women of theCosa Nostrablend love and violence, possessiveness, and respect. It’s like a dance they know the steps to. I wonder if Clay and I have a version of this dance? “The men and women don’t notice my gaze,” I say. “But when you look at them, I can almost see their hackles rise, Sir. Your attention is dangerous.”
He simply smiles, smooth and easy, his silence far more authoritarian than another man’s roars.
I’ll be your pretty little observer, Sir.
I can do that for him. Go unnoticed. I have been around snakes my entire life, seen more fake smiles and practised smirks, been fooled, been betrayed. I feel I’ve been training for this since I came out of the womb. To catch the subtleties they hide from him. My Don is infallible, but heishuman—I think.
For the most part.
Not the part between his legs.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
fawn
I thinkwe’re staying at The Main, but after we leave the reception, Que drives us to Clay’s private plane. I immediately freak out, needing my babies, but they’re already on board, in a separate cabin with Jasmine and Grace.
We fly through the night, cabin lights glowing to match my mood—somewhere between elation and a strange, quiet melancholy for the girl I once was.
With her ratty long hair.
Her incessant self-doubt.
Over the past few months, I’ve been dreading the shift from little deer to Mrs Butcher. That maybe when I became his wife—such an unspectacular, ordinary word for what I am to him—I might feel different. He might act different. I might not need his cock in my mouth to feel tethered when the world grows too loud, too empty, too confusing.
And yet here I am…
Head in his lap throughout the flight, drifting between consciousness and dreams of a past I can't change and nolonger want to. Because it made me what I am and brought me to him—I'd endure it all if it ended this exact same way. With his fingers tracing patterns in my hair like he is writing promises along my scalp, while I hold him in my mouth, not for pleasure but for proof of who I am to him.
Where I belong.
We land in Paris as a pale sun struggles through cloud cover, just after midday, where HJ and fourCosa Nostrahenchmen wait to greet us and escort us to the hotel.
And woah…His Parisian penthouse stands opposite the Eiffel Tower, its lights gleaming through floor-to-ceiling rain-streaked windows. The suite is old-world luxury, dainty and pretty, all pastel colours and white wooden trimmings.
I gaze out the vast window, planning to climb that glowing tower, to feast on eight-course banquets, to take a cooking class from a Michelin-star French chef.
Seven days in France.
Then on to Dubai.
