He didn’t recognize the sound at the back of his throat. It was something a dying animal might make. And the tears… They were endless. No matter how quickly he wiped them away, more came. And then? Oh, and then Sonya, his dear, sweet, beautiful Sonya knelt in front of him and put her arms around him.
Her soft lips kissed his wet cheeks as her warmth flowed into him. It was a benediction. A baptism. Her love and forgiveness combined with his tears to wash him clean, and still he couldn’t stop crying.
“Shhh, my love,” she crooned, running her fingers through his hair.
At the endearment, one he hadn’t heard in ten years, he crushed her to him. Held her to his heart. Tried to braid her into his soul.
They both sobbed now. Both clung. Both whispered words of love and regret and absolution.
How was it possible to break apart and be made whole at the same time?
Chapter 39
“Mmm,” Sonya murmured, smiling at the feel of Angel’s lips soothing over the bite mark on her shoulder.
She barely remembered him herding her upstairs to his loft-style bedroom—although she had a vague recollection of the smiles on the faces of his colleagues when the two of them had run past. But one thing she’d never forget was the way he’d made love to her. Fast and frantic at first, then slow and steady until neither of them could hang on and they’d both had to let go.
Her body was a thing of liquid warmth now, sated and soothed. Her heart was a thing of hope and happiness, hot and full. And her mind? Well, that was pretty much mush. A couple soul-shaking orgasms did that to a gal.
Reaching back, she ran a hand over Angel’s hip, feeling the scar that covered what used to be a beautiful birthmark. So many changes. The way he looked. The way he spoke. Even his name. And yet…beneath it all, he was still the man she loved.
It had taken her a while to reconcile the choice he’d made ten years ago. But working with Zhao Longwei to bring down Grafton, knowing she had done something to make the world a better place, a safer place, had helped her understand Angel. It took courage to answer the call of duty. Courage to give up your hopes and dreams for the greater good.
Was there a small piece of her that wished things could have been different? Of course there was. There always would be. But love was about sacrifice and compromise. It was about generosity and forgiveness. And the truth was, she respected him for all he’d suffered, all he’d forfeited. He’d been utterly selfless—and who wouldn’t love a man like that?
Plus, he looked hot on a motorcycle.
She thought back to the bike, its white fuel tank painted with pearlescent angel’s wings. Where most motorcycles were chromed out, Angel’s bike was fitted with shiny gold gadgets. She didn’t know much about choppers, but she knew the front forks had been stretched, knew the fawn-colored leather seat had been hand-tooled. It was more a work of rolling art than any true mode of transportation. Like the man who rode it, it was almost too pretty to look at.
“I like your motorcycle,” she said lazily as the setting sun sent shafts of warm light in through the leaded-glass window. It bathed them in its golden glow, dappling their skin with moving masses of shadow and light.
“Divinity,” he said from behind her, softly tracing the heart-shaped mole above her right butt cheek. He’d always had an affinity for the thing. “All Becky’s bikes have names.”
“I like Becky. She seems like the kind of woman who’s allergic to drama.”
“Hit the nail on the head there.”
Since he’d brought up Becky…and, by association, the rest of the Black Knights, she asked, “So what are your plans now that BKI is simply a chopper shop and not a cover for clandestine activities? Will you stay on?” She tried to make the question sound casual, but her breath strangled in her lungs as she waited on his answer. They’d waited ten years to be together, and if choosing him meant choosing his life in Chicago, she’d do it. But it would be hard. She loved her job at Interpol.
He pushed up on one elbow, a dark curl falling over his brow.
Oh, how she loved his hair. When he’d pulled off his helmet and she’d seen his dark, curly locks, she’d wanted to run over to him and feather her fingers through them. His hair and the pie wedge of warm chocolate brown in his otherwise coffee-colored eyes were little pieces of proof that the man forevermore known as Angel was also Mark Risa. She cherished those pieces.
“I guess that all depends on you,” he said.
She couldn’t help the smile that pulled at her lips. “That’s a good answer.”
“I want to spend the rest of my life with you.” His expression was serious now. “I want to marry you and have little girls with bright firefly laughs and their mother’s weakness for pink, sparkly fingernail polish.”
To prove his point, he lifted her hand and kissed each of her fingertips. Since pink, sparkly fingernail polish didn’t match the persona of a woman mourning a jewel-thief lover and pressed into the service of a crime boss, she’d gone the au-naturel route while working for Grafton. But the instant she’d been back inside her Paris apartment, she’d donned her signature color.
Her voice was breathless when she said, “You want to marry me?”
“Undoubtedly.” He smiled that devastating smile. “For, oh, about ten years now.”
“And what if we have little boys instead of little girls? Ever think of that?”
