“She’s mine,” I tell him. It’s a warning. A promise. A threat.
“I know, man.”
He can touch her, today, but that’s it.
Her head tilts at the sound of my voice, though I’m not sure she can actually hear me from the clearing. She doesn’t have to, though, not with the connection we’ve got. She could say my name from a mile away and I swear, I’d break into a sweat.
I don’t look at Blade when I start moving again, and I don’t wait to make sure he’s beside me. He either is or he isn’t. Doesn’t matter.
“Mine,” I growl as we stalk my sweet little wife, giving her exactly what she wants. “She’s mine.”
All that matters is Twyla. Now, forever, always.
2
Five days earlier…
Zion
“You…” Twyla’s mouth works while she searches for an adequate word. “Are an asshole.”
I can’t say it’s not deserved. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“That’s it? That’s all?” She stops shoving her stuff into her bag and turns to me, all out of breath and pissed off, brown eyes glowing, cheeks flushed. She’s beautiful, even angry. Especially angry.
“Not much to say, Twyla. I fucked up.” I manage to sound calm and collected, despite how shitty this feels.
“Do you know how many days it’s been since we got married?” She lifts one plump hand in the air and wiggles her ring finger, as if I’ve somehow forgotten that wejusttied the knot. With difficulty, she yanks my rings off and drops them on the table, where they spin before settling. “Twelve days. That’s how long it’s been since we entered into this ridiculousfiascoof a marriage. Less than two…freakingweeks. Must be some kind of record, right?”
Right. Definitely. And it’s entirely my fault. I wish—
Her purse starts vibrating for what’s got to be the thousandth time today. She stares at it like she wants to punt the damn thing over to the next county. Instead, she drops her head into her hands, closes her eyes, and breathes in, long and slow and deep. “Right.” When she looks back up at me, all that fiery emotion’s just…gone. Snuffed out like a flame. Her eyes have gone flat, her lips tight.
I don’t like this bland version. At all.
Her voice perfectly modulated now, she says, “I’ll talk to my team about starting the divorce proceedi—”
The front gate bell goes off again. It’s a low, classy chime, chosen by whatever fancy-ass decorator did this place up. I want to grab a hammer and smash the damn thing.
“You going to get that?” Twyla asks, her face still perfectly composed, aside from a slight flaring at her nostrils.
“No,” I say. “Security people’ll call when they’re close. That ain’t them.”
“Wherearethey, dammit?”
“Stuck in beltway traffic.”
The blip of a cop siren out front makes Twyla jump. We both turn to look at the living room windows, where blue and red flashing light seeps in around the heavy curtains. I don’t have to head over there to know that it’s a complete shitshow outside the tall front wall. There’s screaming and chanting and drums and some asshole playing what sounds like the soundtrack to one of my first movies. Probably on a boombox held over their head.
All it took was one goddamn mistake—one leaked video—and we’ve got what sounds like half the DC population out there either praying for my godless soul or begging for a chance to jump my bones. And, while I’m all for a little action, random, over-the-top fans are not my preferred play partners.
“Come on,” I say to Twyla, who’s now standing still in the middle of the room. “Let’s get outta here.”
“Out? And how do you propose we do that?” I follow her into the cold, white-marbled, chef’s dream of a kitchen, where she throws open the family-sized fridge and pulls out a bottle of water. “Are you going to strut out and distract them with your…” Her eyes flick down to my crotch, widen, and return to my face, as if she really didn’t mean to do that. “Um, stellar personality?” she finishes, her cheekbones flushing a darker pink.
It brings up images I really shouldn’t be picturing—tender, hot, red-stained flesh, jiggling from the smack of my hand. Or a paddle. How would a paddle sound against that ample, soft, dimpled—
“Ziooooooooon!” someone screams, so damn loud they’ve got to be using a megaphone and then, to really dig into my wife’s embarrassment, they go on, joined by what sounds like a horde of people, chanting, “Be my daddy! Breed me! Breed me! Breed me!”
