I’m dying. Whatever virus is inside me is taking more and more place in my cells. Even if we expose the EFW to the world, I’m honestly not sure that will mean I’m saved. And by him doing what he just did… he condemned himself to the life of a widower, a man who’ll get married just to lose his wife in such a tragic way. I don’t expect him to understand—he always acts as if I’m everything to him. But he’s everything to me, too, and I can’t let him live the rest of his life in pain.
His naked body overpowers mine, muscular and slick with the hot water streaming down on us. I stare at the ring, at my hand pressed to his tan skin, my heart growing at seeing it wrapped around my flesh. It has a halo made of diamonds, and I smile to myself, understanding why he picked this design for me.
I was never the girl dreaming of grand proposals. I never wanted flashy things or public declarations of love. But this man… just… took me. He saw me there, and he took me like he already owned me. It was so simple. So natural. And heisright—I belong to him already, and every atom in my body knows it.
The water stops, and Rowan extends his body to the side, retrieving a towel. He wraps it around me, bringing the sides to my hair, and pats it to get rid of the excess water. I stare into hiseyes as he does it—they’re focused on the task and not concerned about my lack of words in the slightest. When he’s done, he wraps another towel around his waist and lifts me up into his arms like I weigh nothing.
I breathe hard, my lungs straining from the illness as I say, “Hey, I think we should talk—”
A soft kiss lands on my forehead. “We can talk about it over dinner. You need to eat.”
I nod, noticing how empty my stomach actually feels. I haven’t been able to keep down food since I got back—only bits and pieces, like yogurt and toast. Everything else has pretty much gone down the drain, and I’ve tried my best to keep it from Rowan. What’s the point in worrying him when there’s nothing more we can do about it, anyway? But some days are better than others, and today I feel like I could maybe eat if I chewed really slowly.
A few minutes later, we’re in one of the guest bedrooms downstairs, where a beautiful red dress is waiting for me. I give him an inquisitive look as he lowers me to the bed. But save for caressing my hair and picking it up himself, he doesn’t clarify any further.
“Arms up.”
I comply, and the thin material drapes over my body as I let go of my towel. “Are we going somewhere?”
“Depends,” he says. “How are you feeling?”
“I’ve been better.” I smile. He doesn’t.
“Then we’re not going anywhere. I’ll cancel our reservation.”
My head lowers, and a stinging pain blossoms in my chest, spreading through my body like ice. I wish we could go. I wish we could continue doing what happened earlier on the porch. I wish I wasn’t in this state, and he didn’t have to coddle me, and…
His index finger lifts my chin, forcing me to look at him. “I didn’t say I’ll cancel everything. My wife deserves a night she won’t forget, and I’m about to give her the first of many.”
Hiswife. We’re not even married yet, and he calls me that. My heart flutters at the word and begs me to accept it. And I want to,fuck, I really do, but what will happen to me—tous—if we don’t find the cure? How can he be so sure we will?
He helps me get me ready, drying my hair and bringing me my makeup bag from upstairs when I ask for it. And when he comes back into the room, he’s wearing a black suit with no tie that molds to his body, accentuating his muscles and his powerful stance. His hair is still damp, draping slightly over his eyes, and my skin prickles with goosebumps at how handsome he is—chiseled, and fresh, and oozing with pure sin.
He comes in front of me, kneeling down to help me get a pair of black heels on, which I’m pretty sure I won’t be able to walk in. They fit me perfectly, and so does the dress. He really pays attention to everything, and right now that worries me.
When he’s done, we both stare at the image of us in the oval mirror facing the bed. Him kneeling, and me sitting on the bed above him, with my hand on his shoulder and the enormous diamond on my finger. I stare and stare and trace the lines of us with my mind’s eye, never wanting to forget the way we look together—that he’s mine.
“Come on,” he says, taking my other hand in his and pressing his lips to my skin.
I get up on wobbly legs and he snakes his arms around me again, lifting me up. Then, relaxing into his wall of muscle, my head dips back against his shoulder and I close my eyes, letting him take me wherever he wants. I don’t open them again until I hear the crackling of a fire and feel the hot, smoky air brush against my skin.
The back garden is alive with muted lights placed around a table with two chairs. A small pillow cushions one of them. Flickering candlelight bathes the table in a warm glow, where the silverware and glasses lie meticulously arranged. Black napkins folded into an elegant design and restaurant menus lie on top of the plates. Right to the side of this arrangement, a fire burns in a metallic bowl, its flames crackling and throwing off sparks against the night sky. And there are flowers everywhere. Vases of different sizes filled with roses, lilies, and dahlias in hues of early fall.
So beautiful.
Approaching the table, Rowan lowers me into my seat. The softness of the cushion soothes me, my body instantly releasing some of the tension it’s been holding onto. Butterflies spring to life in my stomach, palms becoming sweaty as Rowan places his suit jacket on my shoulders. I’m not cold, not with the fire so close by, but he does it anyway, and I relish in his scent enveloping me. Then he stoops and finds my lips with his, pressing a long, charged kiss into them that takes my breath away.
“The chef from the restaurant I was going to take you to agreed to serve us here tonight. Thought we might end up staying in, so I arranged for him to come here earlier.”
“Oh. W-Who is he? And when did you do all of this? I heard nothing. All day, I was—”
“Working.” He dips his jaw as he takes his seat across the table. “His name is Marco Bellini. I discovered him years ago at a government party, when he was just starting. His signature arancini are just… ridiculous.” He laughs. My eyes widen at the sound of it: warm, low, and beautiful, and unlike any other laugh I’ve ever heard. It makes me lean forward in my seat, chasing more of it. He continues, “Super crisp on the outside, creamy on the inside, with just the right hint of truffle. I could eat ahundred of them and still want more. Marco makes them better than anyone.”
I narrow my eyes. “And you got him here… on a busy Friday night.”
“I will get him hereeverynight if you tell me you like his food.” He takes his menu off the table, extending his hand, a silent invitation to have my pick. But I don’t follow suit. Not yet.
I gather my strength and do another sweep of the setting with my eyes. It’s beautiful and perfect, and I want nothing more than to just accept the ring on my finger without a fight. Because he’s right. We belong together, and marrying him would be a wish come true. But the circumstances… the urgency surrounding them… I know what he’s doing. And I won’t let him throw his life away for me.
