I look at her again—this woman who believes in rules and justice and a world that plays fair—and wonder how long it will take before she realizes she’s already stepped into my shadows. Before she understands that loving me means danger, whether she wants it or not.
And still, knowing all of that, I want her, wouldn’t change the past if I were to meet her anew.
I want her standing in my space, challenging me, refusing to bow. I want the fire, the conflict, and the impossible pull between us. I want the woman who makes me fear loss more than death.
If she walks away, I will follow.
But if she stays?
God help anyone who tries to take her from me. “You’re mine. I love you.” The words spill from me before I can pull them back. I let her know everything tonight. I’ll either live or die by my sword.
TWENTY
DALLEN
I don’t speakfor several seconds after Stephen says the three words I’m not expecting.
He loves me.
Holy shit.
The words don’t echo so much as they detonate, scattering everything I think I understand about us, about him, about myself.
I’m in love with you.
They sit between us, heavy and exposed, impossible to take back, impossible to ignore. My chest tightens, not with panic exactly, but with something far more dangerous—want. Not simply for his body, not just for the heat and the way he looks at me like I’m the only thing mooring him to the world, but for the certainty in his voice. The way he says it is like it’s already decided, like loving me is a fact rather than a choice. Or perhaps it’s both.
And that terrifies me.
I drag in a breath that feels too shallow, my pulse loud in my ears, my heart tripping over itself as I try to make sense of the man in front of me. This is the same Stephen who just calmlyadmitted his family has killed to protect their own. The same Stephen whose brother murdered a man and walked free. The same Stephen who says he’d do it again if someone threatens the people he loves. And now he’s telling me he loves me, like it’s a gift instead of a loaded weapon.
“I don’t…” My voice cracks, and I stop, pressing my lips together as I try again. “Stephen, I don’t know what to do with that.” And I don’t. I’m not sure of anything right now. My mind is a kaleidoscope of thoughts, swirling into one giant mess.
He doesn’t move. He doesn’t reach for me. He watches, eyes dark and intent, like he’s bracing for impact. That restraint makes it worse. If he touched me right now, I might fold. Might let the fear dissolve into something simpler, something physical. But he doesn’t, and I’m left standing in the wreckage of my own thoughts.
But love?
That admission isn’t supposed to feel like this. It’s supposed to be safe. Familiar. Predictable. Love is supposed to look like my parents—rules and structure and knowing exactly where you stand. It’s not supposed to come wrapped in violence and secrets and men who talk abouteliminating problemslike it’s a business strategy. And yet, when I look at Stephen, all I can think about is how alive I feel around him, how he sees me, how he doesn’t want to soften me or shield me from myself. How he wants me fierce and defiant and standing in his space as if I belong there.
“I don’t know if what I feel is love,” I admit finally, the truth scraping its way out of me. “I know I want you. I know I don’t want to stop seeing you, no matter how everyone around me is telling me to run. But love?” I shake my head slowly. “That feels…too big. Too soon.”
Something flickers across his face—disappointment, maybe, or pain—but he doesn’t interrupt. He lets me speak, lets me findmy footing, and that alone tells me he’s comfortable with his admission, no matter how uncomfortable it makes me.
“I’ve spent my whole life believing in law and order.” I start pacing again because standing still feels impossible. I need to move, to work through everything that’s being said. “In rules. In consequences. In the idea that no one gets to decide who lives or dies just because they think they’re justified. And now you’re asking me to reconcile that with the fact that the man I’m sleeping with—” I swallow hard. “—the man I care about, stands outside of all of that at times, and I need to disregard it. That his family defends themselves to the death, not figuratively, but literally.”
“I’m not asking you to approve of it or be involved in anything that may happen without your knowledge,” he says quietly. “But I do need you to know who you’re sleeping next to and what baggage I bring.”
“How am I supposed to live with this information and not respond?” I shoot back, facing him. “It’s not a small thing to ingest. Your life choices and those of your family are not something I can ignore because the sex is good or because you make me feel something I haven’t felt before. Not with anyone…”
He nods, a muscle working on his temple. “I know.”
His honesty undoes me more than anyone else’s. He’s not trying to charm me or talk his way out of it. He’s standing in the truth of who he is and letting me decide whether I can survive loving him. And the awful, inconvenient truth is that I don’t want to walk away. Every rational part of me says I should. My father’s voice echoes in my head, warning me about men like him, about the cost of standing too close to power and violence. Two traits that should never coexist, while another voice—quieter, more insistent—keeps asking me how I’m supposed to give up something that feels this real.
“I’m scared,” I admit. “Not just of your family or the Romeros or what any of this could do to my career. I’m scared of how much I want you. Of how easy it would be to let you pull me into your world and damn everything that’s come before.”
Stephen finally moves, just a step closer, careful, like he’s approaching a wild thing. “I don’t want to own you,” he says, and I almost laugh at the irony given everything he’s said and done during our time together. Of course, he wants to own me. He wants me for himself, and I’m pretty sure he’d steal me away from everything I’ve ever known if he could.
“I want you to choose me. Even if that choice scares you.”
