And in that moment, with his arms around me, his tears on my skin, and the black diamond heavy on my finger, I realize something simple and terrifying and perfect.
This is real. We’re doing this. We’re getting married.
When we break apart, I push him gently back into the chair and kneel between his legs, my hands going to the waistband of his sweatpants. “Well,” I say, looking up at him as I pull them down to free his cock. “I kneel to one man.”
I pull my shirt off over my head, tossing it aside, and Drogo smiles—a small, devastated smile—as he wraps his fingers in my hair.
I lean forward and take him in my mouth, and his head falls back immediately with a groan. He is already hard—probably has been since the proposal—and I work him slowly at first, taking my time, using my tongue to trace the vein on the underside before swirling around the head.
“Damn,” he breathes, his fingers tightening in my hair. “Babe—”
I take him deeper, as deep as I can manage, and his hips jerk involuntarily. I hollow my cheeks and suck hard, and the sound he makes is absolutely filthy. His other hand comes to join the first in my hair, not pushing or controlling, just holding on like he needs the anchor.
I pull back to lick along his shaft, then take him deep again, setting a rhythm that has him groaning and moaningwith every movement. His breathing gets faster, more ragged, and I can feel him getting closer. I suck harder, move faster, wanting to taste him, wanting to feel him come undone because of me.
“Alena—” he warns, his voice strangled. “I am going to—”
I do not pull away. I take him as deep as I can and suck hard, and he comes with a shout, his whole body shaking as he spills into my mouth. I swallow everything, then keep sucking gently as he rides out the aftershocks, cleaning him thoroughly while he gasps and trembles above me. His come is so much it drips on my chin, but I don’t care. I still suck him gently.
He is still trying to catch his breath when the door suddenly opens, and before I can even process what is happening, I am pressed tightly against Drogo’s bare chest, his arm locked around me protectively. His other hand is pointing a gun at the door.
“Sorry, boss!” I hear a male voice stammer, and Drogo barks something in rapid, furious Russian. I can hear the man practically stumbling over himself to leave, and the door slams shut.
Drogo turns his face to mine, still holding me pressed against him. “My love, I am so sorry.” He reaches for my shirt, but first—because of course—he leans down and sucks my nipple into his mouth for a long moment before pulling the fabric down to cover me.
“This will not happen again,” he promises, and then he stands and walks to the door. I hear more Russian—angry, commanding Russian—and I run upstairs laughing because damn, he is possessive.
When I reach the bedroom, I close the door and lean against it, still laughing. Then I look down at my hand, at theblack diamond glittering on my finger, and the laughter stops.
Shit. I am officially engaged. To a mafia boss. Who just proposed to me in our kitchen while cleaning a gun. Who wants babies. Who has men walking in on us. Who protects me even when I am naked by pressing me against his chest and pulling a weapon.
I stare at the ring for a long moment, turning my hand to watch the black diamond catch the light. It is beautiful. Dark and dangerous and perfect, just like him. Just like us.
And despite everything—the violence, the danger, the absolute insanity of our lives—I cannot stop smiling.
Because I am going to marry him. My Drogo. My monster. My salvation. And maybe, if the universe is feeling particularly generous, we will actually survive long enough to make it to the wedding.
51
DROGO
The morning sun is already bright, cutting sharp lines across the porch and turning the kid’s terrified face into a mask of pale fear. He’s backed hard against the railing, palms raised, eyes darting between my face and the Glock steady in my fist.
“You saw her,” I growl, voice low and vicious. “You saw my woman in her own fucking house. On her knees. Naked from the waist up. Swallowing my come. And you didn’t knock.”
He’s shaking, knees knocking, voice cracking. “Boss—Mr. Solberg—I’m sorry—I didn’t—I just—I’m so sorry—”
“I don’t give a fuck about sorry.” I step closer, the barrel low but ready. He flinches like the gun is already smoking. “This is her house. She is a woman. My woman. You knock. You wait. You do not barge in when she is indecent. You do not look at what belongs to me. Do you understand?”
“Yes—yes, boss—please—I’m sorry—fuck, I swear—”
“Sorry doesn’t wipe the image out of your head.” I tilt my head, let the silence press until tears spill over his lashes. “Next time you open a door to her without knocking, you won’t walk away. You’ll crawl. Bleeding. From places you didn’t know could bleed. Understand?”
He nods frantically, tears streaming now. “Yes—yes, I swear—never again—please—”
“Get the fuck out of my sight.”
He stumbles down the steps, almost tripping twice before he vanishes into the morning light.
