I leave in the morning.
Heathrow. New York. My father.
The thought crashed through the moment like ice water. I had—what? Six hours? Seven? Before I had to walk out thatdoor and disappear, leaving her here thinking I'd chosen to leave after this.
She'd never forgive me.
I had to tell her. Right now. Give her something so she'd understand why I wasn't here when she woke up.
But what the hell do I say?
Hey, baby, by the way, my mafia father threatened to kill everyone I love, so I'm flying to New York tomorrow to meet him. Don't worry, I'll be back. Probably.
No. Hell no.
Telling her about the Bratva, about the threats, about her address in his mouth—that would terrify her. Put her in more danger. She'd panic, try to help, get herself killed in the process. I couldn't risk it.
But I had to give her something.
A work trip. Emergency project. Last-minute client meeting in New York. She'd believe that—I'd done it before, taken red-eyes for demanding clients.
It was a lie. But it was a lie that kept her safe.
And I'd come back. I'd handle my father, neutralize the threat, and come back to her. Days, not weeks. I'd make sure of it.
Because now she was mine, and I'd burn the world down before I let anything—including my psychotic dying father—take her from me.
"Bed?" she said softly, pulling me from my spiral.
The word hit me with unexpected force. All the nights we'd done this, and now everything had changed. But I held steady, kept my voice calm.
"Bed," I agreed.
She moved first, adjusting her body on mine—head on my chest, leg between mine, hand over the tattoo of her name. Ilet her, watching her, memorizing the way she moved, the curve of her spine, the faint marks I'd left on her hips. And the not so faint on her ass. Christ, how hard did I hit her? And damn. She took it well. I pushed back her hair, and I looked at her face. She smiled at me. Nothing will ever be more beautiful than this. Than her. Smiling.
Home.
I wrapped my arms around her, crushing her closer. One hand in her hair, the other spanning her lower back.
"Drogo?" she whispered into the dark.
"Yeah, baby?"
A pause. Then, quietly: "This feels different."
"It is different," I said, meaning it. My hand tightened on her back. "But better different."
She smiled and my heart returned to its place. Jesus, I loved her smile more than oxygen. I loved her more than anything.
"Yes, better," she said.
But the time was pressing. I had to tell her I was leaving in the morning.
I took a breath.
"I have to leave tomorrow morning. Early." The words came out rough but steady—or I tried to make them steady. My voice caught slightly on the next part. "Emergency work trip. Client meeting in New York. Came up last minute. I'll be gone a few days."
The lie tasted like ash, but I forced it out as calm and certain as I could manage.
