Noelle freezes. Her fingers slowly lift to her mouth, pressed to her lips as she speaks around them. “That’s not from me.”
I pluck the engagement ring from its bed. “Depends on how you look at it. This represents the one thing I wanted most of all this Christmas.”
Then, before she can stop me, I take her hand from her mouth. She doesn’t resist as I separate one from the rest, giving me just enough room to slide the ring onto that all-important fourth finger.
“Patrick…”
“I told you. When we made our deal. I wanted five things from you. Your lips.” I brush my forefinger over her lush bottom lip. “Your mouth.” I swipe it to the corner of her mouth, dipping it inside, smiling when she licks the tip of it. “Your body.” My hand traces the edge of her jaw next before dropping to caress her left tit. “Your obedience," I add in a husky voice as we both remember what she let me do when she was tiedup with Christmas lights. “But that was only four. Now you know the fifth one.”
“Last night… right before I climbed on top of you and fucked you, I thought it was my surrender.”
Yes. Obviously. Only not just for one night, sweetheart—and know she knows that. “My prices are a little higher than that.”
She gulps, but she doesn’t remove the ring. “Me?”
Always, though that’s too obvious. “No, Starling.Forever.”
She turns her hand slowly, watching in a daze as the diamond catches the glow of the Christmas lights.
“I didn’t write that on my list,” she says quietly.
“No,” I agree. “You didn’t.”
She looks up at me, searching. “Then why?”
“Because, Noelle, it was onmine.”
EPILOGUE
NOELLE
A YEAR LATER
Acrowded coffeehouse in Springfield might not be as intimate as a mountaintop chalet on a mid-December afternoon, but when I’m with my husband, it’s easy to pretend that no one but the two of us exists. I drown out the rest of the world, my chin in my palm, watching Patrick as he watches everyone else.
He sits across from me, his favored peppermint tea untouched for now, his attention moving the way it always does. On windows and their reflections and the snow drifting by outside, on exits, on people, and especially on the guy in his late twenties near thecounter who had made the mistake of checking me out before he noticed the older man who is never too far from me when we’re together. I’ve learned that Patrick North never pretends the world isn’t exactly what it is: really damn dangerous. It doesn’t matter thatheis probably the most dangerous man in this room. I’m his Starling, and he’ll gun down anyone before they ever have the chance to try and clip my wings.
Once upon a time, that constant, unnerving vigilance frightened me. Now, it feels like shelter. Like safety.
Likehome.
Even better, there’s no longer any handcuffs or fake police badges required.
Smiling to myself, I curl the fingers of my left hand around my coffee, enjoying the way the ring catches one of the overhead lights as I move. It’s been on that all-important finger for almost a year now. It used to be heavy, but I stopped thinking of it as a weight on me somewhere along the way, right around the time I realized I slept better knowing someone else was watching over me as I did.
I never removed it. Almost as though I knew it belonged there… even when I fooled myself into thinking I might be able to leave Patrick behind… I kept that ring on. It was my way to clearhisChristmas wish list, and since last December, I’ve gone frombeing attracted yet terrified to being scared about just how much I fucking love this crazy, dangerous man.
After doing another survey of the bougie café, his eyes find mine. They soften in a way that they don’t for anyone else, and I want to kick my feet and giggle every time that happens. It’s a reminder that this brutal and ruthless killer decided thatIwas worthy of his protection. His protection, and his love, too. He marked his skin with reminders of me, of the men he killed in my name, and while there was a time I would’ve run out into the snow to escape his relentless devotion when I had no fucking idea what I did to deserve it, I don’t fantasize about running anymore.
Not when a year with Patrick North has told me that he will follow me anywhere, and if he has to tie me down to keep me in one place, he will—and he’ll do it with a smile on his face and his hand inside my panties…
He leans forward in his seat, reaching out, brushing a stray lock of hair out of my eye. “How’s your drink? Do you need more milk?”
I made the mistake of mentioning once that I thought some of the baristas here skimped on the cream when I ordered my pumpkin spice latte. It tasted burnt, I remarked on it, and Patrick insisted that they remake it until it was perfect. Since then, he takes it as a personal insult if my drink isn’t just right.
It’s December. While he drinks peppermint teayear round because it helps with his occasional headaches and the stress he puts on himself to be the best at everything he does—and when you’re an assassin, stress at being the best is a lot higher than when you’re in HR like I am these days—I like to switch my coffees of choice as the seasons change. October was pumpkin spice, November was maple bourbon, and now I’m enjoying my peppermint mocha.
“It’s yummy,” I tell Patrick. “Thanks, babe. Stopping in for a hot drink before we head out to get our tree is really putting me into the holiday spirit.”
