"I won't lose you again. Not to silence. Not to pride. Not to anyone else's ambition. I made that mistake once; I learned my lesson." My voice lowers. "You are mine, Jenna. Not as a possession. As a choice. As a partner. As the only woman I have ever loved."
Her breath shudders.
"I built an empire. But you are the only thing I would burn it for."
Her hands come to my chest.
"Yes," she whispers immediately. "Yes, of course?—"
I slide the ring onto her finger. It fits. It always would have. She's smiling up at me like the world just rearranged itself. Then she blinks.
"Oh," she says.
I narrow my eyes slightly. "Oh?"
"You have to ask the other man first."
The temperature in the room drops.
"Other man?" I repeat.
She winks. "Amauri."
I stare at her. Of all the battles I've prepared for, of all the enemies I've faced, I would rather walk unarmed into a rival compound than negotiate with my ten-year-old son about marrying his mother. I exhale slowly.
"I'd prefer a shootout," I mutter.
She laughs, wrapping her arms around my neck. "He likes you."
"That's not the same thing," I reply darkly.
But I pull her close anyway, my hand settles at her waist, and the ring flashes between us like a promise carved in stone.
"I'll ask him," I promise. "And he'll say yes."
She smiles against my mouth. "And if he doesn't?"
I kiss her, slow and certain. "He will."
I kiss her again, deeper. My hands slide into her hair, fingers threading through the soft strands like I'm learning the texture of forgiveness. She gasps into my mouth, just enough to let me know I can take whatever I want, just enough to let me know she wants it too. I move slow. It's new to me, this patience. My body aches for her, but it's not the hungry, mindless kind I remember. I want to savor this. To watch her unravel and know that I'm the reason.
Her hands find the buttons of my shirt, and she fumbles a little—she always does—and I think about the first time she undressed me, the clumsy urgency of it. This is different. No hurry, no threat, no time bomb ticking down on the wall behind us. Just her breath, her hands, her skin.
"You're beautiful," I say. It sounds idiotic; it isn't enough. But she flushes at the words, her eyes turn soft and disbelieving, like no one's ever told her that before. Or maybe no one's ever told her and meant it.
"I'm a mess," she tries to laugh it off with a nervous edge in her voice.
"You're perfect," I correct, and slide my hands under her shirt to trace the curve of her waist, the silk-smooth skin warm beneath my palms. With one motion, I lift her and lay her back on the bed, following her down, every inch of me pressed to every inch of her.
Her mouth parts. She breathes my name. I lose track of time. I worship her slowly. It isn't a word I ever understood—worship—but now I do. It's the careful way I unbutton her blouse, deliberate, slow, watching her chest rise and fall with every snap. It's the reverence in my lips as I follow the shallow line of her neck, the sharp clavicle, the hollow at the base of her throat. She clings to me, nails digging into my shoulders, but she lets me set the pace. I strip away everything between us, not roughly, but with purpose. I want her skin on mine. I want the heat. I want to see her come undone.
When she's naked beneath me, I pause. I take her in. She tries to cover herself, shy and beautiful and aching, but I won't let her. I pin her wrists above her head and hold her there, my mouth at her ear.
"Don't hide from me," I whisper. "Not ever."
Her breath shudders out. She closes her eyes.
"I want to watch you," I tell her, lips just grazing her jaw. "I want to see what I do to you, Jenna. Every sound, every muscle, every fucking inch."
