The intelligence I've gathered on Enzo Marchetti would make most people sick. The way he's controlled her, contained her,prepared to sell her to the highest bidder like livestock at auction. The Governor's son. Bradley Harrison. A man whose own file contains enough depravity to make my stomach turn, and I've seen true depravity in my time.
I won't let that happen to her. Whatever else is in play, whatever I'm holding back, I won't let that happen.
She crosses to the desk. Each step costs her something, I can see it in the rigid line of her spine, the careful way she holds herself together. She picks up the pen, the silver barrel catching the light, then pauses with her other hand hovering over the contract.
"What’s in this?" She pulls the document closer, her eyes scanning the legal language. Her brow furrows as she flicks her gaze to me, suspicion sharpening her features, then back to the papers. Her finger traces a line of text, lips moving silently as she reads.
"Everything you need to be untouchable." I keep my voice steady, measured, even as something tightens in my chest at the sight of her reading the terms I crafted for her protection. "Financial independence. Legal custody protections. A provision that makes it a federal nightmare for your father to come within five hundred feet of you or our child." My jaw tightens, the muscle ticking beneath my beard. "I told you. I protect what's mine."
Her head snaps up, dark eyes flashing. "Same cage, different keeper." The words drip with bitterness, and she tosses them at me like a gauntlet. Her grip on the pen tightens until her knuckles blanch white.
I hold her gaze without flinching, letting her see the certainty beneath my words. "Point of view." I push off from where I'm leaning against the desk and take a step toward her, close enough to catch the jasmine rising from her skin, close enough to see the exhaustion warring with defiance in her eyes. "From where I'm standing, I'm protecting you and our baby. The cage you're imagining?" I let my voice drop, softer now, edged with something I don't entirely want to name. "It has no lock. The door stays open. You can leave whenever you want. As long as you have bodyguards."
It's a softer cage than her father's, but it's still a cage. I tell myself the bodyguards are for her safety. I don't examine the lie too closely.
Her lips part, a retort forming then dying unspoken. The pen trembles almost imperceptibly in her grip.
"But you won't." I hold her gaze, letting the silence stretch between us. "Because you know I'm the only one standing between you and the man who wants to sell you to the highest bidder with our baby inside you. Tell me I’m wrong."
Her lips press into a white line. “You’re not.”
“Does he know?” I don’t know why I didn’t think to ask.
“Not yet, but he’ll find the pregnancy tests when he breaks into my apartment. If he hasn’t already.”
My jaw tightens. Good to know. Another reason to move fast.
"One more thing." She pauses, the pen hovering over the signature line. "The house. Where exactly am I living now?"
"Lincoln Park. It's private, secure, and completely off your father's radar." I watch her face, searching for her reaction. "You'll see it tonight. I think you'll find it's not the cold prison you're expecting."
"We'll see about that." But there's curiosity beneath the skepticism. A crack in the armor. A thread I can pull if I'm patient enough.
She signs her name in quick, decisive strokes. Ilona Marchetti, soon to be Ilona Valentina.
The sight of her signature on that document does something primal to my chest.
Mine.
The word pulses through me, dark and possessive, ancient and undeniable. She's mine now. Legally. Officially. In every way that matters to the world outside these walls.
Now I just have to make her mine in the ways that matter to her.
I take the contract before the ink has fully dried, tucking it safely into my desk drawer. Evidence. Proof. Protection. Tomorrow this document will be filed with the courts, and Ilona Marchetti will cease to exist. In her place will be Ilona Valentina, wife of a man even Enzo Marchetti fears.
"My driver will take you back to Luna's to collect your things." I pull out my phone to send the text. "Be ready by six. I'll pick you up personally to bring you home."
“There’s no need. I have nothing.”
I look up and see she’s telling the truth.
“You have a home. We’ll take care of clothing and anything else you may need. I have already provided a few items for you. You’ll find them in our closet. I didn’t buy much. I thought you would like to do that for yourself.”
Her tears catch me off guard. I know if I make a move she'll clamp up. But still...
I reach out and catch one with my thumb. “No tears needed here, jungle flower. You are home.”
"Home." She laughs, but there's no humor in it. The sound is hollow, brittle, the laugh of a woman who stopped believing in homes a long time ago. "Is that what we're calling it?"
