For one stupid second, everything else disappears. The punch. The insults. The old furniture. Her father. All I see is Morgan standing there with a bag in her hand. My dream is real. I think…
She hesitates, then steps inside.
I’m already there, arms locking around her. I inhale her perfume through my nostrils. God, I missed that. I rub my cheek against the silky strands of her hair, and I press myself flush along that soft body. She embraces me back, her nails biting into my back with a sense of desperation to keep me close.
She fits against me so perfectly it pisses me off that the world ever kept her somewhere else. Mine. My church girl came back to me.
“Oh, Jack,” she whispers in my ear. “I did it. I left Blake.”
I stare at her, stunned. “You left him?”
Her smile shakes. “For you.”
That hits me harder than her father’s fist ever could.
I almost kiss her. I almost forget he’s here.
Then her father groans. “Enough, enough.”
She pulls away, her face flushed.
“You two fools think this will be so easy. Then, so be it.” He points at me lazily. “She’s all yours.”
“Serious?”
Morgan beams, her hands gripping my arm. “He’s letting me stay here! Isn’t that great?”
“Letting you?” I mumble.
He nods, but there is a smugness in his grin. “A trial period. If this works, you have my blessing to marry.”
Marry.
The word shakes me to my core. It should feel absurd. It should revoltme with its outdated, religious nonsense.
It doesn’t.
Instead, it hits somewhere deep and ruined, because part of me wants every impossible thing with this woman. I want to claim her the way only a husband can. I want her as my wife despite the world.
But he says it a little too easy. This is the man who has tried like hell to keep us apart.
“You want to marry my daughter, don’t you?” he adds.
My mouth opens, but for reasons I don’t understand, I can’t form a single word.
“What’s wrong, Killborne? Surely you know Morgan is traditional. She wants to marry. Have children. Soon.”
Slowly, I look at Morgan. She draws in a breath and nods.
“I do. You want that, too.”
It isn’t a question. More like a plea for me to agree.
This is all moving fast. Too damn fast. My forehead sweats and hands clam up.
Guess her dad sees it, because he tries but fails to hold back a grin. “I assume you will be attending services with her? I recommend you conceal your... artwork.” He eyes my tattoos. “Your appearance reflects on Morgan. Be cognizant of how you look in public.”
He turns to Morgan. “Have him put makeup on his hands to cover the tattoos on his fingers. Otherwise, it’ll send the wrong impression to our more conservative donors.”
