“C’mon, let’s get the fuck out of here, babe,” Ryan says. “I have something for you.”
I raise a brow. “Oh?”
“Not telling. Come.”
We run out of there, grateful for the rain to wash away anything that might have latched onto us in that creepy-ass place. We head into the house, and I immediately press him against a wall, kissing the life out of him.
“Tate,” he pants. “I wanna give you … mmm.”
He moans into my mouth, his hardness pressing against my thigh. Do I want to fuck him in my old bedroom? Yes. Will it be weird as fuck? Also yes. Is that going to stop me? Nope.
I grab his thigh, getting ready to lift him.
“Wait.”
“Ryan,” I growl.
“You’ll like it. I promise.”
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a folded paper. It’s thicker paper like the kind used for official documents. “I got Ethan to help me with this because I had to use our marriage certificate.”
I’m only annoyed at Ethan for abusing his access to my office for a brief second.
Ryan Henry VanCourt
“My middle name’s shitty, but it was different paperwork. I’ll probably change it at some point, but I need to think on it. Or maybe I’ll go with no middle name. I dunno. Are you going to let me keep rambling, or are you gonna say something?”
I haven’t said anything because I’m still staring at the paper. Ryan VanCourt. He’s Ryan VanCourt now.
“This is fucking awesome, dollface.” My eyes sparkle.
“No. I know what you’re thinking, and the answer isfuckno. I’m not changing my middle name to dollface.”
“We’ll see,” I purr, backing him into the wall again, taking us into a deep kiss. I love this man so much. Every day he does something else, and I love him more. There’s no limit to how much I can love Ryan. Maybe that’s what really happened to me. Not a birth defect or a result of conditioning, but my soul’s wisdom, knowing that I’d want to save every ounce of my love for him. None wasted on anyone else. All of it poured into him where it belongs, and where I belong.
“I love you, Ryan VanCourt.”
Ryan
Tate’s yelling. Not at me. He’s tightening security. No one’s been able to figure out how Clarence got his intel about our wedding. The man is dead, but I know my husband wishes he could bring him back to life to torture it out of him and get to kill him again.
“Yes, sir,” the man, who I’m pretty sure is Tyler, says. Voice shaky. Tate makes even the largest and scariest of men quake. He’s already had several meetings with Jane, his head of security, but he’s pulled aside a few of his higher-ranking guards to yell at them personally.
I think he just wanted to vent and instill the fear of God in them.
“Now get the fuck out of my face.”
Tyler’s gaze lands on me. Is he looking for help? He’s not going to find it here. He’s fucking lucky everything worked out, and that Griff wasn’t harmed, or I’d help Tate fuck up that pretty face of his. Also, is he suicidal? He shouldn’t be looking at me. Tate’s made it clear that unless they have permission—like with Jane or Ethan—staff should look at the floor when speaking to me. He made that rule when he caught two guards checking out my ass.
They, uh, they no longer work for us. I’ll leave it at that.
Tyler gets the fuck out, not even bothering to close the door behind him. I turn to face my husband. He’s massaging his head.
“I should feed him to the wolves,” he growls.
I squint. “Do we have wolves?”
“No, but I can get some.”
