Page 110 of Ruthless Enforcer

The feud is over.

“Welcome to the family, Gabriel,” James says quietly.

“Thank you, James,” Gabriel answers.

James releases his hand, turns to me, and pulls me into a warm, firm embrace that smells of cedar, wool, and home. He presses a kiss to the crown of my head, whispering a gruff, “I’m proud of you, little bird.”

Stepping back, he picks up his antique Purdey, settles it comfortably in the crook of his arm, and gives Gabriel one last nod. “Don't stay out too late, Reyes. The roads are freezing over.”

“We won't,” Gabriel says.

James walks out into the hallway, closing the heavy oak door behind him, leaving the two of us alone in the firelight.

The silence in the study is sudden and complete.

I let out a long breath, my shoulders dropping as the last knot of tension uncoils from my spine.

Gabriel doesn't reach for his gun. He doesn't pick up the magazine or the loose brass round on the table. He reaches for me.

His hands find my waist, lifting me effortlessly against his chest. I wrap my arms around his neck, burying my face in the curve of his throat, breathing in the scent of crisp winter air, cedar, and Gabriel.

“You were magnificent, Duchess,” he murmurs against my mouth, his breath warm against my skin.

“You weren't so bad yourself.” I brush my lips over his jaw. “Talking about Damascus steel like an English gentleman.”

“I contain multitudes,” he says, a wicked smirk carving deep dimples into his cheeks before his mouth captures mine.

The kiss is slow, deep, and possessive, tasting of victory and heat. He holds me tight, anchoring me against him until my head spins and my fingers tangle in the dark hair at his nape.

When he finally pulls back, his blue eyes are dark with desire, but that familiar, watchful sharpness remains beneath the surface.

He glances toward the window, out at the quiet Montana night, before looking down at me. His thumb tracing the line of my jaw, he whispers, “Wednesday. We keep you safe, and you get your night.”

I press my hand over his where it rests on my hip, our wedding bands clicking together in the quiet room. “Wednesday.”

77

GABRIEL

The gallery’s an expensive, pristine space in downtown Bozeman—exposed brick, white drywall, and polished concrete floors that reflect the curated glow of twenty-two original canvases. Outside, snow falls in heavy, silent flakes against the floor-to-ceiling storefront windows. Inside, fifty of Montana’s wealthiest patrons, art collectors, and political figures mill around with crystal flutes, completely oblivious to the fact that the world they take for granted almost burned to ash seventy-two hours ago.

My wife has my arm.

Clara looks fucking hot. She’s wearing a floor-length emerald silk gown with a draped back that leaves her pale skin bare to the waist, her red hair pinned up in a loose, elegant crown of curls. Her wedding ring catches the track lighting every time she gestures toward a piece. She’s wearing emerald earrings I gave her earlier, when she was getting ready.

Every man in the room is looking at her. Half of them are wondering how a Whitlock heiress ended up married to a tattooed thug like me. The other half are just wishing they were the ones holding her waist.

I let them look. She’s on my arm, her fingers resting lightly over the heavy silk of my dark suit jacket, her thumb brushing against my knuckles in a quiet, rhythmic reassurance that belongs exclusively to me.

Beneath the jacket, the custom double-stack nine-millimeter sits snug against my left side.

“You’re doing that thing with your jaw,” Clara murmurs without turning her head, offering a polite, radiant smile to a bank president three feet away.

“What thing?”

“The thing where you calculate the trajectory of the chandelier if you have to shoot the mounting brackets.”

“The mounting brackets are solid steel,” I reply under my breath. “I’d shoot the winch cable. Better spread.”