Page 36 of Ruthless Enforcer

A sharp spark flares in my chest and my breath catches. "Are you trying to talk me out of saving your family's assets?"

"I don't give a fuck about the assets." The raw, possessive ruthlessness in his tone vibrates right against my ribs. He leans down until his mouth is level with my ear, his breath a searing brand against the sensitive skin of my neck. "I will not use your danger to corner you into my bed or my name, Duchess. If you say no, we walk out. Regardless, I make sure nobody touches you. It's your choice."

A shiver ripples down my spine, but I don't flinch. I don't retreat an inch from the suffocating heat radiating off him. Instead, I lift my chin, meeting his storm-blue eyes with unwavering clarity. "Gabriel, I'm not doing this because you frightened me into it, and I'm not doing it out of gratitude. I'm doing it because it's the smartest move to make because I don't want either of our families hurt."

I reach out and wrap my fingers around the lapel of his fine wool suit, tugging him just hard enough to make him feel the strength in my grip. "Now call the judge back in."

For a second, Gabriel just stares down at me, the dark tension in his jaw fracturing into a slow, wicked grin that sets my pulse racing in my throat. "Yes, ma'am."

He steps back and knocks twice on the adjoining door. Morrison and the clerk filter back in, their eyes darting between us like they're waiting for the room to combust.

"Ready, Mr. Reyes?" Morrison asks, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses.

"Ready."

The ceremony takes exactly ninety seconds. No poetry. No religious theatrics or grand declarations. Just the dry, rhythmic cadence of Oregon civil code spoken over polished mahogany.

Gabriel looks me in the eyes as Morrison asks him if he’ll take me to be his lawfully wedded wife. "I do," he answers. The words don't sound like a legal formality; they sound like a blood oath carved into iron.

When Morrison turns to me, my “I do” comes just as firmly. I’ve been practicing saying it for ten years, after all.

"The rings?" Morrison asks.

For a second I panic. We don’t have rings. I turn to Gabriel as he reaches into the inner breast pocket of his coat and pulls out a small black velvet box. He snaps the lid open.

My breath catches in my throat. Resting on the black velvet is a flawless, four-carat emerald-cut diamond set in platinum. The clean lines and razor-sharp facets catch the gray daylight through the window, fracturing it into cold, blinding white fire. It’s stunning. Severe. Unapologetic.

Absolutely perfect.

Gabriel looks down at me, the blue of his eyes burning with an intensity that steals whatever air is left in the room. "Give me your hand," he murmurs.

29

GABRIEL

She holds out her left hand. Her fingers are cool, long, and delicate against the rough skin of my palm. I take her wrist, holding it firmly, feeling the rapid, electric flutter of her pulse beneath my thumb.

I slide my ring onto her third finger. It fits perfectly.

The physical reality of it hits me in the chest like a closed fist. Her hand in mine. My ring on her finger.

Mine.

The word comes hard and instinctive, carrying a satisfaction I have no fucking business feeling.

She picks up the plain platinum band still nestled in the box. “Your turn.”

I hold out my hand.

Clara takes it and slides the band slowly over my knuckle. The metal settles at the base of my finger with a weight that has nothing to do with platinum. It doesn’t matter that I bought it. What does matter is her putting it there.

I stare at it—her ring on my hand. It looks like it belongs.

"By the power vested in me by the State of Oregon," Morrison mutters, scribbling his signature across the bottom of the state certificate, "I pronounce you husband and wife."

The clerk stamps the seal into the bond paper with a heavy, metallic thunk.

"Done," Morrison says, setting down the pen.