Page 98 of Ruthless Enforcer

Studying Clara, I realize she isn't looking away from it. She is looking straight through the armor to the man underneath.

I step around the corner of the table, closing the distance between us until I'm standing directly in front of her. The midnight garden scent of her rises up to meet me, cutting straight through the smell of gun oil and cold air.

I reach out, catching her chin between my thumb and forefinger. Her skin is warm against my calloused knuckles.

"You stay inside this house," I say, keeping my voice low, rough, and completely uncompromising. "You do not leave this perimeter. You do not open these doors for anyone until you hear my voice on that radio."

"Nothing will happen to me, Gabriel," she promises, her eyes searching mine. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Good."

I slide my hand from her jaw down to the side of her neck, my thumb pressing lightly against the steady, rapid flutter of her pulse. She doesn't flinch. She leans into the touch, her left hand coming up to wrap around my forearm, her small fingers pressing into the heavy corded muscle beneath my tactical sleeve.

The ring on her finger glints in the firelight.

"He tried to take you," I murmur, the words scraping raw against my throat. "He thought he could use you as a pawn to burn my family to the ground. He thought he could touch what belongs to me and walk away alive."

"Gabriel—"

"I told you in Portland that our marriage was fake, with an expiration date," I say, cutting her off softly. I lean in, bringing my mouth inches from hers until I can feel the warm hitch of her breath against my lips. "I lied."

Her green eyes widen slightly, a dark, breathless spark catching in their depths.

"There’s nothing fake about what I feel for you, Clara. And there sure as fuck isn’t an expiration date on it.” I brush her face with my fingers before I force myself to pull back. “Whatever happens out there, you need to know that.”

“This is not a goodbye, Gabriel Rafael Reyes,” Clara declares. Her green eyes blaze brighter than her emeralds did under the chandeliers in the museum.

I run a finger along her cheek. “How do you know my middle name?”

She gives me a scathing look. “I’m your wife.”

“Yes. Yes, you are.” Smiling, I tilt her head back and kiss her again.

It isn't the slow, languid heat of the Oregon Coast, and it isn't the teasing seduction of the steam shower. It is hard, possessive, and absolute—a brand pressed against her mouth that leaves no room for doubt about who she belongs to or who I am coming back for. She opens for me instantly, a soft whimper catching in her throat as her fingers twist into the collar of my tactical jacket, pulling me closer against her.

For three seconds, the entire war disappears behind the taste of her.

When I pull back, our breathing is ragged, her lips flushed red and swollen, her eyes dark with a wild, intoxicating fire.

"I'm coming back," I tell her, my thumb sweeping across her lower lip. "And I'm bringing you his head on a platter, Duchess."

She shudders, but there’s a faint trace of her stubborn Whitlock smile touching the corner of her mouth. "Not an image I needed, Gabriel.”

I let out a low, dark chuckle that vibrates deep in my chest. Releasing her neck, I step back and rack the slide on the customized tactical rifle resting against the table. The heavy metal snaps forward into the battery with a sharp, mechanical clack that echoes through the room.

Outside on the gravel driveway, the heavy diesel engine of Jake’s truck turns over with a deep, throaty rumble.

I don't look back. I turn on my heel, shoulder the rifle, and head out the heavy front door into the freezing Montana air.

Cole Turner thinks he survived me once. He’s about to find out that the first time was mercy.

69

CLARA

Waiting is unbearable. I discover this approximately three minutes after Gabriel leaves.

By minute seven, I’ve checked the clock four times.