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“You really shouldn’t.”
“You’re the brother of my brother’s enemy.”
I shrug. “You’re the sister of my sister’s enemy.”
She snorts. “I should still kill you.”
“Maybe when we’re older,” I drawl, lips close to hers. “And we’ve been married a few years, I might let you.”
Our mouths are dangerously close, refusing to touch. Under the smell of fire and boiled blood, her scent of a fresh bouquet in the middle of June surrounds me. I rest my forehead to hers, a light touch so as not to aggravate her.
“What are we doing?”
I grin, chuckling. “Whatever you want to do, Sunshine. I’ll follow your lead.”
Pushing back, I help her sit up, her muscles protesting. She winces, and I have the irrational urge to banish pain from her. I’m not sure how—beat them up, maybe. I’ll figure it out later.
“You don’t care who I am,” she says, signing along with her words.
“I don’t care what last name you have. I’ll give up my O’Brien name if it means getting to love you until my dying breath.” My hands copy her movements, taking her cue on how to communicate.
She inhales sharply. The heaviness of what I said—the truth of it—settles along her shoulders. It’s another connection to me, born from longing, desperation, and love. Good. I want her heart tied to mine, so not even fate could take her away.
“Then I’ll no longer be a Bruno,” she whispers. “If it means keeping you as mine.”
Tracing her bottom lip, I hold her chin. I lift her face toward mine and pause, searching her eyes. I don’t care what’s changed—why she’s finally admitting her feelings. It doesn’t matter. Just keeping her mine, does.
“Let’s get married.”
She laughs, a sultry noise that seems to sink under my skin, burrow into my bones, and nestle deep.
“You can’t mean—”
“I do,” I insist. I slide my hands under her bottom, placing her on my lap. She hisses through the motion, but the smile stays.
“I plan on marrying you, Sunshine.” A smirk plays on my lips. “I plan on you bearing my children one day. I plan on you being in my bed every night, where I can enjoy every bit of you. What does it matter if we marry tomorrow, or six years from now? It’ll still happen.”
“Because it’s too soon!” Her hands move quickly.
“And what if it helps you?”
She tilts her head, contemplating it. “Helps me, how?”
Placing her back on the bed, I go to my desk, retrieving my spreadsheets. All my tracking of Bruno’s money, where it goes, and the bottom line. That time apart helped with something, at least.
“Your brother is broke,” I say, handing her the papers. “He doesn’t have any money, except for some weird offshore account. I think he’s using Scipione as a bank, getting what he wants by dangling you in front of him. He pays just enough to get you before Roman moves the goalposts.”
Her eyes scan the paper, wheels turning. Her brows furrow, and her nose wrinkles—shit, she’s adorable when she’s being brilliant.
“Roman would do that,” she mutters. “He said Papa left us in a terrible position, but I didn’t know it was this dire.”
She glances up at me. “This is why Marco branded me. So Roman has to give me to him. No other man will take a woman who’s claimed.”
My jaw clenches. A branding won’t stop me from making her my wife.
She throws the papers, spitting out, “I don’t want to be theirs.”
Taking her chin in my hand, I force her back to me. “You will never be theirs, Sunshine. Never.” I rest my forehead against hers. “You have options.”
