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My head dips, and I claim the words on her lips as I pull her body into mine.

So this is what it feels like to be loved.

Home.

Annie

In the early hours of the morning, right after Rowan eliminated those Russian men, the words just came. There was no stopping them.

Seeing Rowan’s reaction to hearing me say I love him is something I’ll never forget. He looked so emotional, his expressions going from disbelief to awe, as if I had performed some miracle.

It’s right after sunrise when we drive past a small town in the middle of nowhere. The hot breeze pushing through the missing windshield only carries dust into the cab.

I don’t ask if we’re stopping, knowing Rowan will do so when it’s safe.

I push my face into his shoulder to keep from breathing in all the sand, and his hand curls around my thigh, pulling me tighter to his side.

“Almost there,” he says, sounding at peace and not like he faced off with the Bratva back at the border.

When he begins to slow down, I look up ahead, and seeing a villa, my mouth drops open as the truck bumps along the rocky gravel road toward black gates.

“Are we stopping here?” I ask.

“Yes. It belongs to a connection I made a few years ago,” Rowan explains. “I’ll tell you the story later.”

“Okay.”

A heavily armed man gestures for Rowan to stop, then as he walks closer, the expression on his face changes from threatening to respect. He lets out a sharp whistle, throwing his hand in the air to signal something, and the next second, the gates start to open. They’re made of such heavy metal, they groan.

Rowan steers the beaten-up truck onto the property, and when I see all the armed men, I press harder into his side and grab hold of his plaid shirt.

“It’s okay. We’ll be safe here.”

Trusting him, I relax a little.

He stops near the front door, then pats my thigh. “Let’s go. I’m ready to set this truck on fucking fire.”

“I’ll get the marshmallows,” I joke, and when he opens the door and gets out, I scoot across the warm seat and climb down.

Rowan takes my hand and links our fingers, then leads me to the front door that’s already open. A man walks toward us, gray and easily in his late sixties, his eyes merciless and a long scar running right across his face.

He stops in front of us and doesn’t even look at me, but stares at Rowan for a long, unnerving moment before he grumbles, “You made it.”

“Of course,” Rowan replies, his tone steady and emotionless.

“When I didn’t hear from you after they arrested Tarasov and the two dumb fucks he kept on as pets, I thought the Bratva took you out.”

Rowan lets out a burst of silent laughter. “Are you getting funny in your old age?”

My eyes jump between the men as if I’m watching an intense table tennis match.

The man narrows his eyes. “I knew you survived when I got word that the Bratva were flooding into the area, asking the townspeople about a black-haired man called the Wolf.”

Rowan doesn’t respond, then the man lets out a sigh. “Come in. We have a lot to do so that you can leave as soon as possible. I don’t want the Bratva coming here.”

“You might want to get rid of the truck,” Rowan mentions as we follow the man into a house that’s nothing short of a mansion.

I cling to his hand as I glance around at all the opulence. My parents were over the top, but this guy takes the cake and the cherry on top.