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What was James supposed to do to protect himself in his own home?

Shoot them, of course.

That was his account of events.

I supported his version, word for word.

Our interviews were the only way to corroborate our story.

The footage from the cameras installed around the house? Magically wiped out.

The staff? They heard nothing until James called the doctor.

The police chief was happy to make the story go away. Close it and avoid fucking with a man who holds some of his deepest, darkest secrets.

Anyway.

A week has passed since the home invasion. James is back to spanking me and bossing me around. I’m practically healed. The bruise on my chest is no longer a deep shade of purple but has now turned a yellowish hue.

Not like anyone could see it during the wake. My black A-line dress has a high neckline and does a great job of hiding that area.

And the fact that my breasts are a little bit swollen.

“Thank you for coming.” I hear James in the entryway. Hear the soft click of the door closing.

My heart races faster at the sound of him turning the lock. My hand curls tighter around the plastic object inside my purse.

James questioned me about carrying a purse in my own home.

My excuse was that it would look better to the outside world. We didn’t have to rub our happiness in everyone’s faces. I could be a guest for a day. Until we made our relationship official.

It was better this way for everyone involved. No one has asked questions, not even Sage, my former roommate. Especially her. She did her best to avoid me, James, and basically everyone else by standing in the corner of the room.

Understandable.

I would’ve done the same.

“Sonnet.”

A shiver runs up my spine. The authority in his voice will always have heat pooling between my thighs.

“Over here.” Alone. I pulled Clara to the side earlier and asked her to leave when I noticed the people were starting to trickle out.

My pulse kicks up when his steps are louder. When he’s nearer.

When he enters the room, walking toward me.

My man. My owner. My everything.

James is as tall and imposing as he was the first time I met him. His tailored black suit sits on his lean body so well.

Jealousy looks even better on him. He grips my chin, lowering his face to mine. Blocking out everything else.

Topher’s urn, mainly.

For the slightest chance anyone would have the urge to dig up his body, we had to have him cremated. Once we get to Fiji—a vacation to our potential future home—we’re spreading it out into the ocean.

But he had to play the grieving father’s part, and so the urn stayed.