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Chapter Twenty-Seven-Lucy

Okay, so…

Having a recording artist send me flowers like he thinks we’re in some kind of twisted love story—along with a demo of his next single, complete with my name in the lyrics—is not as flattering as it sounds.

In fact, it creeps me the hell out.

My skin’s crawling.

My pulse is erratic.

There’s a prickle at the base of my neck that hasn’t gone away since I opened that damn envelope.

And underneath the chill, there’s panic.

What if Balor thinks I wanted this?

What if he thinks I invited the attention?

That I somehow encouraged Rico—El Tigre—to fixate on me?

Oh my God—what if he thinks I’m cheating on him?

The thought makes my stomach turn.

I know how men like Balor work—intense, dominant, protective.

Trust isn’t something they hand out freely.

And we haven’t exactly had time to define us.

There are so many things we haven’t talked about.

So many things he doesn’t know about me.

So I just wait for him to come home to me.

I stand in the hallway, practically pacing a trench in the floor, arms crossed over my chest like that might hold me together.

I’m nervous. Anxious. Terrified.

Not of him—never of him—but of what this might mean.

Because I’m starting to realize my feelings for Balor aren’t just part of this convenient marriage situation.

They’re more. Bigger. Real.

And that’s totally on me.

If I get my heart shattered in the process, well, I can’t blame anyone but myself.

Still, when the front door swings open and he strides in like a storm wrapped in muscle and ink, all thought goes silent.

His shirt’s unbuttoned.

Jacket and tie nowhere in sight.

His sleeves are rolled up, exposing the ink that marks his forearms, coiled strength and secrets in every line.