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Her socials. Her calendar. Even her cloud storage.

Not because I don't trust her.

Because I don't trust the world.

Lucy is sunlight bottled in a storm. Beautiful. Bright. Unprotected. And now that I know what it's like to hold her, to taste her, to sleep beside her?

There's no going back.

She’s mine.

Mine to protect.

Mine to love.

And mine to burn the whole world down for if anyone dares to get too close.

Let them come.

I’m already waiting.

“So, where are we going?” she asks when the plane is in flight.

“You’ll see,” I tell her.

I know it’s a tease. But I want to surprise her.

Puerto Rico’s not just a random destination.

It’s sort of home.

It’s where my mother was born, and the only place on earth where I’ve ever felt close to her since she passed.

This is my ground.

And now it’s ours.

Lucy sits across from me on the plane, still wrapped in the impossibly beautiful wedding gown she wore to say I do.

Pure white, like I asked her to wear.

She refused to change.

Said she wanted to disembark still dressed as a bride.

But now I’m suffering.

The dress hugs every sinful curve of her body like it was made for my fucking hands.

And those heels? Cruel. Lethal.

They make her legs look a mile long, and I’m foaming at the mouth like some rabid bastard, counting the minutes until I can peel the whole thing off and make her mine again.

Neither of us speaks.

Not because we don’t want to—but because the tension between us is molten.

It’s rising with every passing mile.